The Perfect Ghost

by Linda Barnes

  She bit her lip. Sulked a little, said how about highlights?

  “That’s dye, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Just a trim,” I said.

  “I’m shaping it.”

  More hair hit the floor.

  “If I had a teenage girl, I wouldn’t let her work at that theater, no way, but some people want their kids to get famous, no matter what.”

  She veered back to real estate prices then, and how she hated and loved the tourists, couldn’t live with ’em, couldn’t live without ’em. And which celebrities she thought she saw last summer and how they were all over the place, bad as New York City, and how Lady Gaga bought some mansion over on Martha’s Vineyard, and if you could get a photo of her, how she really looked under all that makeup, it would be worth a fortune. I was nervous the entire time she wielded the scissors. If I could make Garrett sound like a fool when I wrote, she could make me look like a fool, and I hadn’t even done due diligence, simply trusted a random saleswoman.

  Garrett. I was shocked that I’d thought of him as Garrett, not Malcolm, not Mr. Malcolm. This interviewing in person changes everything, bombards the senses. Color instead of black-and-white, the faint tang of piney scent, the whispery touch of strange upholstery, the ocean leaping and falling in the background. Donna handed me a mirror and swiveled my chair full circle.

  Just an inch shorter, but my hair was different, soft and feathery. I barely recognized myself. With the new clothes and the haircut, it was as though I’d flipped a page and discovered an unfamiliar chapter in a well-worn book. I felt reborn, new as a spearmint-colored shoot poking its head out of the hard ground.

  CHAPTER

  sixteen

  “Hey. Hi. Miss Moore, isn’t it?”

  Kalver, the previously hostile PA, hesitated a beat too long, a puzzled furrow cutting his brow. Pre-shopping, pre-haircut, my single status must have been an intuitive finger snap.

  I nodded curtly. “Where should I set up?”

  “Well, Teddy would…”

  You would have been Teddy from the get-go, friendly Teddy, with a slap on the back. “Yes? Teddy would what?”

  “Teddy would have arranged the location with Mr. Malcolm.”

  “The big room with the view of the ocean, is that available?”

  “Whatever.”

  I didn’t warm to Darren, Mr. Kalver, the PA, whatever. Couple the wild golf-cart ride with his slacker demeanor and general nastiness and I could only wonder why Malcolm tolerated him. But even he couldn’t dim the pleasure I felt at reentering that spectacular room. The sun sparkled off the glass, refracting the shoreline. Yesterday’s ocean had been green and dramatic, wild waves and a glowering horizon. Today’s was azure, peaceful, flat and soothing as a warm bath. The arc of windows was a visual magnet, a constantly changing exquisite oil painting, better than the portrait of Claire Gregory.

  I set the recorder on a low table near a comfortable leather chair and asked Kalver what Mr. Malcolm liked to drink during interviews. He gaped as though I’d put the query in Albanian. Perhaps, given the large whiskey Malcolm had downed at our first meeting, the idiot thought I was inquiring whether his boss had a drinking problem. I cleared my throat and requested water in case Mr. Malcolm got thirsty. That got him out of the room, which was my goal. I wanted to test the recorder without a witness; my fingers felt awkward as thumbs and I was thankful you never bothered with a special microphone. I settled into a smaller leather chair, nervously readied my notebook and pen. Kalver returned to place two bottles of Perrier on the table, an unexpected courtesy, glasses and ice as well.

  “I’ll try to minimize the interruptions,” he said.

  “Interruptions? There shouldn’t be any.”

  “Look, Teddy would have had a clear slot two weeks ago, but it’s different now. I canceled a board meeting to fit you in. Opening night is opening night, and Mister Malcolm’s doing you a favor squeezing you in.”

  I ignored him and reviewed my lessons: Look Malcolm in the eye, have questions ready, let him talk, but be ready to steer … and then there he was, wearing dark jeans and a black T-shirt. A beaded leather band wrapped his right wrist.

  I stood, almost stumbling in my eagerness, and in a flash felt like an awkward teen, a starstruck fan about to gush some unforgiveable platitude. Oooh, can I have your autograph? He put out his hand and, as I took it, he gave me the once-over.

  I felt like some cliché ingénue in a made-for-TV-movie: remove glasses, loosen hair from tight bun, swell the corny orchestration in the background. God, what did I think I was I doing? Malcolm nodded Kelver out of the room, sank into the chair, and summoned a smile that crinkled his eyes.

  “You don’t mind if I tape?” The question sounded simple-minded as I said it. I clicked the recorder and tried to clear my head, to focus. “You gave Teddy great stuff. It’s going to make a terrific book.”

  “How’s it going?” His eyes were a shade paler than the ocean.

  “Fine. I’m polishing the beginning. You’ll see it soon.”

  “It’s going to run chronologically?”

  “I’ll open with a dramatic sequence, then backtrack.”

  “A hook?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Have you picked it yet?”

  “Your first Academy Award. Or your battle with Twentieth Century–Fox; I haven’t decided. It could be something you say today.”

  “Today? I doubt it. I’ve got a stage manager who’s up in arms, carpenters pounding sets at the barn, the board breathing down my neck, casting decisions to make, and here I sit.”

  “I’ll try to wrap up as soon as I can.” Why, why had I ever thought myself capable of handling an interview?

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be harsh.”

  I tried to smile. “You must have settled on most of your cast.”

  “Most, but it’s not set in stone. I can’t talk about it yet.”

  “Will you take this Hamlet to Broadway? Are you planning to film it?” God, these weren’t questions I’d written down.

  “We’ll film, but I don’t know if it will be for theatrical release or British TV. Now, what is it you need? Teddy covered my whole life.”

  I settled back into my chair, and so did he. “You’ve been wonderfully open. About yourself. But readers will want to know about the actors you’ve worked with.”

  “And the actresses.” He raised his eyebrows, and his mouth tightened as though he’d tasted something spoiled. “I told Teddy; I don’t tell tales out of school.”

  “I’m not digging for gossip; I’m interested in character sketches. In funny stories, nothing you wouldn’t want anyone to hear, nothing salacious.”

  “You make it seem okay.” He sounded doubtful.

  “So much has already been written about you. Publishers are as bad as movie critics. They want new material all the time, a constant stream of information, fresh insight.”

  “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

  I almost choked on a sip of water. “I know how.” Even to my ears, I sounded defensive. “Mr. Malcolm, I want to ask you if—”

  “Garrett, remember? Or Mal. Friends call me Mal.” He gazed at me expectantly.

  “Em,” I said. It kind of stuck in my throat.

  “Emily?”

  “Em.

  “Like in James Bond? Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself, Em? Since you know all about me.”

  I could feel the smile freeze on my lips. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Come on. I knew Teddy like the back of my hand.”

  “Everyone felt like that.”

  “He didn’t talk about you. Were you his guilty secret? I’m sorry, am I upsetting you? Damn, I am sorry. You must miss him terribly.”

  “I do.” Longing rose like a bubble in my throat, a crazy desire to see you again, Teddy, all mixed up with the need to be sitting quietly at my desk in my den, by myself. I could feel my breathing start to quicken. “I’m s
orry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize. And by the way, you don’t need to dress up for me, either. Not that I don’t appreciate the effort, but you looked quite sweet yesterday. Demure, like a schoolgirl.”

  I must have gone beet red. I felt like I had to say something, anything, but nothing came. I don’t know how to react to compliments, Teddy. I have so little experience with them.

  “Well, Em, which targets do you want me to shoot first?”

  “I don’t want you to shoot anyone. How’s this? When I say the name of one of your movies, you tell me about the people in it, whatever comes into your head. Stories, colorful incidents. Auditions, a day on location, a difficult scene, an improv that clicked or didn’t click. Whatever you remember.”

  “Okay,” he said suspiciously. “If that’s what you want.”

  “Let’s go way back. French Kiss.”

  “Okay. At the audition with Anselm, they brought in twelve guys to read for the same role, big names. Going in, I thought I was one of two in contention, so I froze, forgot every line, but Audra, Audra Anthony, was so gorgeous she saved me. My character—God, I’ve forgotten his name—was supposed to be knocked out by meeting her, so the fact that I screwed my lines didn’t matter, because I was hopelessly, totally blown away by Audra. It was like I couldn’t shape words with my mouth, but it played funny, so I got the part.”

  “Twisted Silk.”

  “A lot of mind games on that one. Mace Harvey, the director, he wanted me pissed off at Swayze, so he treated me like shit. Everything Swayze did was wonderful; everything I did stank. Swayze, one take; it was perfect. I’d do twelve takes and get nothing but browbeating. It seeped into my performance, this hatred for the guy. Smart director. I hated him at the time, but I’ve used the same trick myself.”

  It worked, Teddy. I’d throw out a title and he’d close his eyes for a minute, and then he’d paint it like a picture so I could see the actors and hear them. It went better than I could have hoped. He’s quite a mimic. Did he tell you about the night Laurel Henders got so pissed at Brooklyn Pierce she sent the cameraman off to follow him while he and Mattie Clark and a lot of other guys went skinny-dipping at Cahoon Hollow? They added that film to the dailies, which would have been fine except some Hollywood big shot came out unannounced to sneak a peek at them? Did he tell you about the Airheads, the inflatable extras in the first Justice film? How they started to hiss and shrink during a take? No, of course he didn’t, or I would have heard it. God, Teddy, I laughed until my ribs ached. His timing was magnificent. I had him on a roll. He was barely conscious of my presence.

  The stupid PA stuck his head in the door before Malcolm even acknowledged his knock. “Sorry. There’s a call on one.”

  “Dammit, I have to take this.” Malcolm nodded in my direction. “Do you mind waiting on the patio? If it’s too cold—”

  “It’s fine.”

  The air was bracing, invigorating. I didn’t mind the cold. What I minded was the interruption, the timing. I was edging up on Red Shot, on Claire Gregory. I’d moistened and fertilized, prepared the ground, and now the PA had yanked it out from under me. With half the patio in shadow, half in sunlight. I walked blindly toward the far end, toward the sunlight and the sea, and leaned far over the wooden railing. The wind ruffled my hair. Did Malcolm take this incredible blue panorama for granted?

  Eight minutes later, he slid the patio door open. “Sorry about that. You must be frozen.”

  I pointed. “Are those seals basking on the rocks?”

  “Dammit, I thought they’d gone.”

  “You don’t like them?”

  “When I was a kid, my father shot one with a BB gun.” He motioned me indoors. “Three seals showed up during run-throughs for Macbeth. We called them the three witches, and they kept mum during rehearsals, but opening night, they let loose. No Macbeth wants to compete with seals barking. I’ll never be able to do Macbeth because of those damned seals. Whenever I hear ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow—’”

  “Did the audience laugh?”

  “The audience? Christ, the actors laughed. They roared. You had to hear it: ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow’ and eeerk, eeerk, eeerk. That night, Dad got drunk and winged one of them. Got in heaps of trouble with Fish and Wildlife.” He settled back into his chair and pulled a serious face. “Where were we?”

  “You were telling me how you met Claire when she was doing Set Piece.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  I waited, but he didn’t add another syllable.

  “People say you wrote the part of Audrey in Red Shot specifically for her.” Silence worked beautifully for you, Teddy. Why wasn’t it working for me? “That’s a wonderful likeness of her. Who painted it?”

  “I’m not going to talk about Claire.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s a nice trick, but no. Look, I once read an autobiography of George Lucas. Good book. And it never said a word about his wife, other than they got a divorce. Just about his films.”

  “Was it a bestseller?”

  “Claire is off-limits. Teddy agreed.”

  “No, he didn’t. Why did you and Claire break up?” I tried the direct assault out of sheer desperation. Given the long interruption for the phone call, I didn’t have time for subtle flanking maneuvers.

  God knows, there were enough answers out there. According to People magazine, Claire caught Garrett with the nanny. The National Enquirer painted Claire as the unfaithful one, screwing not only her yoga instructor but a variety of costars. Every gossip columnist in America and a few in England and Australia had written the supposed inside scoop. Malcolm had stayed silent then and he stayed silent now. The stillness grew.

  “Sometimes you do things, it’s like madness, a rage that blinds you. Doesn’t everyone wish they could go back, do another take, rewrite a chapter of their life? That’s what I love about live theater, the constant replay, the repetition, the perfectibility, the possibility of perfection, not that it’s ever perfect. Did you know there are four different scripts for Hamlet—four completely different scripts? Two of them are two thousand lines or so, and the other two clock in at four thousand.”

  “You’re changing the subject,” I said.

  “I’m not going to answer your question. I know you had to ask, I know Teddy was planning to ask, but I won’t answer except to say this: I will never say anything against the mother of my child.”

  “I understand Jenna’s an actress.” He hadn’t said he wouldn’t speak about the child.

  “‘The line is extended.’”

  “The line?”

  “My father used to say that, whenever I did the right thing onstage, came in promptly on a cue, spoke a line properly. It was his special benediction. He kept count of all the generations of actors in the family, and he was determined that my generation would not be the last. When Claire got pregnant—” He stopped, mouth open, paused, then shut his eyes. “I’m sorry. We keep apologizing to each other. Why is that?”

  “When Claire got pregnant—?”

  “I’ll finish the thought. If you promise not to press.”

  “Okay.”

  “When she was pregnant, my father would recite Shakespeare to the potential actor within. He was certain she would be a he, the chosen child, the ultimate Malcolm star. I’m glad he lived long enough to know he was right.”

  I remembered what James Foley had said on tape, about the old man wanting more sons. “He wasn’t upset when she turned out to be a girl?”

  “Tremendously upset. Had to alter his will, and he hated lawyers almost as much as he hated taxes. ‘First thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.’ Thought Shakespeare had it exactly right. He was a Shakespearean through and through, my father, and he’d modeled his will after Will Shakespeare’s, with all the “first sonne of my body lawfully issuing” garbage. Had to modify it to “heirs of my body,” which sounded suspiciously modern to him. He passed away when Jenna was only seven, but he died b
elieving the family business was in good hands. There would be another theatrical generation. He knew Jenna was an actress the first moment she walked onstage. Everyone knew.”

  “Even at that age?”

  “Even at that age,” he repeated gravely. “She was the love of my father’s life, Cordelia to his Lear. As she is the love of my life.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  He blinked his eyes and gave a shake of his head. “That’s enough about Jenna.”

  “Are the two of you estranged?”

  “You’re not going to rake that up, are you? Those rumors were nothing but drivel, stuff that started leaking to the press with the divorce. I had—and have—absolutely no problem with the terms of my father’s will, with him leaving the land to Jenna. It was simply a way to avoid federal estate taxes, and more to the point, it doesn’t matter in the least, because both of us want the same thing: to keep the land for the theater, to keep the theater running. And that is off the record. Understand?”

  “But this is your chance to set the record straight, to give your viewpoint, your side of the story. To write history the right way.”

  “I’m her legal guardian. I act for her till she turns twenty-one. Then she’ll take over. And I am not a government official. I don’t owe people an explanation of my private life.”

  “You and Claire reconciled during her illness.”

  “Briefly.”

  “That must be a comfort to Jenna.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Of course.”

  “Look, that’s it about Jenna. No more.”

  “It would be a big help if I could talk to her. Is she coming here? For a board meeting?”

  “Where did you get that from? Of course not. She’s still a minor. There wouldn’t be any point. She’s not coming here, and even if she were, I’m sorry, but I won’t have her bothered.”

  “What about your next film project?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “There are rumors.” I glanced meaningfully at the pile of manuscripts on the corner of his desk.

  “Always rumors,” he said lightly.

  “Teddy thought you agreed to do the book because you wanted to be in the public eye before the box office opened.”