by Linda Barnes
The girl was long and lithe, dressed in a gypsy-like collection of leotards and filmy scarves. Carefree and joyful, she danced en pointe in the sand. Her blond hair caught the sunshine.
“Where was this taken?”
“Lord, let me see it. She looks even more like her mother now.”
“Did you take this?”
He nodded.
“It’s a lovely shot.”
“You’re a lovely girl to say so.”
“Where is she now?”
“You are not to contact her.”
“I know. I just wondered.”
“I’m not sure whether she’s in England or Australia at the moment. Her troupe travels, and yes, she is acting. Using a different name. Someday I’ll probably agree with her, say it was for the best, that it allowed her to develop as an artist or some such claptrap.”
“So it was her idea to see whether she could make it without your influence?”
He nodded. “Some children with famous parents do fine.”
“I’m sure she will. Do you give her advice, the way your father—”
“My father was an autocrat. A dictator. Even after he died, he couldn’t let go. Remember I mentioned his will? His Shakespearean will? He didn’t rattle on about the used furniture or anything like that, but…”
It clicked in my head, almost audibly. Your scribbled note, 2nd BST BD, was no reference to a bedroom in a rented house. In his last will and testament, Shakespeare bequeathed his wife, Anne, his second-best bed. In a long and elaborate document, he’d granted her one scant sentence: “Item, I give unto my wife my second best bed with the furniture,” and scholars had been speculating over what he’d meant by the phrase for four hundred years. The realization made me lose the thread of Malcolm’s words.
He was saying, “… almost succeeded, inadvertently, in disinheriting his own much-beloved granddaughter.”
“What? Who?”
“My dear father. With his utter stubbornness. He insisted on modeling his will after Shakespeare’s. As he had modeled his life, you know? And he gave unto said son, heir of his body lawfully issuing, namely me, all his lands, tenements, and heriditaments whatsoever, to have and to hold, et cetera, during the term of my natural life, and then unto the first son of my body lawfully issuing, et cetera, hardly taking into account that an heir of my body might happen to be a child of the female persuasion. Thank the lord the lawyer who set up the trust intervened after Jenna was born.”
“The land trust?” I remembered what the hairdresser had said, about his plan to set up a trust to lower his property taxes.
“You mean the conservation trust? No, no, that’s something the board is looking into now, since local property taxes have gone berserk. God knows, the board wants me to do it, but Darren’s keeping them away from me till I get this Hamlet off my plate. No, I’m talking about back then. My father called it a dynasty trust, but the lawyer used initials, a GST, some arcane lawyerly thing, a generation-skipping transfer, I think. Dad wanted to protect his theater, land, and fortune from the government, from the federal estate tax, so he effectively skipped a generation. This house is mine, but most of the land is technically Jenna’s.”
“Was your father—?”
“Sorry? Was Dad taken aback by the fact that he almost disinherited Jenna? Not he. No, he was quite convinced that my subsequent heirs would be male, and what was all the fuss about? Because even if I didn’t have male children to rule the stage, Jenna would breed boys. Claire had no patience with the old dictator.”
“Your actors say you’re a dictator. Would you say you’re like your father?”
“Christ, maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s the nature of the beast. Look, I have to get down to the Amphitheater. My assistant says I’m spending way too much time with you, and it’s a fact, the time goes by very quickly.”
“Can we meet again tomorrow?”
“I’m not sure. You’ll have to check with Darren.”
“Before you go, one more question.”
“No. Honestly I don’t have time.” He leaned over and placed his index finger over my lips. “Enough.”
His touch shocked me to the extent that I don’t remember gathering my recorder and notebook, or following him down the hallway. I know he said something about the possibility of meeting for a drink later that evening. I know I refused. I could only imagine that he was trying to mock me, make fun of me. Then I found myself outside, gulping a lungful of salt air.
CHAPTER
twenty-nine
I could still feel the touch of his finger as a warm imprint on my lips. Was the invitation to have a drink some kind of test to determine whether every girl in the universe, no matter how unprepossessing, how plain, mousy, or ordinary, would succumb to his charm? As I drove I ran my fingers across my lips and caressed the lingering dent.
I might never see him again. He hadn’t guaranteed another interview. I’d need to speak to his PA, and who knew whether Kalver would see fit to squeeze me into Malcolm’s busy schedule? If Malcolm had time for a drink, couldn’t he make time for an interview?
You must have gone for drinks with Malcolm, patronized some bar where he’d regaled you with the story of Ralph’s Shakespearean will. You’d jotted a few notes, meaning to bring it up in a later interview or to instruct me to research the document. I was happy to know I was on the same trail you’d blazed before me.
I’d manage, even if the PA shut me out, even if Malcolm shut me out. I had the tapes, the films, the voice. My lip tingled where he’d touched it. I drove blindly and, instead of heading to the highway, I took the turn that led to the Old Barn, not that I needed or wanted anything at the barn, but because I knew I could sit there and ponder in the quiet oasis of the parking area.
Voices had been enough, Teddy. Transcribing, writing, hearing the clock strike the hours of each unremarkable day, had been enough. But now I felt empty, a shell of the person I’d been before meeting Garrett Malcolm. How could I return to my tiny apartment, to the quiet clock-ticking minutes of listening and writing, the drab view of the brick façade across the alleyway, after the glowing hearth of shared conversation with such a man? I debated entering the barn, inhaling the sawn-wood silence, reviewing the ranks of ordered gowns, the shelf of wigs.
Instead I reimagined the conservatory, the comfy chairs, the sun beating down through the glass ceiling, the shining windows, the faint aroma of pine needles and good whiskey. I shut my eyes, reached for my notebook, penned a quick list of the photos on the wall. I hadn’t gotten the chance to ask about any of them except Jenna’s, not the old ones that showed the Big House before it grew so large, or the framed genealogical chart that hung near the center, surrounded by a cluster of photos that looked like Malcolm, yet not like him, old-fashioned romantic poses that might have been publicity stills of Malcolm’s father when he’d played Hamlet. Positioned next to these was a famous shot of Malcolm in his Broadway Hamlet. Photos of Claire were interspersed with pictures of other beautiful actresses Malcolm had directed. And then, the award photos: Malcolm in his tux, thanking the members of the Academy; Malcolm at the Directors Guild ceremony, a breathtaking beauty on each arm.
In a day or two, he wouldn’t recall my name. I should have junked my prepared questions and used the wall as a lead-in. What could be more personal than the images a man chose to keep in the small private room where he worked?
I was surprised, considering his fatherly pride, that Malcolm didn’t display a more recent photo of Jenna. How lovely she was and how lucky to grow up here, the exquisite image of her adored mother. But then, she hadn’t grown up here, not really. She’d spent her childhood on the beach, but then she’d moved, sharing Claire’s exile from the kingdom.
I recalled that gypsy shot of Jenna, saw again the wooden beams, the small structure behind the dancing girl. I was certain I’d seen it before, Teddy, but when and where? The answer, stuck in the basement of my mind, stubbornly refused to ascend. Possibly the same s
etting served as the backdrop for a scene in one of the Justice films.
Each had been shot locally, a revenue and recognition boost for the Cape. Tourists still made pilgrimage to Wellfleet’s town center, scene of an intense chase sequence through Town Hall, an adjacent Episcopalian church, and a moss-covered cemetery. I opened the car door and swung my legs out. I could stroll the property, spot locations from the films, use that first-hand knowledge in the book.
“All my lands, tenements, and hereditaments whatsoever, to have and to hold.” The language had rolled off Malcolm’s tongue like thunder. Some said his magnificent voice resembled his father’s, but I’d heard recordings and Ralph Malcolm’s voice was heavier on the bass. What an inheritance Garrett Malcolm’s father had given him. “Terrific times,” his cousin James Foley said on tape. “Fed on hot and cold running Shakespeare,” and even if the Amphitheater was a wreck and the house in disrepair, there was the land, the coastline, the view.
The memory of Foley’s transcript brought me up short. What was wrong with me? If I were home, dealing only with words, I’d have made the connection immediately. Foley said he kept in touch with Brooklyn Pierce. That would explain how you’d made contact.
The sun, high in a cloudless sky, grappled with the cool ocean breeze and managed to turn the air surprisingly warm. The urge to stroll along the water’s edge, to play hooky, in Malcolm’s words, was strong. I told myself I’d get a better sense of the estate by walking it, experience the environs in which the master director had matured, the place where he chose to live and work, because the man who’d directed the Justice films could easily live in Paris or Hollywood or Manhattan, but had consciously selected this Cape Cod site over likelier locales.
Maybe I’d find it while pacing the grounds, that moment when I better understood his longings and his life. And even if the walk didn’t lead to inspiration, I’d enjoy it. It would inoculate me against resisting the rest of the day’s indoor work, bent over the keyboard.
I left my car out of sight of the main road and marched downhill toward the ocean. I told myself that when I finished this book, when it had been completed to acclaim, when my career as a solo writer was well and truly launched, I’d take a true vacation, here or maybe farther up the Cape in Truro. I’d buy beach shoes, venture unafraid onto pebbly beaches, swim through swelling waves. It seemed possible, frighteningly possible, as solid as the earth beneath my feet.
Why stop with the Cape? Authors routinely traveled to far-off destinations. You took Caroline to Portugal and Hawaii. You showed me photos of black sand beaches, beaches that made this one seem like a country cousin. Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Patagonia; the names breathed adventure.
This could be it, the book that unaccountably took off, sold an unimaginable number of copies. The industry was fickle, I knew, and based on self-fulfilling prophecy, you always said. If they paid a lot, they pushed a lot; they sold books they had a financial interest in selling. But every once in a while, a bolt struck out of the blue and a happy marriage of timeliness and content blew away the estimated royalties.
Me, a bona fide success. Me, traveling to exotic locales. The thought of either was almost as bizarre as the idea of going out for a drink with Garrett Malcolm. I crossed the sandy gravel and headed up a grassy hill. What would that be like, dating, having sex with a star, an acknowledged object of desire? What things he must know, what experiences he must have, what comparisons he might make.
I am a woman, Teddy.
I strolled on, unbuttoning and removing my jacket, first flinging it over my arm, then pausing to tie the sleeves firmly around my waist. The lawn gave way to sandy soil, grass-topped dunes, and finally the sand. At the ocean’s edge, I turned toward the tip of the Cape, toward the Province Lands, and walked briskly for ten minutes, admiring the rocks and dunes, watching the long-legged seabirds hop, spotting the occasional fishing boat far out at sea.
The day was so glorious, the water so clear, I could see the waving stalks of seaweed to their liquid roots, and practically count the pebbles on the ocean floor. I took off my sneakers, almost giddy as I tied their laces together and swung them over my shoulder, walked barefoot along the coast, wading in the shallows. Such temptations rarely came my way in Boston. The desire to dip one’s toes in the turbid Charles, even on the hottest summer day, is nonexistent.
The sand was warm and soft, decorated with a scattered pattern of canine and human prints. I wouldn’t dally long. I’d watch the darting birds, smell the salt air, search for Justice locations, but mainly use the time to organize the book. I’d start with the first Academy Award evening. I had a terrific quote from the presenter, an apt and funny anecdote from a high-powered nominee. I framed and reframed the first paragraph, debated the merits of this opening sentence or that one. The sunlight shimmered on the waves, temporarily blinding me. I turned my head away from the dazzle of the ocean toward the dunes. That’s when I saw the shack.
CHAPTER
thirty
Isolated, remote, weathered, and unexpectedly beautiful. Secretly beautiful because you had to be practically on top of the beach shack before you saw it. Quietly beautiful because of the way it blended with the shore and the sea and the sand, because it looked like it had always existed, not so much built as discovered.
A shingled box on high stilts, it resembled a cross between a lifeguard stand and a cottage, impossibly tiny and backed by an imposing dune. Squat, green-tinged utility poles, cross-braced by heavy three-by-sixes, bolted at the joins, made up the foundation. In a hurricane, waves could wash through the stilts.
Each of four small windows boasted its own tidy window box. A railed balcony faced the waves. An open staircase ran ten steps up to the door. Enchanted, I climbed the sandy path and circled the structure. On the dune side, a stubby propane tank sat next to a rusty grill. When I discovered an outdoor shower I was amazed such a rustic place could have running water. And not just water, but electricity. A meter hung from one of the poles and thick wires disappeared behind the dune. An iron smokestack poked from the peaked roof. The PA had mentioned only four houses on Malcolm’s estate, but this would hardly qualify as a house.
I made my way slowly down to the shore again, zigzagging between clumps of beach grass, thirty, forty steps at the most, feeling like I’d wandered into a fairy tale, discovered a dwelling that might house a princess and her retinue of rowdy dwarves. At water’s edge, I turned and peered at the shack in order to make sure it was still standing, visible and not some dreamlike apparition. And froze as though I, myself, had been placed under a spell. From this angle the building was eerily familiar. I’d seen it before, twice over, not only in the background of Jenna’s gypsy photo, but as the backdrop for dozens of McKenna’s scurrilous Web site shots.
My neck crawled and I pivoted, turning again to the ocean, seeking the hidden lens. Did the gossipmonger own a boat, lash a waterproof camera to a buoy, pay a fishing captain to spy on the place?
I clambered up the path, took the ten steep steps in a rush, and knocked at the worn, silvery door. Indignation played a major part—anyone inside ought to know the place was essentially under surveillance—but curiosity played a strong supporting role. Under the influence of McKenna’s photos, my brain furnished the interior with fur rugs, hot tubs, sex toys. The desire to view the orgy den, the party place for the bronzed boys and beautiful girls, was powerful.
A dusty window to the right of the door provided nothing but the outline of a table. I knocked again, reached out a hand, turned the knob. Opening the unlocked door was reckless, foolish. I told myself it was about doing a comprehensive job on the book, following every lead, the way you did, but there was no sensible reason to trespass. I felt like I was moving in a kind of trance.
From the doorway I could see everything there was to see: a bed, a table, a living room, if the term meant that all living occurred in a single room. The bathroom was an uncurtained alcove with toilet and sink. A few dishes sat on open shelves nex
t to a red fire extinguisher. No cupboard was big enough to hide a cat. The wide floorboards dipped in one corner. The bed, an old-fashioned iron bedstead, had a canopy covered in patterned curtains. A brown leather suitcase, open on the bed, looked as though someone had hastily removed articles from the lower depths without bothering to unpack the top layer. A can of shaving cream sat on the tiny sink, a safety razor nearby. A pleasant room, not a Dionysian hangout, nothing like Bluebeard’s den.
The furnishings made an impression—they must have, because I can enumerate them—but the first thing that registered was the smell. Illness, not decomposition. I knew it was illness in a flash, just as I knew the sickness’s name: alcohol poisoning. I never thought he was dead because, still as he lay on the floorboards, he snored. He was drunk, and it wasn’t until I noted the striped shirt hanging over the ladder-backed chair that I connected the snoring drunk’s body with the movie star, with the big-screen god, Brooklyn Pierce.
It felt like I’d entered not a fairy tale, but an hallucination. My mind refused to forge the link between handsome movie star and smelly drunk even though my eyes bore witness. The man I’d seen from a distance cresting the hill had been the exact image of the actor on the screen, perfect and ageless. The man who’d demanded the return of his tape had been less an exact image, worn around the edges. This man shared the superstar’s long-limbed body, but his face seemed bloated and his swollen mouth curled in a disdainful pout. Shadows and deeply carved lines rimmed his eyes. It was as though I were seeing him through a distorted lens or a cruel fun-house mirror. A half-empty pack of cigarettes rested on his chest, a matchbook near his right hand.
He was Ben Justice, but not Ben Justice. That oppositional pull, a kind of disbelief, kept me from panicking. That and the smell. My childhood taught me bitter rules, and the rules took over.
Roll him on his side. I did this while mouthing words some foster mother must have required: There, there, you’re fine, don’t worry about a thing. Don’t worry about the vomit or the puddle or the glass shards of the shattered bottle. If his eyelids had so much as flickered, I’d have fled. Drunks struck out with hostile fists. Disturbed, they attacked.
