As Jessie entered, Sonia waved, her hand on a cell phone glued to her ear. Hilda had run to the bathroom as she waited for her first cast of the day, so Jessie grabbed the magazine on the counter and plopped down in Sonia’s chair. She didn’t usually waste her time with these magazines, and wondered why the girls bothered with them, but today she was in no mood to be held hostage by her thoughts. But her mouth fell open when she saw what – who – was on the front page. It was Charlie - red-eyed, obviously drunk, shirtless, the top button of his jeans open, a drink in his hand, and a buxom girl on either side. Jessie’s picture, a headshot thumbnail, was alongside. The headline read ‘Fun in the Sun’, and the subtitle was ‘Charlie’s Angels’.
Coolly, she closed her mouth and then thumbed through the magazine until she found the corresponding article within. As she read, Hilda exited the bathroom and suddenly stopped short. Jessie never read those magazines. Hilda had no way of knowing today would be the day she’d grab the one she herself had been reading – the day Jessie’s fiancé was on the front cover being accused of infidelity yet again. Hilda looked up at Sonia as the blood ran from her face.
Seeing Hilda’s suddenly piqued look, Sonia glanced at Jessie. The hand holding her cell phone dropped from her ear. She stared hard at Hilda. If looks could kill, Jon would have had to hire another hair stylist on Drifters.
Jessie took her time. She read the entire article, although her eyes were suddenly blurred. Then she got up and thrust the magazine at Hilda, who took it with a shaking hand as she peered surreptitiously at Jessie in a useless attempt to gauge how she was taking the news.
“I think I’ll go to blocking first today,” Jessie whispered quietly, before turning and unsteadily navigating the two steps that would let her out of the trailer. It was suddenly closing in on her.
As she stumbled back to her own sanctuary, she noticed that her dad’s prisms were disappearing as the day warmed. She often felt alone in her life, but had thought those days were coming to an end.
Josh, just arriving at base camp, knew instantly something was up. He glanced towards the hair and make-up trailer, from which he’d seen Jessie exit, and wondered why she didn’t have her hair done before blocking, as usual. Pier greeted him, but then turned curiously towards Jessie as she entered her trailer and gently closed the door.
“Humph,” the young AD muttered. “What the hell?”
He glanced inquisitively at Josh, and then sauntered over to hair and make-up, where he found the girls sitting in their chairs in utter shock and disbelief. Hilda’s face was buried in her hands.
“Shit, girls, what the hell did you do?” Pier asked incredulously, and moved a hand down to his walkie to flip it off so as to be certain nobody could accidentally hear.
Outside, Josh made his way over to his own trailer. He noticed that Jessie had shut the outside door to hers, and not just the screen, as was her usual custom. He had a sinking feeling. What was going on, and where was this day going to land?
***
Pier usually enjoyed the early mornings on a set. There was a comfortable stillness in the air before everyone else arrived, a serenity he had grown to cherish before the chaos inherent with a ninety person cast and crew. Generally one of the first people to arrive, he welcomed everyone and made sure his day was organized. He liked compartmentalizing, and putting things in order. As an AD, he was part of the team that kept things running smoothly. Stationed at base camp, he was usually faced with some sort of jigsaw puzzle each day as he put the actors through the process and sent them to set when they were needed. Most times, at least on this show, things ran very smoothly, although occasionally there was a persnickety guest star that was considered high maintenance.
This morning though, he suddenly felt underpaid and fearful. An AD’s job at base camp often involves smoothing ruffled feathers and cajoling finicky actors out of their trailers, but he’d had no such experiences with Jessie. Nor did he want any. As he sat in the hair and make-up trailer and pondered his next course of action, Pier knew the bottom line was that they had a schedule to adhere to, a very strict timeline in order to get the day’s shots in. Plus, of all days, there was a big stunt today, scheduled for later in the afternoon. Still…Jessie had just received a terrible, very public, blow. As Hilda pleaded with Sonia to recognize that Jessie would have found out anyway, Pier made up his mind. He would try to talk to Jessie and offer some comfort, some hot coffee, perhaps. Then, if he failed, he would have to call in the big guns. Jonathon would want to be apprised, and would likely come and talk to her. Perhaps Deirdre Keating would even be called.
As Pier got up and nervously left the trailer, he flipped the walkie back on and cranked up the volume. He cringed at the first AD’s voice from set, where the keys were planning the blocking. “How’s it going up there, Pier?” he heard. “Blocking in five.”
The young AD made his way across camp to Jessie’s trailer and, watched by Hilda, Sonia, and Josh, who was now at the craft trailer awaiting a plate of hot eggs and salty bacon, he took a deep breath, raised a fist to the door, and knocked.
Jessie heard the knock and knew she would have to deal with it. She was sitting there pondering how to get out of this big wedding that in truth, in her heart of hearts, she knew she never really wanted in the first place. The funny thing was, though, that a few months ago she hadn’t really cared all that much. Most of her emotions were buried so deep that, for many years, she only allowed herself to feel on some peripheral level. But the first time she looked into Josh’s eyes that began to change. She felt so alone. But she pushed those thoughts aside.
At Pier’s second knock, she jumped up and whipped open the door.
“Hi Pier.”
She was always courteous, this girl. Given the circumstances, Pier was amazed by her. Maybe everything would be okay.
“Tell Jonathon I am doing the stunt today.”
Pause. Beat. Pier took a breath, tilted his head, looked away for a moment, tried to speak, and then looked Jessie in the eye. She was deadly serious.
She raised her eyebrows at him. “Capiche?” she asked firmly.
He felt his shoulders sink. He nodded, gulped out a hesitant, “Yeah, no problem,” then turned and walked away, watched by the eagle eyes of everyone at base camp – the hair and make-up girls (who he would like to really shoot, about now), the grips and electrics gathered around craft eating their eggs and bacon, and Jonathon, who had just arrived back up from set for a cup of fresh joe.
Pier hesitated, and then stepped over to Jon to give him the good news.
***
Besides the obvious safety concerns with Jessie doing this particular stunt was the fact that the insurance company for the production was going to freak. There were certain activities, even during her time off, that she was discouraged from doing. After all, she was carrying a lead role in Drifters. Even with the insurance, if she got hurt and couldn’t participate in the shooting, the show would lose a lot of money and cache.
Jonathon was less than pleased. He popped into Jessie’s trailer immediately after his brief chat with Pier.
She was waiting for him, perched on the small bench seat at the little dinner table in the trailer, hands clasped on her lap in front of her as if she were praying. Jessie looked up when her producer entered, and Jon noticed that her eyes seemed a little black underneath, as if smudged by kohl. He wasn’t sure whether she had been crying, although Pier had related the brief story about her discovery while in hair and make-up.
“Jessie, what the hell?” he asked bluntly, dropping himself down onto the seat across from his star. He wasn’t known for beating around the bush. He was a busy producer, and he didn’t get to the top of his game by pussyfooting around.
Jon studied Jessie, trying to get a handle on her feelings to see why she would insist on being difficult. On set, the crew was waiting for blocking to begin, so he had to make this visit short and sweet, no holds barred. Jon adored Jessie, and would do anything for he
r – she was his secret ingredient, his cherry on the top of a hot fudge sundae. But she could be stubborn, and to talk her out of this decision, on this day when Charlie had royally fucked things up for the cast and crew of Drifters, would take the right amount of cajoling and sucking up. Briefly. He had to go in hard and get right to the point, but at the same time be cautious, as if he was running barefoot on a glass covered beach on a hot summer day and had to get from his blanket to the waves in five seconds flat.
She was patient, but determined. “I can do the stunt, Jon,” Jessie said stubbornly, raising her chin in defiance.
Oh, hell, she isn’t wavering. Jon knew her well enough to know she’d made up her mind. And when a woman made up her mind, well…
So much for running across the sea glass. He pretended it was the kind that had soaked up salt in the ocean for a while, softened and smooth at the edges. He could walk a little slower. One way or the other, he would get to the cool ocean and rest his weary, sore feet. He was just going to have to get there a little differently than planned. Slower. More cautiously.
At least she was confident. He nodded, hoisted himself up, and went to the door, where he stood and looked at Jessie firmly, and spoke sharply without the fear he felt in his gut edging his voice. He had to establish parameters. That was also a producer’s job, otherwise the actors could run all over you.
“You get two tries,” he said, laying down the law. “Then we’re bringing in the stuntwoman.”
He turned to leave, then paused and glanced back, softening. “Charlie’s a dick,” he said. “You deserve better.”
She looked so small, sitting there on the nondescript little beige bench seat, looking up at him. He could see the anger in her eyes then, just a flash, something neither he nor Charles nor Dee had ever really been privy to. It surprised him, but it left him with the feeling that there was hope, that she still had some fight left in her yet, after the horrid start to her day.
He walked away thinking she was crazy, but he admired her will to try not just the stunt, but also some kind of hapless marriage with Charlie Deacon.
“What a day,” he murmured, cursing. “What a fucking day.”
He pulled out his iPhone to text Charles and Dee, and saw that it was only 7:32 a.m. The day had barely begun.
***
They had to get the rest of the day’s shooting out of the way first. Throughout her torment, Jessie never spoke to anyone except when absolutely necessary, but she noticed all of their eyes on her, watching, assessing, and wondering if she would fall apart. But she knew her roots were planted strong and that her branches might bend but would not break. If not, how could she possibly on God’s green earth have survived this long?
She got through the long morning, which was mostly ensemble cast shooting, by doing what she needed to; then at lunch she took off her outerwear, threw a light jacket over her petticoat and cami, grabbed her dad’s Gibson from the trailer, and stomped in her brown leather boots up past the barn to her favorite cottonwood tree by the creek. She played quietly while everyone else had lunch. Her absence was felt, though, and the volume in the mess area was ten times lower than usual.
Josh scraped most of his lunch in the garbage. He was starting to feel pretty tense over the afternoon’s stunt and was, in fact, feeling his blood pressure increase over Jessie’s obstinacy, which he felt, rather accurately in fact, was a simple, childish reprisal for Charlie’s stupidity. He went into the barn to talk to the wrangler and stunt coordinator, to see if they had any idea how he could somehow make things run smoothly and reduce the possibility of a nasty accident.
Stephen, meanwhile, headed up to the cottonwood. He slipped down to the ground and lay on his back near where Jessie was still humming and playing softly. He took off his tan felt hat, laid it over his face, pulled a chicken fajita wrap out of the chest pocket of his buckskin tunic and tossed it on Jessie’s lap, then crooked his left arm and placed it behind his head, settling in for what appeared to Jessie to be a nap.
She muttered, “Thanks,” and set the guitar aside. She ate the wrap even though it tasted like cardboard on this weird day, and she watched the creek as it trickled gently in front of her, the polished stones on its bed ever strong, never moving, always accepting, never questioning, just seemingly content, lying there letting the water do its thing.
From under the hat she heard a voice. “You must have a death wish.”
Leave it to Stephen to tell it like it is.
“Either that or today you simply don’t give a fuck.” He pulled off the hat and leaned up on his left elbow, looking at her, waiting for a response. Everyone else on set had left her alone, as she wished, but not this twenty-nine-year-old cocky, arrogant, humorous boy with the curly golden locks and the glint in his eye. She was grateful, but couldn’t muster up a smile.
“You bet I fucking do,” she said softly. “Today I do indeed give a fuck.”
It was a surprise to her. An epiphany. Today she did give a fuck. Finally, she heard her inner voice saying. Finally, I feel like I care about something. Someone, maybe. But then it was Stephen who was here by her side, reaching out to her. Not Josh.
As Jessie finished the wrap, she looked at her new friend lying there on his side, peeking up at her. That is something I like about Stephen, she thought. That he could speak his mind around her and not raise her hackles. And not really expect a clear answer, either, or any answer, for that. Not many could do that around her. Most people seemed false, fake, wanted to please the great Jessie Wheeler. He was real. There were others on set that were real, as well, but it would take her some time to relax around them, to warm up to them. To trust them.
He reached out and took her hand. Just gave it a squeeze, and that was that. A friendly gesture with no hidden meaning.
She rewarded him with eyes that glistened of tears. “I’m missing my dad today,” she admitted.
He knew she wasn’t speaking of Charles. “When…how long…?” he asked.
She told him about the accident that happened when she was twelve. It was her gift to Stephen, her only real friend on set at this early juncture. Charles and Dee had not even heard this story.
“My dad, he was a musician, too,” she started. “He taught me to play.” She gestured towards the guitar, now leaning innocently up against a tree.
“The day he died he had been gigging at a morning wedding in Cavendish, this summer family resort area in P.E.I. He stopped on the way home for a quick paddle in his canoe, ‘cause it was one of those perfect summer days...and then he hit the road to rush home to my birthday party. I was turning twelve.”
She smiled wanly, remembering the family’s backyard decorated with party streamers, the barbecue set to go, and the girlfriends all huddled together giggling about boys.
She continued. “He approached a curve and I guess dead ahead was some impatient Island driver trying to pass a slow moving tourist on this little country road. It was either going to be a head on crash or a lunge to the right. He went to the right.”
She mimicked the movement, a hard thrust of an invisible, long destroyed steering wheel. “He went flying down the hillside. The car landed upside down in the same river he was paddling on in the canoe. It was one of my favorite rivers on the island, actually,” she added grimly. “Well, used to be, anyway.”
She let her eyes wander back over to Stephen, who was lying there frowning, caring, absently picking at a blade of grass. Jessie got up, picked up her guitar.
“He couldn’t get out.” Then, “I dunno, maybe he was already gone by then, to wherever it is people go when they leave this fucked up planet.” She paused, remembering. “They said he drowned, but I’m not sure about that.”
She took a few steps to go as Steve lay there pondering the fact that this quiet, private girl trusted him enough to share a very personal, painful story of her past. He was touched.
“You’re right,” she was adding. “I care, all right. But maybe I have a death wish too.”
An icy chill coursed down Steve’s spine. He closed his eyes.
“Jessie,” he intoned desperately as she walked away. But there was no more to say than just that - to call out her name to the spirits in the sky, the fairies hidden amongst the polished stones in the creek, the all-knowing powers of the universe. For it was all he could think to do to ward off any evildoings that day, to beg them not to take her just yet, to ask them to let her stay. It was out of his hands. This girl’s soul was beyond the power of any mortal being on this plane of dust and light.
She’s unreachable, Stephen thought. And as he pulled himself up and dusted the dirt off his trousers, he turned his head to the side and watched her go. As she passed the barn, he spotted Josh. He had just wandered outside and was leaning against the rough cedar shingles. As Jessie walked by, she glanced up at him, and some silent understanding seemed to pass between the two.
“Aha,” Stephen thought. “She’s not so alone, after all.” And he grinned and felt his stomach unclench as he realized that all those people gabbing at lunch about how she and Josh weren’t talking were dead wrong. They were talking, all right.
They were just doing it without words.
***
The horses were ready, the riders on their backs, the HD camera good to go. Jessie was given the first cue, and she took off ahead of Josh at a gallop. At “Action Billy,” Josh quickly urged on Sally, his frisky roan, and they took off, closing in the gap between him and the slower moving Jessie with remarkable speed. He drew up alongside, and extended an arm out to her. She grabbed it with no problem - her legs were strong from lots of workouts and all the dancing she did in her shows - but Sally’s bouncing rump caused her to lose her balance. She couldn’t get her right leg to stay over the horse behind Josh.
A Song For Josh, Drifters Book One Page 12
