by Davis Bunn
“What is it?”
“There’s something I think you’ll want to see.”
The aide was a typical film-school snot. Martin despised them and their foppish traits. Five years ago the style had been a faux Persian accent and wispy goatee for the men, aggressive man-hating scorn and square black glasses for the women. Now all the guys wore French-cuffed shirts without cuff links and the tail outside the pants. A Rodeo Drive version of floppy prison garb. They emerged from university certain they held the keys to future filmdom. They could waste fifty million dollars on a true stink bomb of a film, then take pride in the fact that nobody went to see it. Martin exchanged a glance with Milo. His sales director was so furious at the interruption the edges of Milo’s mouth and eyes had gone chalk white. Martin gave his head a fractional shake. Don’t blow it now.
The aide picked up the controls to the massive flat-screen television and hit the switch. “CNN started covering the story in the last half hour. It’s so big I thought they might play it a second time. Yes, here it goes now.”
Martin’s ire vanished in a flash of televised smoke and flames. The professionally cheerful announcer said something he probably should have listened to. But his attention was captured by the image of JayJay Parsons rushing out of a smoking forest with wind-driven flames rising up behind him. His helmet was gone. His face was pulled into a rictus snarl with the strain of carrying one unconscious firefighter over his shoulder and supporting another by the guy’s collar. Martin was fairly certain he recognized the grimy face of the firefighter rescued by their actor. Then the image switched to JayJay giving mouth-to-mouth to an unconscious young Oriental woman.
The actor’s features were streaked with soot. His left eyebrow was singed. He released the woman’s nose and fitted an oxygen mask onto her mouth and nose. When she coughed, JayJay’s features turned waxlike with relief. The young man seated beside JayJay began weeping. The camera was relentless in its coverage. Gently JayJay cradled the woman’s head and helped her drink, then wet a cloth and began tenderly cleaning her face. His own face was so black it looked charred. But here he was, caring for this young woman, not giving himself a thought.
Only when the scene was replaced by a commercial did Martin realize the three of them had joined the film-school clone standing in front of the television. He and Milo and Harry Solish, all captivated by what this image meant.
It was Milo who said it. “They’re going to play that for days. People magazine, Newsweek, I’m thinking the cover of both.”
Harry Solish pointed at the now-vanished star. “I assume this is one of the rising names you have signed to your new venture.”
“Absolutely,” Martin lied. He held his true feelings down where no one else could see them. Masking his internal broiling cauldron of bitterness was one of his most valued abilities. He had no choice now. He had to work this phenomenon, twist it to his advantage.
Harry handed their prospectus to his aide and said, “Have our people run the numbers.” He offered Martin his hand. “Why don’t we get together again next week.”
He and Milo dared not show any of their glee until they were back on Sunset Boulevard. Milo used the pause at a stoplight to turn and say, “Did that really happen?”
“I wish the boost had come from some other angle, but the timing was phenomenal,” Martin agreed.
Milo did not need to ask what was behind Martin’s response, as he loathed the Heartland series as much as his partner. “You think Solish bought our spiel?”
“We’ll know soon enough.” Ahead of them both lay a week of tense waiting and sleepless worrying.
Milo drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Maybe we should have gone with the other option.”
“We’ve been through all that.” Everything they had just laid out at poolside was a calculated scam. Martin Allerby could not have cared less about Middle America and its outdated values. Like his first boss in the film world liked to say, principles were for peons. “And it’s too late now.”
Milo fretted, “But the numbers on the soft porn, especially taking in the Internet, they were sky-high.”
“And I’m telling you my sources claim Solish won’t have anything to do with the skin trade, no matter how soft.” To hype a guy like Solish, they had needed something nobody else was doing. Something unique. Centurion was known for satisfying Middle America’s penchant for television’s thirty-minute answers to every problem. Of course, neither of them planned for a minute to hold to such a course once the deal was signed. They would make what they wanted. But in the beginning, they needed to at least sound unique. It always came back to the same old quandary, how to pry the cash from tightfisted guys like Solish.
Milo was back on the news footage. “If we had bribed CNN a million bucks, they couldn’t have worked the timing better.” Milo gunned through Sunset Boulevard’s winding curves. “One minute I wanted to shoot that film-school phony. The next I could have kissed his three-day growth.”
“We need to ride this,” Martin said, thinking aloud. “Do an out-of-season special. JayJay Parsons and the wildfire.”
“Blend in this actual footage,” Milo agreed. “I wonder who owns it?”
“We will,” Martin promised. “Before midnight.”
Chapter 10
JayJay saw the news report six times. Not because he wanted to. Because Minh’s grandmother plucked at his arm and drew him back in front of the television. Every time they ran it, she grabbed him and bent him over far enough to plant a wet kiss on his cheek.
Ahn, her grandson, loved it. “The mah-jongg circuit is gonna hear about her kissing JayJay Parsons for years.”
The grandmother had been the only one home when they returned. JayJay had no idea how much she actually understood as he carried Minh into the little home and laid her down on the living room sofa. But there had been no question of his leaving. Which was fine by him, as he had no place else to go. He had sat at the dining room table and sipped cups of steaming tea, while Ahn phoned his parents and gave them the news. JayJay knew from what Ahn had said on the bus ride home that his folks ran a mini-mart in the San Fernando Valley and could not return until closing time.
JayJay watched the old woman totter back into the kitchen. She swayed like a ship in heavy seas as she walked. She was never still. And she talked all the time. Everything in Vietnamese, jabber jabber jabber, the singsong punctuated by resounding consonants connected to what sounded to JayJay like oing. And cooking. The house was one huge smell, all of it good. “I feel like my belly is connected to my backbone.”
“You hear that, MahMah?” Ahn called from his place beside JayJay. He switched to Vietnamese. Instantly the old woman teetered back into the front room and planted a bowl and ceramic spoon and another cup of steaming tea in front of JayJay. She patted his shoulder. When JayJay grimaced in anticipation of yet another kiss, she cackled and walked away. Ahn complained, “What about me?”
She replied in Vietnamese and retreated into the steamy kitchen. Ahn planted his chin in his hands. “MahMah says I’ve got to wait ’til my folks get home.”
“Thought you told me you don’t speak the lingo.”
“He doesn’t,” Minh said, her voice still very hoarse. “He gets every other word totally wrong.”
“Oh, and you’re so perfect.”
“Better than you.”
“Here, we’ll share.” JayJay slid the bowl over and they dug in. The soup was spicy and sour at the same time, filled with slivers of beef and bamboo, and delicious. “Man, can that lady ever cook.”
“Tell me.”
Ahn’s sister lay on the sofa where JayJay had settled her. Minh was covered with a fuzzy blanket. Her gaze never left JayJay’s face. For once, the fact did not bother JayJay at all. He glanced over, warmed by what he saw in those dark eyes. “You doing okay, missie?”
“My throat hurts,” she murmured, then coughed.
“Guess that’s to be expected.”
Their gran
dmother returned and said something to Minh. Minh whined a response. JayJay asked, “What is it?”
“She wants me to eat, but I know it’ll hurt my throat.”
“Probably do you good, though.” He rose from the table and walked over. He had showered twice in the children’s bathroom and was dressed now in the only clothes they had that fit—a cutoff T-shirt and gym shorts. The T-shirt ended just above his navel. There was nothing he could do about it just then. He had no money, and his clothes from the studio were ruined. He could still smell the smoke from someplace, or perhaps it was just the memories. “Mind if I join you?”
Minh winced as she pushed herself to a sitting position. Their grandmother did the same thing every time JayJay moved about, which was to clap her arthritic hands and jabber. Minh said, “MahMah thinks you’re a hunk.”
“Right. Like you don’t.” This from Ahn.
“That’s enough.” JayJay took the bowl the grandmother was holding. He swished the white glop around with the ceramic spoon. “What is this, grits?”
“Rice gruel.”
“Reckon it’ll be the easiest thing for you to get down. Why not give it a try.” He turned to Ahn. “Wipe that smirk off your face and go get your sister a glass of milk.”
Minh accepted the bowl. She took a small bite. JayJay saw her wince and heard her swallow. “Just take it easy. But you need to eat if you’re gonna keep your strength up.”
But she dropped the spoon in the bowl. Her chin trembled as she whispered, “Thank you, JayJay.”
He knew her tears embarrassed her. So he drew her over and let her hide on his chest. “I tell you what’s the truth. I was stumbling around in that fog like a blind man. Couldn’t find enough breath to call your name. When I found you lying there, I would’ve been the happiest man alive if I hadn’t been so scared.”
Which was how the parents found them. They came tumbling through the door, weary from a day of work and extra worry, calling out the children’s names and a torrent of words JayJay did not need to understand. He stood by the sofa as the Nguyens embraced first one and then the other child. Minh wept openly, and even Ahn could not be quite as brave as he would have liked. Both of them repeatedly pointed at JayJay. When the grandmother squawked and started for him again, JayJay backed away. “Somebody tell her it ain’t necessary to keep smacking me every time she gets in range.”
Mrs. Nguyen was a porcelain doll with perfect skin and eyes that wept even when they were clear. She halted her mother with a single word, approached JayJay, and bowed. She spoke very formally. “My husband and I are forever grateful for the lives of our children.”
JayJay felt himself blushing anew. “Ma’am, it was what anyone would’ve done.”
“You are a good and brave man.” She enunciated each word as though writing them in her mind. “We are eternally in your debt.”
“No ma’am, you’re not. I’m the one who’s grateful. These kids of yours are swell.”
The father approached but remained a step behind his wife. He met JayJay’s eyes with an expression of relief and bone-deep fatigue. He handed over a plastic bag and spoke in English so accented it was hard to follow the words. “My son, he say you have no clothes.”
“I’m much obliged, Mr. Nguyen.” JayJay opened the bag to find an LA Lakers T-shirt and sweatpants.
“These were the largest clothes we had in the shop,” Mrs. Nguyen said.
“They’re fine. Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go change into these.”
He returned to find Ahn and Mrs. Nguyen and the grandmother busy loading the table. The father held a chair. “Please, Mr. JayJay. You must take place of honor.”
“Not a chance in this world, sir.”
“Better do as he says.” Ahn set another steaming bowl on the table. “Take it from me. Pop is small, but he’s stubborn. We could be here all night.”
The food just came and came and came. Duck and lamb and an incredible stew that elevated a simple chicken to divine heights. Three different kinds of rice. Fish in a piquant sauce. More vegetables than JayJay could count. JayJay ate until his sweatpants’ expandable waistline threatened to cut off his circulation.
But when he set down his fork, Mrs. Nguyen protested, “Please, Mr. JayJay. You have not touched a thing.”
“Ma’am, I’m begging you, don’t put anything more on my plate. If you do I’ll eat it, and then we’ll both be sorry.”
The grandmother had not seated herself until last, and then ate hardly a morsel. She had become far more subdued since her daughter’s arrival. Mrs. Nguyen said, “I must apologize for my mother’s behavior. Here in this country, her life is for our children. But still it was inappropriate.” She struggled valiantly over that last word.
“It’s fine, ma’am.” JayJay glanced across the table. The grandmother gave him a tentative smile. “Please tell your mother I can see where her daughter’s and granddaughter’s beauty comes from.”
All three ladies smiled at him. “You are my mother’s American hero.”
“Ma’am, don’t let Miss MahMah get the wrong idea. I’m just an ordinary Joe.”
Ahn laughed. “MahMah means ‘Granny’!”
“You have been happy using that name all your life. It is a fine name,” his mother said. “Please, Mr. JayJay, may I ask what your real name is?”
“John Junior.”
Their eyes grew round. “So your name truly is JayJay!”
“It is late.” Mr. Nguyen rose from his seat. “Please. It is my honor to drive you home.”
JayJay struggled with that one for a time, before finally saying, “Far as I can tell, sir, I’ve lost the only place I’ve ever called home. Or maybe it’s just lost to me.”
The news was met with a rising clamor. But the table was silenced by a single soft word from the father. “Then you must please stay here.”
“And church,” Ahn said, his eyes alight with the prospect. “He can come with us tomorrow, right, Pop?”
“I will telephone to Robbie Robinson,” Mrs. Nguyen decided. “His father is the same size as you, Mr. Junior. That is, if you would do us the honor of accompanying us.”
“I couldn’t think of a single thing better,” JayJay said to the family. “But I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Mr. Junior, you have given me back my children. What is bother?”
Ahn added, “We made an apartment out of the garage. We usually rent it out, but it’s empty now.”
Minh’s voice was reduced to a soft croak. “He doesn’t want to stay in Riverside.”
“Can’t see why not,” JayJay replied. “If it’s good enough for folks like yourselves, it should do me just fine.”
Chapter 11
Peter? Honey? Wake up, darling.”
He felt as though he fought himself up from a very great depth. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. For a minute he could not remember where he was, or why.
“Here. I made you coffee.”
He took the mug as his wife eased down beside him. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten. Why didn’t you come to bed last night?”
“Didn’t want to wake you.”
“What time was it when you stopped writing?”
“No idea. Late.”
She stroked his back as he finished the cup. “More?”
“Please.”
She used his shoulder for support and pushed herself from the sofa. When she returned, she rolled over the chair from his desk. His writing chair had stronger lumbar support than the old sofa he kept in his office for naps. Cynthia studied her husband’s face and decided, “You had a good night.”
He reached for her hand. “The best.”
“That’s good, dear. Here. Give me your mug. Now go wash your face. No, don’t ask me questions. Just go.”
When he returned, she settled him into the office chair and stood over him. Cynthia had become pregnant the month Peter received his first bonus as the new screenwriter on Heartland. Cynthia had insis
ted they remake the attic into an office. Their home had three bedrooms, and the money could have gone to a dozen different needs, especially when rumors were already surfacing that the show was in trouble. But Cynthia had been adamant. The babies would bring disruption. Peter needed a space that was isolated from the coming clamor. Cynthia liked him working at home, and he deserved a reward.
So the old metal hideaway ladder had been replaced with a circular staircase. Carpenters had fitted a new ceiling, a/c, a window, and two long walls of bookshelves. His battered old desk now overlooked the last three olive trees from the grove that had once populated their hillside. On good days, the ochre slopes descended to the valley floor and then rose to distant snowcapped peaks. Those nights the valley became a universe of twinkling lights. Today, however, the smog had already obliterated everything beyond fifty feet.
Cynthia handed him the phone. “Martin called.”
He might have two coffees in him and his face might be clean, but his brain was still muddled from a very long day followed by a night of hard writing. “Martin.”
“Your boss.”
“Martin Allerby?”
“Good. You’re awake. I was beginning to wonder.”
“Allerby called here? When?”
“About three minutes before I woke you. I told him to call back. Don’t look at me like that. I told him you had been up until almost sunrise working on something new. Something big. He liked that.”
Peter’s heart rate slowed a fraction. “He did?”
“Yes, Peter. Martin Allerby liked it very much.”
“What did he say? Exactly.”
“Exactly? Hmm. Let’s see.” She crossed her arms above her tummy and played at pensive. But before she could speak, the phone rang. “I guess you’ll have to ask him to repeat it exactly.”
He waved her away. “This is Peter.”
“Allerby here.” Being Allerby, he did not apologize for calling on a Sunday morning. “Cynthia tells me you’ve been hard at it.”
“Most of the night. I wanted to get it down while it was all still fresh.”
