The Brave

by Nicholas Evans

  "He's beautiful," Tommy said.

  "He is. Best Amigo of 'em all."

  "You mean there's more than one?"

  "Four. The others are good at different things, falling, jumping, having guns go off by their ears. This fella can do it all. Move your hips a little so you get his rhythm. That's it. That's good. Now you're riding. Try taking him around that tree and back on your own."

  Diane was starting to breathe more freely. The air up here in the hills was clean and fresh and, now that the sun was getting low, the world seemed more benign again. Seeing Tommy so happy always lifted her spirits. He was riding away toward the tree on the beautiful white horse, their joined shadow long on the dusty red earth. With her arms folded, she walked slowly up to stand beside Cal Matthieson and he turned briefly and smiled. Tommy had reached the tree now and was bringing the horse around. It was as if he'd ridden all his life.

  When Ray had come to meet them, all smiles and kisses and hugs, it had taken great self-restraint not to make a scene. Throughout the day she'd been itching to fly at him, scream at him, strangle the lying bastard. Now all she wanted was to talk and find out the truth.

  Perhaps it was just a misunderstanding.

  The phone had rung that morning just as she was walking out to the car that had come to take her to the studio. Dolores had answered in the hallway and called out Miss Diane! from the front door, only a shade more politely than if she were summoning a dog.

  "It's Louella Parsons."

  "For Ray?"

  "For you."

  Diane had never met nor spoken with the woman and had a sudden flutter of nerves. Like most people in Hollywood, she often read the famous column in the Examiner and she had felt flattered by the positive snippets it had carried about her. Louella Parsons was in her late seventies and her influence was waning, but a few casually poisonous words in her column could still kill a career. For her to call Diane at Ray's and at such an hour meant she obviously knew they were living together.

  "Diane, my dear. So glad to find you in. I hear such marvelous things about you."

  The voice was sickly sweet, almost a caricature of falseness. Diane had an image of a fat and fluffy pink spider.

  "Really? That's nice."

  "Ye-es. Dear Herb is so, so clever, don't you think? And such a darling. You and Coop. I just can't wait. It's going to be like Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable all over again. Dear, dear Clark, God rest his soul. What a terrible loss to us all. Did you know him?"

  Clark Gable had died of a heart attack just two weeks earlier. Hollywood was still in mourning.

  "No, I—"

  "Such a marvelous man. He was always on my radio show."

  "Yes, I—"

  "Anyway, my dear. Back to business. I hear on the grapevine that you and Ray are to be married?"

  "Well, we—"

  "Oh, come along, dear. Don't be coy. You can tell Louella."

  "We hope to get married at Christmas."

  "How lovely. Congratulations. Ray is such a charmer, isn't he? And I'm sure it's going to be a case of third time lucky for him. Matter of fact, I didn't know his divorce had come through."

  Diane froze.

  "Diane? Hello?"

  "Well, actually, I—"

  "You did know he was married?"

  "Yes, of course I did. Louella, I'm sorry but I'm running a little late for a meeting. Can I call you later?"

  "Of course, my dear. Just one more thing. Your son, um..."

  "Tommy."

  "Tommy! Silly me. Just so I don't make a mistake, who is his daddy?"

  For this, at least, thanks to the good offices of Herb Kanter and Vernon Drewe, Diane was prepared. They had worked out a story for exactly this sort of occasion.

  "He died. Shortly after Tommy was born."

  "I'm so sorry. How terrible."

  "Yes."

  "Of what?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Of what did he die?"

  "TB."

  "Terrible. You must have been devastated."

  "Yes."

  "And what was his name, dear?"

  "Louella, do you have to write about this? I don't want to upset Tommy."

  "Of course, dear. But just for background, what was the father's name?"

  "David."

  "David Reed."

  "David Willis."

  She hung up and, as soon as she could gather her wits a little and breathe again, called Vernon Drewe and told him all about it. He tried to calm her, said she'd handled it perfectly and there was nothing to worry about. He knew Louella well and would call her, he added, just in case there were any misunderstandings. Diane didn't mention Louella's comment about Ray's divorce. She had to ask Ray about it first, but he'd been working out here at the ranch all day and they hadn't yet been able to talk.

  Tommy was walking Amigo back now, the sky glowing pink and orange behind them.

  "The boy's a natural," Cal Matthieson said.

  "I think Amigo's looking after him."

  "Well, that's true."

  "Does he belong to you?"

  "He kind of belongs to himself but I was there when he was born. Hell, I was even there when he was made."

  "And all the other horses? Are they yours too?"

  "Some are but they mostly belong to my partner, Don Maxwell. Not that you can really call it a partnership. Don owns all the real estate and I get to do all the work."

  "Do you live up here?"

  "Uh-huh. Little place just around the hill there. It's about as close to a city as I like to get."

  He looked at her and they both smiled. For a moment neither of them seemed to know what to say next.

  "I hear you're going to be doing a movie with Gary Cooper."

  "Yes. We start shooting next month."

  "He's the best."

  "So everybody says. I haven't even met him yet."

  "A real nice guy. Born in Montana, so it figures."

  "That's where you come from too?"

  "How'd you guess?"

  Diane laughed. Tommy was coming close now and Cal Matthieson told him to sit back in the saddle and tighten the reins a little and the horse came to a halt directly in front of them.

  "Tommy, were you kidding me when you said you hadn't ridden before?"

  "No, honestly, I haven't."

  "Well, I was going to say, if it was okay with your mom here, you might care to come up here for a lesson sometime, but you seem to have it all pretty much figured out already."

  "Could I? Could I really come up here and ride?"

  "You'll have to ask your mom."

  "Of course you can," Diane said. "If Mr. Matthieson doesn't mind."

  "Mr. Matthieson doesn't. It's Cal, by the way."

  It was dark by the time they wrapped. Ray let the studio car and driver go and drove them home himself in Diane's Galaxie. They came back beside the ocean and Tommy fell asleep between them with his head on Diane's shoulder. She put her arm around him and stared out at the horizon and watched a thin band of crimson turn to purple and black.

  Ray was going on about the director, how slow and useless he was, how he always managed to put the camera in the wrong place. And Diane half listened and murmured brief replies when he started asking her about her day until eventually he gave up and there was silence between them, just the rush of the wind and the whoosh of passing cars.

  "Are you okay?" Ray said.

  "I'm fine."

  "No, you're not. What is it?"

  "Not now. I'll tell you later."

  "Come on, sugar, tell me."

  "Not now!"

  When they reached home Miguel came out to greet them then drove the car off to the garage. Ray carried Tommy cradled asleep in his arms into the house and upstairs to his room and laid him on the bed and left him alone with Diane. Tommy stirred a little as she undressed him and hauled his slack and skinny limbs into his pajamas. There was a film of red dust on his face and hands but she didn't have the heart to wake him and ma
ke him take a bath, so she wet a sponge with warm water and wiped away the worst. Then she gently pushed him under the covers and sat on the bed beside him, staring down at him. She stroked the hair from his forehead. He was growing so fast, the face getting leaner, somehow less vulnerable. She turned off the bedside light and leaned forward and kissed his cheek. He smelled of horses. Sometimes the love she felt for him was like a pain in her chest.

  When she came downstairs Ray had two margaritas waiting for them in the living room. Dolores was on her knees, putting a match to the fire she'd laid in the enormous cast-iron grate. She stood and smoothed her apron then walked past Diane without a greeting or a smile, just a sideways glance.

  "Goodnight," Diane said.

  Dolores muttered something and was gone.

  "What is it with that woman? What have I done?"

  "Nothing," Ray said, walking over to her. "It's just territorial, I guess. I'll have another word with her."

  He put his arms around her and Diane kept still.

  "More to the point," he said, "what have I done?"

  Diane hesitated. She didn't want to sound ridiculous or neurotic. He was holding her by the shoulders now, peering into her eyes for a clue.

  "Come on," he said. "Tell me."

  "Ray, are you still married?"

  "What?"

  "You told me you were divorced. Are you?"

  "Sugar, who have you been talking with?"

  "Oh, only Louella Parsons."

  "Jesus Christ! What's that goddamn bitch been saying? Diane, listen—"

  "Are you divorced, Ray? Yes or no? Tell me!"

  "Technically, not quite, but—"

  "So you lied to me."

  She was trying to tug the engagement ring off her finger but the damn thing wouldn't budge.

  "Diane—"

  "You lied! And can we just be clear which divorce we're talking about here? Is it wife number one or wife number two?"

  "Diane, for heaven's sake. Just let me explain."

  The ring was off now and she slammed it down on the glass top of the table, making the margarita glasses tremble and spill.

  "You'd better have that back."

  She was about to walk away but he grabbed her by the wrist.

  "Diane, listen, please."

  "I'm listening."

  "The papers are due any day. Everything's settled. All I have to do is sign. In a week or two it'll be—"

  "You said you were divorced and you're not."

  "I know, I'm sorry. But it's only a formality—"

  "Oh, really? And the other marriage? The one you somehow forgot to tell me about, was that a formality too?"

  "Diane, we were just kids. It lasted ten months."

  "And that's why you didn't think to mention it?"

  "Well, I—"

  "And how about number two, was that a little longer? Eleven months or did you make a year?"

  "Sugar, don't do this."

  "Don't sugar me!"

  He took her other arm now and held her in front of him so that she couldn't move.

  "Let go of me!"

  "Diane, look at me. Look at me!"

  From the flash in his eyes, for a moment she thought he was going to hit her.

  "I love you more than anyone or anything I've ever known. You and Tommy are my life now. We're not all as perfect as you. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, things I wish I could undo. But I know about you and me, how good we are together, how we're meant to be together. Sweetheart, I'd do anything for you. And for Tommy. Jesus, Diane, I'd die for you both."

  Those were the words that clinched it, though she was still too proud and angry to let him see the effect they had on her. If he'd spoken merely of his love for her, she might have let him suffer much longer. She might even (indeed, the idea had already occurred to her) have gathered Tommy from his bed and left for good. But the fact that, in his corny B movie declaration of love, he had included her son seemed to crack her resolve. And this in turn made her angry, not with him but with herself. She slapped him hard across the face.

  He took it without flinching, as if it was only what he deserved, and as she saw the reddening mark she had made on his cheek she bent her head and began to cry and he held her and kissed her forehead. He gently helped her sit on the edge of the couch and sat beside her in silence with his arms around her while she wept.

  And when she could speak again he answered her cold questions about his marriages and kept saying how sorry he was that he hadn't been honest with her and that the only reason was his fear of losing what he now knew for sure to be the love of his life. An hour later he led her to the stairs and up to their room and took off her clothes and kissed her neck and her breasts while she stood stony and proud and confused and not yet forgiving before him. And during what followed, into the darkest hours, she punished him for his lies.

  Their lovemaking, from the outset, had always carried the hint of violence, like some sleeping feral creature whose potential and containment excited them both. But that night Diane opened the cage. She struck him and gouged his skin with her nails until he bled and wrenched his hair and bent him at his root until he cried out in pain. And the dormant creature, the one that would ultimately devour them, was roused and loose and on the prowl.

  Chapter Fifteen

  RAY HAD BEEN WAITING for more than half an hour and was mad as a jilted rattlesnake. He hadn't had a one-on-one with the Colonel for nearly two years and it wasn't the kind of opportunity you blew by losing your temper. The whole idea was to intimidate you, make you feel you were nothing, so it was best to try to stay cool, pretend you didn't give a damn.

  The self-important grandeur these studio bosses liked to surround themselves with would have been scary if it wasn't so ridiculous. The sweeping circular driveway, the stately trees and lawns, the imperial staircase, the acre of reception where, in a reverential hush, a tight-haired dragon in a suit and schoolmarm glasses sat guard at her desk. Coming to see Jack Warner was like having an audience with Mussolini.

  Ray was sitting on one of the big couches, thumbing through the trade papers, doing his best to look relaxed. Every so often the intercom on the dragon's desk would buzz and she would pick up the phone and say Yes, Mr. Warner, of course, Mr. Warner. Then once in a while the door to the inner sanctum would open and out would trip one of the Colonel's luscious, tight-skirted secretaries to hand a package to the dragon. One of them, a blonde with big tits that the old devil had doubtless already had his hands on, flashed Ray a smile as she went back in. Jack Warner was pushing seventy but still chased almost any skirt that rustled. Word had it there was a secret door and staircase in his office so that aspiring young actresses could aspire more discreetly.

  The dragon's buzzer sounded again and she picked up the phone.

  "Yes, Mr. Warner, he is. I'll tell him."

  She got up and walked over to Ray.

  "Mr. Warner says to apologize, but his ten o'clock is running a little late. I'm sure they'll soon be through. Can I get you more coffee?"

  "No, I'm good, thanks. Nice glasses."

  "Thank you."

  He tossed his paper onto the coffee table in front of him and picked up the glossy book of photographs he'd been trying to resist looking at. It had full-page pictures of Warner Brothers' stars, Bogart and Bergman, Jimmy Cagney, Errol Flynn, Henry Fonda, even some the studio had fallen out with and would happily have murdered, like Bette Davis. Toward the back was a thinner section devoted to TV stars, two per page, Clint Walker, James Garner, Ty Bronco Hardin, Will Hutchins from Sugarfoot. Ray thumbed on through it, with a knot slowly twisting in his gut. He couldn't believe it. The bastards had left him out. But no, at last, there he was. Tucked away at the back, after Rin Tin Tin.

  He shut the book and tossed it back onto the table then went to the restroom to take a leak. He was still sore down there, where Diane had bent him. He washed his hands and checked himself in the mirror. Luckily, most of the damage she'd done didn't show, t
hough one of her scratch marks was just visible above his collar. Jesus, he thought. What a night. He walked back to the lobby and sat down again to wait.

  He hadn't intended to lie to her. No more than he ever intended to lie to anyone. It was just second nature. He'd lied so long and so often that he didn't realize anymore when he was doing it. For most people lies had consequences that made them wary about telling them, or telling too many of them. But for Ray it was the other way around. It was the truth that had always landed him in trouble. He'd never understood what the big deal was about telling the truth anyhow. People got enough of it in their everyday lives. It was what made them so goddamn miserable most of the time. What they really wanted was lies. That was what Hollywood was all about. It peddled lies that fed people's fantasies and made them feel better.

  It wasn't just the movies themselves. Almost everybody involved in making them had to tell lies of various kinds. It was part of the job. The best liars of all were the producers. To get a movie going you had to lie to absolutely everybody, juggle five lies in the air so that everybody believed everybody else was in on a good thing and then, with luck, the lies all became true and stayed up there.

  Actors generally only lied because the studios and the producers wanted them to. If your name didn't sound good enough, they just made up another one for you. There was nothing bad about it. They had to. Who the hell would ever have heard of John Wayne and Cary Grant if they were still called Marion Morrison and Archibald Leach? Who'd have ever hired poor old Ty Hardin if he'd stuck with Orison Whipple Hungerford Jr.?

  Ray's own real name was Lennie Gulewicz but nobody knew it. And when journalists asked about his early life, he would paint a picture of what he wished it had been, the kind of picture the world had once wanted of its cowboy heroes. Of sitting on his daddy's knee on the porch of their little ranch in west Texas, of helping his mommy cook the cornbread and churn the butter, of learning how to rope and brand steers when he was just five years old. He'd told it so often, he'd good as forgotten it hadn't happened.

  Like all the best lies, there had to be a smidgen of truth in it. He had indeed lived in Texas, though never on a ranch. He'd busted his ass drilling wells and hauling pipes for various oil companies, until he got smart and landed a job as a bouncer at a nightclub in Houston. Getting physical with someone on the door one night, he was spotted by a young photographer who was about to shoot a cigarette ad. He asked him if he could ride and Ray said sure, he'd been born on a horse, and got offered the job. He had a hard time learning to ride and as a result had never much liked the animals since and it was mutual. But the ad got him noticed. Within six months he'd moved to LA and found himself an agent and the two of them came up with the name Ray Montane and a more appropriate life story.