CHUCK KOSINSKI: “Don’t do anything till I come back.”
SEVENTEEN
I dial Paul’s number with trembling fingers. Not because I’m afraid of what I’m going to find out. Because I hate making cold calls—no matter how badly I need an answer. When I hear the voice on the other end of the line, I nearly faint with relief.
Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system.
Poetry.
I leave a brief message.
“Hi, Paul, this is Marissa Dahl, and I’m the editor who took over for you on Tony Rees’s new movie, and I was hoping you might have some time to talk about the cuts you’ve made so far and maybe about some of the footage I have here and also I was sort of wondering if you’re okay because it seems like things were kind of rough there at the end? Also there’s some stuff that I just really don’t understand, so if you could call me back at this number, that would be great. I know you’re super busy and don’t have much time and probably want to wash your hands of this whole production, but I would just really appreciate it if you could be in touch. When you get the chance. If it’s convenient. Thank you so much. Again, this is Marissa Dahl—that’s Dahl as in Roald, not as in Barbie. Yeah. Okay. I hope you’re well.”
I hang up the phone and rub my temples. If I never talk to another person, it will be too soon.
A hand snakes around my wrist and yanks me into the hedgerow.
“What the—”
“Shh, Marissa, it’s me.”
I shove a branch away from my eyes and find myself scowling into the gaunt face of Gavin Davies. “You can’t just grab people like that, Gavin. This isn’t acting class, okay? What do you want?”
“Something that has been demonstrably absent on this set to date—”
He takes a beat.
“—intelligence.”
God. He probably times his bowel movements for dramatic effect, too.
“I’m not sure why you’d come to me for that,” I say.
He shrugs. “You’re the editor. Editors always know stuff.”
“I got here yesterday.”
“Also, the girls told me they’d recruited you. So—I thought you might like to come with me to meet Billy.”
“What—now?”
He checks his watch. “Yes, now. Down by the beach. It won’t take long, I promise. I have to be in makeup in an hour.”
“Are you afraid to go alone or something?”
“No, not at all. But I’ve been meeting with Billy for six weeks now, and he still won’t tell me about the night Caitlyn died. I was wondering if maybe he might be more willing to talk to you.”
“Me? Why?”
He takes another beat.
A deliberate beat.
A very deliberate beat.
Oh, for Pete’s sake, he’s not going to continue until I prompt him, is he?
I clench my fists and look into his eyes. They’re a clear, brilliant blue, like a Texas wildflower or a lake in the Canadian Rockies or the poster for Requiem for a Dream, and because this is a man who’s spent half his life holding for extreme close-ups, his gaze is unwavering.
“What, Gavin?”
“You remind me of him.”
My own gaze falters, drawn to the nearest colorful object that’s not his face. His shirt—red—a soccer jersey, I think.
Fly Emirates, it reads.
If only I could, I think.
“Why would you say that?”
“Well, you’re both in your own little worlds, aren’t you?” He sketches a vague loopy shape next to his temple—an attempt, I think, to illustrate his point. I find I’m not offended by the implication so much as the imprecision.
“It’s the same world as yours. I just notice it differently.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” I say, quietly.
He reaches for my elbow, thinks better of it. “Marissa—don’t you want to know what happened?”
An absurd question. Of course I want to know. I want to know everything.
With the following exceptions:
What my brother did with the sports bra he stole from me when he was twelve.
How many times I’ve made my mother cry.
What people say about me behind my back.
About bugs you can feel but not see.
Where the first jet engine in Donnie Darko came from, because there’s no way the answer is anything but infuriating.
A much better question is: How far am I willing to go for that knowledge? Sometimes, admittedly, it’s a little too far. I won’t just read one book, I’ll read every book. I won’t just click on one link, I’ll click link after link after link after link until my eyes cross and my battery dies and I know I’m going to have to clear my cache in the morning because I ended up in some very, very dark places. I won’t just send an email—I’ll make a phone call.
Other times, I’m not even willing to wait for IMDb to load on a slow network.
“If anyone catches me with you,” I tell Gavin, “I could lose my job.”
“And doesn’t that strike you as suspect? Have you ever worked on a film where the director asked something like that of you?”
“No, but I’ve also never worked on a film where the lead actor tried to spirit me away to some clandestine meeting with a suspected murderer. Did you do this to Paul, too?”
He gives me an incredulous look. “Paul? God, no. He didn’t have time for me. He was too busy pissing into jars in the projection room.”
The branch slips from my fingers and slaps me in the forehead.
“That’s why he got fired?”
“No, of course not, I just made that up. You looked like you needed a laugh.”
“There’s nothing funny about pee jars.”
His smile vanishes. “There’s nothing funny about any of this. Did you know they almost beat Billy to death?”
“Don’t you dare emotionally manipulate me.”
He ignores this and takes a step closer. “When the DA declined to prosecute, a group of guys went down to the docks and confronted Billy. Demanded that he confess. When he wouldn’t, they tried a more . . . physical means of persuasion.”
I draw a breath. “How badly was he hurt?”
“He was in and out of the hospital for months. He had to have plastic surgery, dental reconstruction, everything. It was years before he walked properly again.”
“Did they ever charge anyone with the assault?”
“Officially, no one knows who did it. No one talked. Not even Billy.”
“Unofficially?”
“It was Caitlyn’s boyfriend and a bunch of his friends.”
It whispers out of me: “Goddammit, Gavin.”
He moves closer, pressing his advantage. “Everyone on this island thinks he did it. Including Tony. They’re not even interested in looking at alternatives.” And then he makes his face do something I’ve never seen from it before, not once, not in three movies’ worth of raw footage.
This is what he looks like when he’s begging for help.
“Please.”
“Oh, fine,” I say, pushing past him and stepping out of the hedge. “I’ll do it.”
* * *
—
“I changed my mind, I’m not doing it.”
We’re standing on the warped and weathered boardwalk that cuts through the deserted beach, facing a rocky outcropping that extends about forty feet out into the ocean. Unfortunately for me, the boardwalk doesn’t go around the rock. It doesn’t go over the rock.
It goes through the rock.
“What? Why not?” Gavin asks. “Are you scared of caves?”
“No, of course not. I just prefer not to swim, spelunk, or s
tream The Descent.”
I’m not scared of caves.
I’m terrified of caves.
The summer after fifth grade, my mom decided to send me to a sleepaway camp one of her church friends had recommended. Her thinking was sound. She thought it would be good for me to get some sunshine and exercise and maybe find a friend. That last part was wishful thinking, of course, but that’s always been Mom’s biggest failing: her perfect faith in us.
The camp was a couple of hours southwest of Urbana, not far from St. Louis, and it was probably a good camp, as camps go. When we weren’t singing or swimming or telling stories, we were hiking or climbing or learning to groom horses. It wasn’t fancy. The food was either chili on hot dogs or hot dogs on chili, and the window screens had so many holes you wondered why they even bothered. But I liked hot dogs even if I didn’t much care for chili, and the mosquitos left me alone. I didn’t make any friends, but the kids there weren’t mean to me, either, and they could have been. I was grateful for that.
The trip to the caves had been planned well in advance, but they hadn’t counted on the flash flood. And even then, it wouldn’t have been such a big deal if I hadn’t been alone.
But I was.
Like usual.
And I got trapped.
It was dark, and there was so much water, and I was alone. All alone. Alone as the water rose. Alone as I tried to escape. Alone as I failed.
Alone as I stretched toward the ceiling, frantic, searching for that one last pocket of air.
Alone, finally, as I lost consciousness.
It was a counselor, they tell me, who got me out. Gave me CPR. Kept my heart beating.
On the plus side, Mom never tried to make me go to camp again.
I bury my hands deep in my pockets. “Are you sure we can’t meet Billy somewhere else?”
“It’s too late for that,” he says, pulling a flashlight out of his pocket. “But don’t worry. I won’t let the cannibals get you.”
I gaze at the entrance to the cave, my hand on my chest, hating how I must look but unable to do anything about it.
Gavin sighs. “Look, how about this—if you come with me, I promise I’ll try really hard not to look at the camera just to mess with the shot.”
I bite my lip. Adolescent trauma aside, that’s actually tempting.
“And I’ll pay attention to continuity for once.”
“You? Seriously?”
He presses his hand to his heart. “I’ll take notes and everything.”
My eyes narrow. “If you mess up, I’m not covering for you.”
Gavin grins, clearly sensing victory. “Yes, fine, whatever you say.” He turns and heads inside, the narrow beam of his flashlight bobbing along in front of him.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and follow him through the archway. The cave is dark. The air is thick—but not in the way that fog is thick or that silence is thick, more like the way your head feels when you try to picture four-dimensional space. Like there’s an answer you’re never going to be able to get to.
“This place isn’t prone to flash flooding or anything like that, is it?” I ask, my voice rising at least an octave.
“Of course not,” Gavin calls back. “It just fills up with ocean water twice a day. But don’t worry, that’s hours away.”
He leads us to an eight-foot-tall crevice that curves through the rock in the shape of a scimitar, narrowing to a sharp point halfway to the ceiling.
“We’re going through there?” I ask, weakly.
“You’ll be fine,” he says, and if he’s acting, it’s some of the best work he’s ever done. I almost believe it.
I grit my teeth and ease my way into the crevice. It’s narrow, but I’m small enough to fit without much effort, and I only stall twice on the way through. The first time Gavin talks me forward; the second time he just gives me a sharp poke in the ribs.
After twenty feet or so, the passageway opens up into a grotto, cool and quiet and blue, reflected light shimmering across the ceiling. On the far wall, a narrow opening leads out to the ocean, and if I crouch down and crane my neck, I can just about see a sliver of sky. To my right is a wooden mooring pole; lashed to that is a two-man rowboat. My eyes travel from the boat to the long, low shelf that runs along the wall of the grotto. At the other end, sitting cross-legged on a wide rock, is Billy Lyle.
Gavin picks his way over and hunkers down next to Billy, the posture clearly familiar to him.
“Billy,” he says, “this is the woman I told you about. The editor. We were hoping we might ask you a few more questions for the movie.”
He looks at me, blinks. “I know you.”
Gavin’s eyebrows jump. “That’s new information.”
“I was his passenger the other night,” I explain. “He brought me here from Lewes.”
Billy’s gaze flickers, drops to my shoulder. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
Gavin glances between us. “See what?”
“Three guys tried to bully their way on board.” I look at Billy. “I’m sorry I didn’t do more.”
He gives his head a shake. “Nothing you could have done.”
“So you know,” Gavin says, his expression fierce. “You’ve seen it yourself. How everyone on this island has it out for Billy. And Tony’s no different.”
He sweeps out his arm for emphasis, inadvertently shining the flashlight across the rock we’re sitting on, illuminating a scrawl of graffiti, equal parts snotty teenage commentary and the sorts of outlandish romantic sentiments I’ve never even felt compelled to say out loud, let alone commit to geologic history.
And also dick jokes.
You can’t say happiness without penis
Carpe Dickem
Penis Penis Penis Penis LOL
But mostly it’s names of couples. Joe and Stacy. Peter and Julie. Victor and Danielle. Victor and Katie. Victor and Lucy.
“Did you come here, too?” I hear myself asking. “With Caitlyn?”
A muscle twitches in Billy’s jaw. “No. Caitlyn and I were just friends.”
“But, like, just friends or just friends?”
His head comes up. “What?”
“You weren’t in love with her?”
He scowls. “How many times do I have to say it? Being her friend was the best thing that ever happened to me. It wasn’t some kind of consolation prize.”
I hum in sympathy. “Yeah, I know, it’s a really shitty trope.”
“But I can’t win either way,” he says. “I’m not even sure which one’s the taller tale. That Caitlyn could’ve loved me as a boyfriend—or that she could’ve loved me as a friend. Most days, I think it’s that second one. And you know what? I think that scares them more. Because if someone like her could be friends with someone like me, then what’s their excuse?”
I frown. “What do you mean, ‘someone like you’?”
I don’t know, someone who—” He looks down at his chest, holds out his hands. “Someone who just can’t get it right.”
* * *
—
If there’s one thing I’ve heard over and over again in my life, from all the people I love, it’s that there’s nothing wrong with me.
From my mother, when no one came to the tenth birthday party I hadn’t wanted anyway: “There’s nothing wrong with you!”
From my second-grade teacher, after she moved me to a desk in the far corner of the room: “There’s nothing wrong with you!”
From Amy, on the occasion of yet another failed first date: “There’s nothing wrong with you!”
Increasingly counterproductive variations on a fundamentally disingenuous theme, the sort of statement that, when repeated, tends to communicate the exact opposite of its literal meaning.
Don’t worry!
I’m fine!
<
br /> She’s just a work friend!
That sort of thing.
My dad’s the only one who doesn’t bother with the pretense. “Your brother’s popular enough for the both of you,” he told me after my equally unsuccessful eleventh birthday party. Then he rested his hand on the top of my head for a count of three—as much physical affection as he’s ever shown me before or since—and went back to his lab.
Intellectually, I can appreciate what everyone’s trying to tell me, and maybe sometimes I almost believe it, but the knowledge I hold in my heart is this: Even though I do everything the books and classes and columnists tell me to, even though I’ve trained myself so well there’s a fair chance I’ll luck into the right response—the right comeback, the right reference, the right animated gif—people can still tell something’s a little bit off. A snow-white mosaic with a solitary cream-colored tile. A marquee with 0’s in place of O’s. A by-the-numbers Oscar speech, delivered by Anne Hathaway. You can’t immediately figure what, exactly, is bugging you so much, but the longer you look at it, the more certain you are that you just don’t like it.
The closer you are to right, the more unsettling it is for the people who are sure you’re wrong.
* * *
—
But I don’t think that’s what Billy wants to hear right now, so I clear my throat, searching for something more comforting to say.
“You know—my friend Amy always says, ‘If you’re going to lose the game no matter what, why bother playing by their rules?’”
The corner of Billy’s mouth twitches. “Caitlyn used to say something like that.”
I smile. “Was she ripping off War Games, too?”
He ducks his head. “Do you—want to see a picture?”
“Of course.”
He opens up his wallet and pulls out one of those school photos you used to get in sheets of eight and sixteen, supposedly so you could sign them and trade with friends. The picture itself is terrible. The lights are too yellow and the angle is too low; Caitlyn’s skin looks sallow, and the camera position highlights the baby fat under her chin. But her smile’s big and bright and happy enough that my brain can’t help but supply the word “pretty.”
Pretty as a Picture Page 16
