Blackbird (20 page)

“Hello?”

“Johnnie Ray? This is Marshall MacNeill.”

I had previously resolved that, when I heard from Marshall, I was going to be very cool, very Katharine Hepburn self-sufficient, let him know I no more required the sound of his voice for survival than he required mine.

“Hello.” I had a feeling I sounded less like Hepburn than like a pouting child.

“Hi. How are you?”

“Fine.” Just ginger peachy, Mr. Part-Cherokee; just strong and healthy and (oh, by the way) stark, raving nuts about you, and where the Sam Hill have you been since last Saturday night, doggone ya?

“And yourself?”

“Fine.”

“That’s fine.”

“You sure you’re all right, Johnnie Ray? You sound funny. Was it a bad idea to call?”

“No. I’m fine, really. So where – what’ve you been doing?”

“Editing, constantly. I’ve been at school, editing my film every day since, well, since I saw you last. I’m supposed to show it next Saturday.”

“You’ve been at the college all day?”

“All day. It’s pretty hard work. You’re not making it any easier.”

“What do you mean?’

“I mean, it’s hard to concentrate when I can’t get you out of my mind. I’ve missed you.” Needless to say, that was all it took to melt me like so much ice cream in the summertime. I smiled so wide so fast I nearly pulled a muscle in my face.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“Good. Two things:
a
, you are coming to see my film next Saturday. That’s not a question – you have no choice.”

“Well, that settles that.”

“And
b
, the play’s off.”

“
The Lockup
? How come?”

“Because Libby’s directing teacher got wind of what she was doing, and deepsixed it right quick. She’d told him it was going to be
The Bald Soprano
. He’s still deciding whether to let her come up with another idea before the end of the semester or just give her a great big ‘Not Pass’ and get it over with. So, anyway, it’s off.”

“Oh. When will I see you?”

“I was kinda hoping for Thursday. I mean, your folks are expecting you to go to rehearsal Thursday and Friday, right?”

“Right.”

“So, come on-a my house.”

“You gonna give me candy?”

I heard Marshall chuckle to himself.

“I’m gonna give you everything.”

Chapter Eighteen

I am ashamed to admit that, notwithstanding my newly discovered psychic powers (such as they are), I had not so much as a hot flash at the time of Efrem’s “accident.” Not a glimmer. Zilch. Not until after it was all over. Crystal explained to me later that even the most experienced, most talented psychics had lapses; that someone who, like me, was just beginning to feel out his psychic energy couldn’t very well expect to know every time somebody they care about is in trouble. Then what friggin’ use is it, I asked her. You’re just upset, she said.

Anyway, what happened happened on Saturday afternoon, while I sat in the film theater at the J.C., enduring what seemed an endless program of horrendous student films, waiting for Marshall’s film, hoping to heaven that
it
wasn’t going to be horrendous, too. I’d managed to arrive late (not knowing where the film theater was), and I was pretty sure I could see the silhouette of Marshall’s head in the front row. Most of these films were quite beyond my comprehension: one was seven minutes of various people’s bare feet. Now, I like feet as much as the next guy, but an entire short subject? Another one had two people, a man and a woman, engaged in a conversation that I don’t think anyone was meant to understand, all in extreme (and I mean extreme) close-ups of their mouths. Yet another featured a middle-aged man sitting on the toilet reading
U.S. News and World
Report
while a large horsefly buzzed around the bathroom. I thought, If this is Film, I’ll take Movies anytime, thank you.

Marshall’s Film (he always spoke of it in the upper case) was last on the program. I crossed my fingers as it flickered into view. It began with a piece of an old, dog-eared theater trailer, the one with an animated-cartoon trio composed of a hot dog, a soft drink, and a box of hot buttered popcorn, all truckin’ across the screen, singing “It’s intermission, it’s intermission.” Then the action (and I’m using this term loosely here) quickly-cuts to a nondescript kitchen with a nondescript dinette set, at which sit two hugely obese, completely naked people – a man and a woman – who (I immediately realized) looked strangely familiar to me. On the dinette table are a couple of open-faced hamburgers; the table is crammed with condiments. It wasn’t until the woman jammed a butter knife into an economy-size jar of Best Foods (Real) Mayonnaise and began to spread it vigorously onto her hamburger bun that I realized that the woman was in fact Libby, and the man Arnold (The Incomparable Lily Sabina) Rosenfeld. My mouth fell open so wide my chin hit me in the chest.

As the “It’s Intermission” jingle played over and over in the background (and believe me, they could use this thing to torture prisoners of war), Libby and Arnold (naked as the day they were born) smear these big hamburgers with mayo and relish, pile on the onions and lettuce, and proceed to eat these burgers with lip-licking, eye-rolling gusto; red-and-white rivulets of sauce trickled down their chins and onto their breasts (Arnold’s easily rivaling Libby’s for pendulous size).

I slid down in my seat, both hands clamped over my mouth, wondering what in the world I was going to say to Marshall about this, this
thing
I was being forced to witness. Much to my surprise, the audience (maybe thirty people in all – undoubtedly Marshall’s classmates and their friends) neither laughed aloud, hooted, nor pelted the screen with decomposing vegetable matter. On the contrary, they seemed to be watching the Film with critical care; indeed, they seemed to be taking this thing seriously. Marshall’s Film ended with close-ups of Libby and Arnold’s ketchup-smeared faces, smiling in gluttonous glee, as the words “It’s Intermission” crackled through the sound system one last time.

The audience burst into spontaneous applause as the house lights clicked abruptly on, causing momentary blindness, at least for me. Marshall stood up from his seat in the front row (with the other student filmmakers), smiled, and took a short bow. I watched people rise from their seats and bee-line to the front row. I overheard a young woman say to her companion, “He’s symbolized the conspicuous overconsumption of Western society so perfectly.” Now, it never would have occurred to me that a seven-minute short subject of naked fat people eating hamburgers might be symbolic; still, I found myself saying “conspicuous overconsumption of Western society” softly to myself, in case I was strapped for something to say to Marshall.

When I reached the front of the theater, Marshall was in an intense-looking conversation with an equally intense-looking thirtyish man in thick eyeglasses and a sweatshirt. Various people from the audience walked up and pumped Marshall’s hand or slapped his back as he talked – he seemed to be the hit of the afternoon. He caught me out of the corner of his eye and tossed me a quick smile before turning back to the guy in the glasses, who was saying “major steppingstone in your career that’ll look damn good on your resumé,” and blah blah blah. Marshall said, “Right back, okay?” and Mr. Glasses said, “Tha’s cool,” and Marshall turned to me.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He took my shoulder and led me to a less populated corner of the theater.

“I’m glad you came. When you weren’t here when the lights went down, I wasn’t sure. What’d you think of my Film?”

“I thought it perfectly symbolized the conspicuous over consumption of Western society.” What the hey, why waste a good line?

“Wow! I’d have thought you were too young to pick up on the symbolism. You’re real sharp.”

“Are we still on?” We’d made plans to go to Marshall’s place again for a bit of the old slap-and-tickle after the Films.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“No?” The thought crossed my mind that he was going to slap-and-tickle the guy in the glasses, but (without being mean) this guy was no looker, so I ruled that one out. “How come?”

“See that guy I was talking to? He’s second-crew director on a new western that’s gonna be shot out in Arizona. His assistant just crapped out on him, and he’s talking about giving me the job. He liked my Film and he’s sort of a friend of Libby’s. Anyway, he wants to talk about it right away. So I’ve got to cancel out. You understand, don’t you? This could be a major stepping-stone in my career.”

“Look great on your resumé,” I said, sarcasm seeping out from between my teeth.

“Don’t be mad, Johnnie Ray.” Marshall took me by the shoulders. “Please. I really do need this. I’ll call you soon, okay? I promise.

Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Thanks. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. And thanks for coming to see my Film. See ya later.”

And he hurried off.

I bused it home, disappointed for sure, wondering what I was going to do with the rest of my afternoon, but feeling all right overall.

When I walked in, Mom was in the kitchen, talking on the phone.

“Oh, Lord, Shirley, I know how you must feel,” she was saying.

“It would just about kill me. I – ” She noticed me. “I gotta go, Shirley, Johnnie Ray’s home, call me when you get home.” She put the phone down like it was on fire. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Mom. What’s going on?”

“I was just talking with Shirley Johnson. She’s over at the hospital. Efrem’s had an accident.”

That’s when I felt it. Cold. A chill to my bone marrow, on a warm afternoon.

“What? What happened?”

“He … ” Mom averted her eyes. “He fell.”

“Fell?”

“Down some stairs.”

“Oh, Mom!” I reached for the door.

“Oh Mom, what?”

“The Johnsons live in a one-storey house. I’m going to the hospital.”

“Johnnie Ray – ” And I was out of there. I dug my old three-speed out of the garage (I hardly ever ride it – around here, if you must ride a bike, it had better be a ten-speed) and pedaled off toward the hospital. I tried to think what it could be about Efrem’s accident (whatever it was) that would make Mom suddenly become this teller of tall tales. Maybe Efrem had been driving drunk and broke both his legs or something. Maybe it had something to do with drugs or a girl or – or a guy. The thought rang true from the second it grazed my mind. It was a guy. I would have bet my last dime. I pedaled furiously.

The receptionist at the hospital was doing a crossword puzzle.

“Efrem Zimbalist Johnson.”

“What?” She looked up. She had one of those sour faces that look like its owner just stepped ankle-deep in doggie-doodie.

“Efrem Zimbalist Johnson – what room is he in?” She glanced down at the desk.

“Room 101, but this isn’t visiting hours.” I started down the hall.

“Hey,” she called after me. “You, boy – come back here!” I stepped up my pace; I could hear the receptionist mutter “Dog-gone-it” to herself, and then the squeaky-squeak of her sensible white shoes down the hall behind me. I found room 101 and opened the door without bothering to knock.

The very first thing I saw was Efrem, propped up in the bed, facing the door. My eyes seemed to work like a telephoto lens, zooming in for an unrelenting close-up of Efrem’s face; it was swollen almost beyond recognition. His left eye was completely shut. The right one opened wide as Efrem caught sight of me. His lips were so fat they seemed to be crowding his nose; his skin was bruised a mottled purple. I felt as if the heavyweight champion of the world had just slugged me his best shot right to the stomach, the wind was knocked out of me, and I felt sick. “I
told
you to stop.” The receptionist had walked up and grabbed me by the arm. “Now you just come with me.”

“That’s all right.” Mrs. Johnson was standing by Efrem’s bed. She clutched a wadded handkerchief in one hand; her eyes were red and puffy from crying. She’d obviously been there all along, and I hadn’t even seen her. “He can stay.”

“But these aren’t regular visiting hours.” The receptionist still hadn’t let go of my arm. “Till eight o’clock, this room is restricted to the boy’s immediate family.”

“It’s all right,” Mrs. Johnson said. “This is his brother.”

“His – ” The receptionist looked at me, then at Mrs. Johnson, then rolled her eyes and did a little shrug, and finally let go of my arm. “All right, go on then,” she said half over her shoulder as she turned and walked away down the hall.

“Thanks, Mrs. Johnson.”

“Come on in, Johnnie Ray.” Mrs. Johnson started toward the door. “I’ll be in the hall, honey,” she said to Efrem, who still hadn’t uttered word one.

“You don’t have to leave, Mrs. Johnson,” I said.

“I’ll be right outside the door,” she said. “Right in the hall.”

The door shut behind me, and I walked toward Efrem’s bed. Efrem’s swollen lips barely parted enough for him to say hi.

“Who did this?”

His good eye shut tight, and a tear slipped out from the corner of it.

“Fell.”

“You did not
fell
, Efrem.” I was sure of that much. “Who beat you up, baby?” Eyes still shut, Efrem shook his head from side to side, over and over, no no no no no. I took his hand (clenched into a fist in front of him) and squeezed it hard.

“Please, Efrem.”

His head stopped shaking and fell back against the pillows. Efrem took a deep, shaky breath and whispered, “Dad.” Tears coursed down his swollen face.

“Oh, God.”

Slowly, haltingly, with some difficulty through the swelling of his mouth, Efrem told me the story: Efrem’s parents had gone out visiting for the day, supposedly all day. Instead, they’d returned early.

“They went to my room. Found me. In bed. With. Somebody.”

I took a chance. “With a guy.”

He nodded, weeping. A violent shudder passed through me. Efrem didn’t even have to tell me the rest. It was only too easy for me to imagine Efrem’s father, a big handsome James Garner type, walking in on Efrem and whoever the guy was, and just going berserk. Beating his own son to a bloody pulp, doing God only knew what to the other guy. I began to cry, too. For Efrem, and for myself.