Hell's Half Acre

by Baer Will Christopher

  By the by. The remainder of our dinner party passed without relevant incident. Or nearly so. I knocked over a bottle of champagne around the time Paul Newman was shot in the throat, but Jude managed to make the waiter feel so hot and guilty about it that he gave us another one on the house. None of us got particularly drunk and no one asked me any more difficult questions, and I refrained from demanding another jelly jar of gin. Jude kept trying to talk about the film, but Miller wasn’t having it. He wanted to wait until we got home.

  Home.

  I was informed over crème brûlée and coffee that Jude and I would be staying with them for the duration of the project. Our things had been transferred from the King James to Miller’s house while we were at dinner and for some reason I imagined a little team of munchkins, ferrying our stuff across the bay on the backs of winged monkeys. This image pleased me and I was about to share it with Jude, but when I turned around I saw something in her face that I didn’t like. Jude looked scared. Jude had obviously not known about this move.

  The Mustang glides down the dark driveway. Miller holds the car door open for us and Molly darts ahead to unlock the house. She’s a little too happy, to my mind, and I wonder if it’s the champagne. Jude holds my hand as we go up the steps, then stops and whirls around to kiss me, a long kiss. Her tongue is sweet in my mouth and something is wrong. This is the sort of kiss that resembles love.

  What’s the matter? I say.

  Nothing.

  Uh huh. Why are you being so affectionate?

  She jerks her hand away and hisses at me to fuck off, then.

  There you go, I say. Doesn’t that feel better?

  I wonder if she is feeling guilty about something. Jeremy, perhaps. The meeting for cocktails with Miller that inexplicably lasted a day and a half. It’s always possible that she missed me while I was falsely incarcerated. But somehow I don’t think so.

  Inside and the house is warm with soft, rosy light. Jude and I pass through a shadowy entryway that feels very small, as if I should duck my head. Then we come into a large open room, the living room. The furniture is elegant, minimal. Dark wood and leather and red velvet the color of freshly spilled blood. The floors are hardwood. Molly is curled barefoot at one end of the bloody sofa. Her shirt is loose and unbuttoned to the waist, revealing a nearly transparent camisole of white gauze. Molly is small and curvy and probably doesn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds but I notice her breasts are bigger and rounder than Jude’s, who glances at me with a cold little smile. I shrug in response, but I am not stupid. Jude is five foot five. She weighs one hundred twenty pounds and doesn’t have a shred of fat on her body. She has the muscles of a snake. I wrestle with her sometimes and I cannot hold her down. She is too slippery, too fast. Too strong. Her breasts are very small but I have always thought that large ones would only annoy her.

  I wonder where Miller is. Jude sits down in a leather chair and slowly pulls off her boots, dropping them to the floor with one distinct crash, then another. I remain standing. There is another armchair, but it is way the hell across the room next to a bay window. I am reluctant to move it and the most logical place for me to sit would be at the other end of the sofa, next to Molly. But I am still conscious of the way I smell and I have a feeling she would promptly put her small white feet in my lap, and she has very nice feet. Jude watches me and I can tell she’s pleased by my confusion. She takes off her leather jacket and tosses it on the floor. The green dress has long tight sleeves and small green buttons all the way down the front and the dress fits her so snugly that I can see the muscles in her arms and stomach. Jude isn’t wearing a bra and her nipples are pretty much always hard.

  Do you want to sit down? says Molly.

  I have a headache, actually. I see things that aren’t there.

  Molly frowns because this is not really an answer but it’s the best I can give her. I have a headache and I wish I’d not stopped at one glass of gin. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s my own fucked-up biochemistry. I wander over to the bar, where I find a set of beautiful highball glasses. They weigh about two pounds each and it would be easy as falling out of bed to kill somebody with one of them. I find ice and a bottle of Bombay and I feel better already. I wouldn’t mind so much if Molly put her feet in my lap. I have a thing for feet, sometimes. And maybe my sense of smell is out of sorts and this is all a lot of misguided body language but something tells me that Jude or Miller or both of them are setting me up to fall for Molly.

  What are you babbling about over there? says Jude.

  I ignore her. I pour myself a sensible shot of gin and tell myself to be careful, for once.

  Miller comes limping out of the dark carrying a black ceramic tray in both hands, and I remember smashing him in the back with that toilet tank lid, and at the same time I remember him not limping the other day. Apparently, I didn’t damage him so badly as I’d thought, and wonder if he’s faking it for my benefit. He has changed clothes. He has undressed, basically. He now wears old, torn blue jeans and nothing else. Miller is dark and hairless. He has a belly but it looks okay on him. It suits him. He passes very close to me, close enough for me to touch him. On the tray is a stack of papers, a pot of espresso and four small cups, a woman’s antique hand mirror and a big, friendly lump of coke chopped up very fine.

  Here we go.

  Miller places the tray on a short wooden table at one end of the sofa.

  I thought some of you might be tired and I want to talk.

  He moves across the room with the maddening ease and comfort of a panther at the zoo. You can see him back there in the shadows but he doesn’t want to come out into the light. He moves back and forth in the dark recesses of his habitat. He’s not hungry and he’s not sleepy and you know he’s conscious of you. He just doesn’t want the humans to look upon him. Miller slowly drags a chair over to the circle, the same chair I was reluctant to move.

  I stand by the bar, sipping my gin.

  Jude and Molly have moved to crouch beside the tray, whispering and giggling and probably plotting something. I love the way women will become temporary allies, even when they don’t like each other. Jude lights a cigarette. Molly takes it from her fingers and has a puff. Jude pours out four small cups of espresso. Molly gives her back the cigarette, then begins to cut up lines with a small pocketknife that she takes from her pocket. Jude rolls up a bill and gives it to Molly, who bends delicately over the mirror. Her fine blond hair falling over her eyes like silk. Jude moves on her hands and knees to give Miller a cup of espresso. I have never seen her quite like this. Molly does another line, then climbs back onto the sofa with Jude’s cigarette between two fingers.

  I stand by the bar, sipping at my gin.

  Poe, says Miller. Come and sit down.

  I’m okay.

  I would rather you sat down, he says. He points at the sofa.

  I finish my gin and pour another, smaller shot. I don’t move for two breaths, three. Then I walk across the room. I bend over the tray and touch the coke with the tip of my finger, which I rub slowly over my teeth. Miller points at the sofa and I sit down. Molly sighs and stretches her suede legs. She puts her white feet in my lap, curved and serene as two porcelain doves. I don’t touch them but look at Jude, who kneels on the floor. Her dress has slipped up nearly to her hips and I can see that she wears tiny yellow underpants. She holds a cup of espresso in both hands. I wonder if she’s carrying a gun or anything. She seems to be armed all the time, lately.

  I begin to rub Molly’s feet.

  Now, says Miller. I want to talk about The Velvet.

  Finally.

  Jude flashes her eyes at me and I’m not sure if she said this or I did. Miller blows thin blue smoke rings. He drinks his espresso like it’s water but I notice he hasn’t done any coke. I want some, though. I want a nice fat line but I don’t want him to know it.

  Morality, he says. It’s a morality play like any other.

  My favorite, I say.

&nbs
p; Jude stands up and I can tell she’s getting anxious. She thinks I’m fucking with Miller and she doesn’t like it. She walks around to the far side of the sofa. She leans over the red velvet edge and places one hand flat on Molly’s stomach. Molly closes her eyes and begins to rub her feet together in my lap. I pull my hands away and watch Jude’s face, her eyes. She is staring at me, at me. Her eyes are narrow and dark, then slipping away. I know that look. She might be seducing me, she might be threatening me. It’s a familiar and useful look. I begin to touch Molly’s feet again. Molly lies perfectly motionless, as if asleep or dead. But she is obviously not asleep. Her face changes like the ocean at the slightest touch. Jude’s finger trails slowly down to her bellybutton then moves away. She remains standing, though. Jude sways slightly from the hip, staring now at Miller. This pleases me, because she is more menacing when she’s moving. Miller coughs. He is becoming rather pissed off, it seems to me. Jude smiles at me, a secret smile that the others don’t see.

  Please continue, she says.

  Well, says Miller. My vision of this film is old world. It has just a touch of The Turn of the Screw, very Henry James, but with an edge.

  Henry fucking James? I say. With an edge?

  Phineas, says Jude. Be nice.

  Molly sighs. You still haven’t told us what the film is about, John.

  He nods at the stack of papers on the tray. Those rough pages comprise the first act, he says. If anyone wants to have a look.

  The room becomes a vacuum and I hold my breath. Everyone wants to have a look at the script, of course. But no one wants to show it. I stroke Molly’s feet and she runs her hand along my thigh in response. I have an erection and I wonder if she notices. I wonder if Jude notices. I wonder if anyone gives a goddamn.

  It’s pretty much a Joe Blow story, says Miller.

  Joe Blow, says Jude.

  That’s right. Joe Blow in a world of shit.

  Okay, says Molly.

  Think about it, says Miller. The books that really get under your skin and the movies that are worth two hours of your time are always about Joe Blow.

  Jude is pacing around as we talk, a nervous beast in strange quarters. She has no doubt heard this Joe Blow theory before and maybe she is less than mesmerized. She stops and does another line and I think maybe we should put that shit away. My hands soon move up Molly’s legs, to her knees. The suede is so soft, it’s like touching her bare flesh.

  Give us an example, I say.

  Miller shrugs and begins to rattle them off. Odysseus was the original Joe Blow, he says. Then you have Moses and half the poor fuckers in the Bible. If you think about it, pretty much everybody in the Bible was Joe Blow, they were all walking headfirst into a world of shit, except Jesus. He was the only one who had any idea about what he was getting into. After that, the list is endless. Hamlet. Ishmael. Tom Joad. Huck Finn. Philip Marlowe. Nick Carraway and Holden Caulfield and on down the line. Luke Skywalker is probably the Joe Blow to end all because that boy was dumb as a post and it was really a miracle that he survived.

  Molly pulls one foot away from me and curls onto her side, fetal. The other foot remains in my crotch, pressing against my dick as if it lives there.

  And what about the world of shit? says Jude.

  She drifts in the dark somewhere behind me, as if she doesn’t want to be seen.

  The world of shit, says Miller, is composed of three acts. And yes I know Shakespeare did most of his work in five acts but he was fucking Shakespeare. He could do whatever he wanted. But the second and fourth acts were transitional anyway. Are you guys even interested in this?

  I shrug. Miller seems calm but I notice a muscle jump in his jaw.

  I am, says Molly.

  Anyway, says Miller. You introduce Joe Blow in act one and casually let it slip that he’s terrified of heights. Then you encourage him to climb a tree from which he cannot get down. In act two, you surround the tree with dogs and maybe set the woods on fire. Then you start throwing rocks at Joe. And in the third act, Joe either falls from the tree and shatters his spine, or he gets over his fear and climbs down. Maybe his girlfriend or his faithful buddy comes along to help him or maybe he just stays in the tree until he dies of exposure.

  Jude moves around the couch, sparks flickering from her body. Her legs are long, curved, and yellow. The dusty yellow of flowers, of butterflies, the yellow that disappears when you touch it. I must be high.

  And who is Joe Blow in your movie? I say.

  Miller smiles. Any of us could be. But I think your odds are best.

  I reach for a cigarette. No doubt. I am certainly in a world of shit.

  Let’s talk about the characters, says Jude.

  Please, says Miller. This is the fun part.

  Don’t tell me, I say. I get to play a dwarf?

  Miller takes Jude’s knife from the table, lifts it to his mouth and takes his time licking coke from the blade. I am dying for some of that shit. I look at Jude, and she looks away from me.

  No, says Miller. Much better. You will be Molly’s husband.

  Molly takes a breath. What?

  Miller shrugs. Swing, baby.

  Jude does another line of coke, then leans over me with a generous bump on the end of the knife. I think she’s offering it to me but I’m wrong. Molly sits up and presses a finger to the side of her nose and she’s very trusting. I’m not sure I would let Jude hold a knife to my face like that. Miller slips from his chair and crawls across the floor. He removes mirror and knife from the tray and sits crosslegged, arranging lines. He passes the mirror to Jude and she leans over it like an animal bending to drink. I am beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic. I push Molly’s leg away and she makes a soft noise in her throat. I stand up and light a cigarette. I am tempted to light three or four at once.

  I look around the room and everyone is sky high.

  Jude is crouched on the floor near the wall, twisting her hair into pigtails. Her movements are feverish and precise and I know she knows that I think pigtails are terribly sexy. I am sitting on the sofa, in a low humpbacked position that makes me feel like a troll. Miller is like a dead man. He lies on the floor at my feet, his head cradled in his hands. Molly is on the far side of the room. She is dancing, I think. Molly is floating on air. But there is no music. I am becoming painfully aware of the fact that there is no music in this house, which is just creepy. I am about to say so when Miller beats me to it.

  There’s no music, says Miller. Because I want you to get used to functioning without.

  What do you mean?

  Molly will play the cello over the credit sequences but otherwise there will be no music on the set, no music in the film.

  Why not? says Jude.

  Because music manipulates the emotions.

  And what about silence, I say. Does it not manipulate the emotions?

  Maybe. But it’s more organic, says Miller. And I want it to be creepy.

  I smile and smile like a madman because I’m tired of talking to John Ransom Miller. I’m tired of listening to him think out loud. I’m tired of him reading my mind like it’s nothing and I am fast coming to the conclusion that, like cab drivers who secretly want to be writers, lawyers who want to be filmmakers are often dangerous assholes.

  Excuse me, I say.

  What?

  Where is the bathroom? I desperately need a bath.

  Yes, he says. You do need a bath. But I thought we might have a conversation.

  About what?

  About sleeping arrangements. About personal philosophies.

  The fuck do you mean.

  Monogamy, he says.

  I reach for the gin. I change my mind and reach for the plate of coke. Monogamy, I say. What about it?

  Do you believe in it?

  I look at Jude. She’s crouched against the wall, angry. Her arms and legs are pulled close to her body and she looks like a beautiful, yellow spider monkey. I’m not sure what she’s angry about. But I see her as a whole, a composite
. I see her ankles and feet. I see the tiny white scar on her left knee, the big scar over her eye that she hates. I see the long shadows of muscle in her bent thighs. I see her dark green torso and I suppose I regard her body as mine in some way, simply because I know it so well. Every curve and hollow. I close my eyes and I can see her fingers, furiously twisting in her hair. I see her face, the long sharp cheekbones. Her lush wet lips. Her dark yellow eyes. I don’t particularly want her to fuck another but I know she will if she wants to and ultimately I don’t care if she does. She is not mine but on some molecular level I feel like I am hers, if only temporarily.

  No, I say. I don’t necessarily believe in monogamy.

  Excellent, he says.

  I like Miller, really. He’s an interesting person. But he is beginning to irritate me. I want him to stop using that word. Excellent. It bugs the fuck out of me.

  What about you? he says, looking at Molly.

  She stares at him and I get the feeling they have had this discussion before.

  Yes, she says. I believe. You know I do. I want to believe and I want love to work. I may be romantic and stupid and puritan but I believe that monogamy is possible. And I expect to find it, with the right person. I am with you now, but I don’t want to be yours.

  That’s enough, says Miller. That’s more than enough.

  He turns to Jude but she withers him with such a look that even I feel pale.

  Never mind, says Miller.

  Where is the bathroom? I say.

  The nearest one is upstairs. Down the hall to the left.

  nineteen.

  THE UPSTAIRS BATHROOM IS LARGE and relatively spartan with a black-and-white tile floor and a white clawfoot bathtub. Toilet and sink and shower with smoky glass door. Black towels. The closet is empty. In the shower are expensive shampoo and conditioner and black soap. I have brought my glass of gin with me. I am smoking a cigarette. I drop my clothes to the floor and consider the bath. I don’t much like baths. I don’t care to sit in a pool of my own filth but I have always loved the clawfoot bathtub, as an abstract concept. And it reminds me of my mother’s house. I stand there, naked and smoking. It is everything I can do to stop from looking in the mirror. The coke is causing a nasty rattle in my skull and I don’t want to descend into any prolonged examination of self. I have an unfortunate tendency to cut my hair in these situations, to somehow mangle myself. There are knife scars on my arms and chest that no one can account for. I drop my cigarette into the toilet and crank up the hot water in the shower.