by Bruce Wagner
—
Jeremy didn’t feel like going, but was compelled.
He wanted to be there for Allegra. And not just because he knew the loss of the child had put stress on her marriage; he didn’t want to sweep his own feelings under the rug either. He needed to fully honor the experience—the death—that had brought him to the emotional breakthrough of meeting with a surrogate. Still, it felt like his mourning period was on the wane, supplanted by the dream of trying again. Allegra’s seemed only to be beginning.
Yet who (he asked himself, with self-loathing malice) had suffered more? While an incubus cast its malevolent spell on the expectant mother’s womb, what had he been up to? Shopping online for designer onesies and pricey Belgian prams; immersed in the real estate porn of lazy river penthouse pools, private automobile elevators, and houses made of rammed earth; buying a car for his friendboy. Signing mass emails “Mrs. Dusty Wilding the Second.” (In preparation for going public with the birth announcement.) While they vacuumed out the little bones, he was having his Tesla detailed at Soho House . . .
The church basement support group reminded him of a scene from Fight Club. Sad, sad group of people! Like a small circle (and circle-jerk) of Hell: infinity loop of parents grieving over children unborn. The format wasn’t like A.A., where everyone did their three-minute spiel; it’d be tough to tell someone in the middle of a dead-baby crying jag that their time was up. They went on and on and on . . . Allegra fought back tears the entire hour while Jeremy zoned. He thought about sex with Tristen (he was always thinking about sex with his “twist”), about projects in various stages of development, about Devi and Sir . . . he’d been asked to dinner next week in Malibu, at the “pretty penny” house—
Emerging from his reverie, he caught the words of a mousy woman in her mid-thirties. The faint, decaying man beside her was apparently her husband.
“. . . and I just wonder when it’s going to end. I know even thinking that way is so selfish . . . I just worry that I’m living with too much pain—that it’s become an addiction, and that chemically, I’m becoming a different person. That I’m in this hole, and can’t climb out. Because this was almost two years ago and it feels like yesterday. Like today, it feels like today! And a lot of people say that when we’re pregnant again, that’s when I’ll be able to—that’s when we’ll be able to move on. But a lot of them say the pain never goes away too . . . and I don’t want it to! I don’t want it to go away! Because that would be like losing our baby a second time! They say that you . . . integrate it. But Calvin and I—we tried—and it’s—they said—so many doctors we went to said it was impossible for us to get pregnant . . . and that’s why Jarett really was a miracle baby. You always hear that, ‘miracle,’ but he was. He took eight years! So when he died . . . so I’m—we’re really looking at the possibility it may never happen. Again. And every time I think I’m okay with that, it brings me to my knees. But I actually felt better the other night. And this is so terrible, we were home watching Gravity and it got to the part where Sandra Bullock is telling George Clooney about how her little girl passed away. She said something like—she said it was something so stupid, like she slipped and hit her head on the curb, on the way to school. That’s what she said when she was talking about how her daughter died, she said, ‘It was the stupidest thing.’ And I actually felt better for a little while because I thought, That can never happen to Jarett. You know—he can never grow up and have something awful like that happen to him, like fall and hit his head on the way to school. And die. That cannot happen to him ever. And I just—that made me feel so small! That Sandra Bullock’s grief, even though she was just a character . . . that it would make me feel good to hear that, made me—”
She convulsed in tears while pathetic Calvin stroked her back.
Proletariat regurgitation of sentimental pop-cult movie moments was one of Jeremy’s bêtes noires. Watercooler snippets from the national conversation always gave him the creeps—and made him feel like a schmuck for being one of the “content providers” to the scary, useless, brain-damaged world.
—
“Well, that was a supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again,” said Jeremy.
They were back at Soho House, where he seemed to live.
“Thank you for coming. I know it bummed you out, but I really appreciated it.”
“Oh please,” he said, reversing himself. “I wanted to. It was actually kind of beautiful. Depressing but beautiful. I mean, we’re suddenly in this tribe. It’s a fucked-up tribe, but it’s ours. I guess!”
“It did make me feel better. In a way. Or maybe it’s all the crying.”
“It’s just going to take time, Leggy,” he said, reverting to the seasoned Wise Man tone he used when shutting down the dreams of showbiz strivers. “I know it’s the worst cliché, but time will heal.”
Just now it felt insanely callous that he’d spent the entire day mulling over whether he should tell her about the surrogate. At dinner, after the grief support group no less!
She felt so close to Jeremy. She would have felt the same even if he disclosed his plan; it’d have hurt but Allegra would have understood. It was hard for her to imagine getting pregnant again. Losing a baby like that really did a number on your womanhood—you were raised with all these presumptions and expectations, that you were the cradle of life and propagator of the species, your whole sexual identity was inextricably bound up with fertility. When you didn’t pass muster, everything went to shit and got thrown into question. Just who and what were you? People adapted to pretty much anything and women who couldn’t bear children were no exception; Allegra knew her fair share of contented, barren ladies; over time, surrender came, often in the form of the gloating declaration that they’d never wanted kids in the first place. All the mushrooms and brujas in the world conferring eternal motherhood couldn’t get Allegra to believe it.
“What’s going on with Bunny?” he asked innocently.
“Nothin’. Jus’ chillin’.”
“How’s she doing with the Reina thing?”
“It’s heavy.”
“Ding Dong! The Witch is dead.”
“I think heavier than she likes to put out there, but she’s doin’ okay. I think she’s actually doing very well.” She longed to blab about Aurora but knew that if she did, it would come back to seriously bite her in the ass. “Man, it’s fuckin’ complicated, Jeremy. I know there’s relief there, for sure. But I think there’s also . . . I think she’s really, like, sad. I mean, she’d never admit to that, but they did that dance for such a long time.”
“For real. You get used to dancing with the devil and suddenly it’s, like, ‘Hey! Where’d the devil go? Where’s my devil, I want my devil!’”
“Right?”
“Was there a funeral? Why wasn’t I invited to the funeral?” he said, in mock outrage. Half a mock, because suddenly he was in a huff about maybe having been excluded from something.
“Nope—nothing. She wanted to be scattered at sea but Dusty overruled her and put her in the ground in Santa Paula!”
“Well, good for her.”
“But can we talk about something else? What are you up to?”
“Same old. Projects, bla. I might do something else with Megan. There’s a Xavier Dolan thing, but the script’s four hundred pages. Bla.”
“Love Xavier. Love that little genius boy.”
“I’ll probably see Angelina when I’m in London.”
“When.”
“Whenever.”
“I didn’t know you knew Angelina.”
“For, like, a hundred years. And I’ve kind of been thinking of maybe directing again.”
“That is so awesome, Jeremy. A documentary?”
“Feature.”
“Oh!”
“I haven’t really figured it out yet. I’m circling. Circling the drain, probably.
Hey, I read your script!”
“Oh my God.”
“It was excellent. Really, really good, Leggy.”
“Jeremy!” she squealed.
“I was kind of surprised.”
“Uhm, gee, thanks,” she harrumphed, still glowing.
“No, I mean, in the best way. Not that it was better than I thought it would be but that it definitely doesn’t read like a first-time script.”
“Jeremy, thank you. Oh my God, that is so nice. But did it make sense? I mean, could you follow it? ’Cause I made some choices—I was worried people wouldn’t be able to follow it.”
“Totally. You totally pulled it off, Allegra. That’s what was surprising and kind of amazing.”
They were in the middle of riffing about the next step—whether to focus on directors or actors, engaging in that style of spirited, pre-production élan favored by the town’s doers and dreamers—when a striking redhead strode up. They went blank.
“It’s Larissa!”
“Oh my God, hi!” said Allegra.
“How are you?” chimed Jeremy, with a convincing spin of authentic interest perfected by years of glancing industry social encounters with those who could do nothing for him.
“Really good!”
(The rejoinder being L.A. shorthand for making shitloads of money—a socially acceptable substitute for not being famous. Of course, etiquette required both parties to believe the assertion. In the moment, anyway.)
“Wasn’t that party so much fun?” said Jeremy.
“So much fun,” said Larissa, eyes dilating Allegra’s way.
Jeremy’s naughtiness sensors beeped.
“Tuesday Weld,” said Allegra. “Oh. My. God.”
“I love her,” said Larissa. “And those stories. Elvis! Lenny Bruce!”
“What have you been up to?”
“Working, writing, doing yoga . . .”
“We should all get together again,” said Jeremy, like some lame-o rapscallion.
With a caregiver’s concern, Larissa asked after Dusty. “I was so sorry to hear about her mom.”
“She’s good, and thank you,” said Allegra. “She’s totally doing well.”
“Say hi for me?”
“I will!”
“Well, I need to get back to my friend. I just wanted to come say hello!”
“I’m so glad you did!”
When she left, Jeremy said, “I think she’s really hot. You and Bunny tap that?”
“Are you serious?”
“That was kinda the vibe just now . . .”
“No way. She’s totally straight.”
“No woman is totally straight. Which means you totally tapped that!”
“Totally didn’t.”
“Well, if you haven’t, you should. I didn’t know you and Bunny were even into that.”
He was fishing now.
“Would you shut the fuck up? And what’s going on with you, romantically? How’s your little boyfriend? Did you get secretly married—”
“Are we deflecting?”
“Come on, Jeremy, don’t be boring. Are you still seeing him?”
“Uh huh.”
“And?”
“I think I might be . . . in love.”
“Shut the front door.”
“Shut the front door? Who says that anymore?”
“You are so not in love.”
“I bought him a car,” he said sheepishly.
“Oh my God! You are! If you bought him a car then you are.”
“He has . . . issues. But, oh my God, Leggy, it’s so tender. I just want to take care of him. And he’s brilliant—I mean, so much smarter than me. He reads, like, everything. He discourses on—he knows who Bergson is! And Thomas Bernhard! He fucking plays Gymnopédies on an old Casio! He’s, like, smarter than Josh Cohen! And he’s a total film snob, oh my God, Leg, he’s so much worse than I am! And he’s twenty-three! He’s twenty-three!”
“What’s his name?”
He paused, to mark the closeness of letting her in.
“Tristen.”
“So beautiful,” she said. “I’m so happy for you!”
“And now I have to go. My friend is waiting for me at home.”
She asked who domesticated who, before excusing herself to the downstairs WC while Jeremy took care of the bill. (She knew Larissa would see her go.) She lingered at the sink and washed her hands, pretending to be surprised when the stand-in appeared. The bathroom was empty and they backed into a stall, mouth to mouth.
Larissa was startled by the ferocity of her own desire. The more experienced Allegra hit pause and said, “Maybe we should do this another time.”
“Oh—sorry!” said Larissa, embarrassed. “I just thought it was okay. Was it not okay—?”
“Totally. It’s fine, it’s great.”
“I’m really sorry!”
“Don’t apologize, you’re amazing.” Gusts of heat poured from Larissa’s throat, and all kinds of scent. She was still in the throes. “And I love that you came and found me. But it’s . . . complicated.”
It felt like she’d been using that word a lot lately.
They left the metal playpen and, side by side, threw cold water on their faces. Larissa couldn’t believe her sudden lie; it erupted from her as if something—someone—had taken possession.
“Dusty’s been coming to yoga. It’s so much fun having her in class.”
“Oh, great!” said Allegra, flustered.
“She’s really advanced—she should be teaching! But I think she feels comfortable there. You know, like a safe haven. Everyone leaves her alone—they’re all too self-obsessed to notice her! I hope she comes back soon. I know she had a big loss but it really helps to lean on your practice. To get grounded and back in your body again.”
“She just needs a moment,” Allegra said automatically.
Larissa had written her number on a card upstairs; she slipped it into Allegra’s hand. Trying to make up for her boldness, she discreetly insisted Allegra “go first,” and return to Jeremy alone. After she left, Larissa loitered in the alcove behind the marble steps, pondering her spontaneous artifice—and the plot, mysterious even to her, that was busy being born.
—
After Reina died, they resumed sleeping in the same bed. No sex, but lots of cuddling—a comfort to them both.
Allegra told her she ran into her camera double. Dusty gave the tiniest of shrugs, as if it wasn’t worth acknowledging. When she said Larissa talked about hoping to see her again at yoga, Dusty scoffed.
“Uhm, not gonna happen.”
“But she said you loved the class.”
“I only went once, honey.”
It peeved Dusty that Larissa even mentioned they had that off-campus moment. Everything about that woman peeved her.
Allegra left it at that but wondered, Why would she lie?
That night she had the dream, but this time the baby was dead. The woman from the support group stood at the foot of the bed and held it in her arms.
She looked down at Allegra and said, “Is this an intervention?”
—
When Jeremy walked in, Tristen was working on his laptop at the kitchen table. It was nice coming home to someone—it felt like family. He kissed the boy’s cheek then let him get on with whatever he was doing. He liked to show that he wasn’t the smothering type.
Jeremy put on the Brahms channel and ran a bath. It was raining; how he loved that. He thought about the support group, comparing and contrasting its high emotion with his apathy. Long ago, the sudden, violent erasure of his family by a drunk (who, of course, was himself unharmed) had inured him to grief. With that event, any presumptive expectations of an orderly, linear life underwent a deep and disorienting transformation. Up unti
l then, the a priori world, even in its supreme, shambolic splendor, had adhered to the inviolable three-act structure—a beginning, middle, and end—whose literal translation, as it happened, became the foundation of his career as a story editor and creative executive. Like a high-ranking cultist, he understood the three acts, becoming their scholar and servant, their trustee and executor, their henchman and trusted lieutenant. He learned much from them. They embodied divine symmetry—the syncopation of life and death. Like God, they saturated all creation, bringing comfort, reason, and solace. They were ancient. They shone like the sun and darkened with the consistency of night. He was a joyous laborer in the garden of the three acts, pruning and tilling the soil, designing pathways, caring for all its living things. And then his loved ones were obliterated and he awakened in a secret garden where nothing grew but the present moment. He was a terrible horticulturist now—how could you water that?—yet he was free.
The other day he watched a mini-doc on YouTube. An English barrister with an aggressive cancer enlisted his grandson to film his last few months. They went to the cemetery where he would soon be buried and took beguiling footage of a walkabout amongst the graves. After supper, he sat by the fire musing about the end, only weeks away. It played well to those who hadn’t experienced the unfathomable riddle of sudden death—like an ad brought to you by the Three Acts Corporation.
