Five for Forever (31 page)

“Well done, well done, Rick. We’ll make a man out of you. Thanks for joining the club of sad souls. A song among us two miserable beings?”

“I am a dedicated nonsinger.” Rick looked around the harbor.

Josh burped. “I think I am bleeding,” he stated. “The car crashed.”

Rick sighed and used the flashlight function of his smartphone to see Josh’s face. “You are bleeding through the nose, and you have two nasty cuts over your left eye. And bruises like a boxer.” Rick winced and checked the rest of Josh’s body. Various cuts and bruises on the hands but not as bad as on the face. Definitely not all from the gate crash, either. Maybe a brawl with someone. “Let me get the first-aid kit.”

Rick got the little box from inside the workshop and put some bandages over the two cuts. “Hey, like new!” he said and snapped the box shut. Both men sat in the dark again.

“Thanks, man. Now another drink,” Josh said.

“No thanks, no more liquor. I will raise beer for us.” He walked over to the Styler stash and lifted two bottles from the water, cleaned the tops with his T-shirt, and opened them. He gently lifted the liquor bottle from Josh’s fingers and replaced it with the beer. “We’re now entering the cooldown phase, buddy.”

Josh nodded. “You are so sensible. Must be from being a father.”

“You are a father, too,” Rick said.

“Lousy father in spirit,” Josh explained. “And reality.”

“Where have you been these last weeks?” Rick asked.

Josh gave a dry laugh. “I have been to hell and back. Or maybe I am still in hell?”

“You getting treatment?”

“Getting there. Just like the last times, I need to crash and burn completely before I am ready. The burn has been a bit bigger this time, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“The money—I am beyond broke.”

“You’ve been on
Forbes
’s list of the top ten highest-paid entertainers for the last ten years; that is hard to believe.” Rick stared at Josh.

“Let me tell you about money, my friend.” Josh took another swig. “Almost done with the first cooldown,” he said, looking at the almost empty bottle. He burped. “Money, especially big money with many zeroes at the end, flows through your hands. Just like that.”

“But really, were you gambling it away or what?”

“The Arabs with their shopping malls. The Chinese investors with their movie projects. The Macau mafia with their casino plans. Plus a lot of other guys from Chilean mines, Norwegian cruise ships, Morococon . . . Morocconian . . . Moroccis . . . Screw them, North African spa hotels. You name it, I sunk my money into it.” The listing of his financial failures seemed to sober Josh up.

“You forgot the Southern Californian wooden boat.” Rick chuckled.

Josh laughed. “I hate all the other business partners; they took my money and got rich. You are the only one who actually worked on something real. And went bankrupt over it. And you are still nice to me; I ruined your shop with this evil boat.”

“Neither you nor you boat ruined anything. Our shop was already close to bankruptcy earlier this year. You helped us to prolong the inevitable. And gave us a great last summer,” Rick shrugged.

“Good riddance! This boat and all its memories. Sorry about Louise. You and she were meant to be, and that bitch screwed it up, literally.”

“Shut up, Josh.” Rick took a sip from his bottle. Josh did the same from his.

Rick continued. “The kids are pestering me to contact her . . . No, honestly, where have you been, Josh? You are the most famous man in the world, and you were gone for almost six weeks without a trace.”

“The money is gone. I fell into a heap of drugs. Went into rehab until the rest of the money was gone and my lawyers couldn’t pay for the clinic anymore. The last days they took me as a pro bono case. Still into drugs.” He lifted his bottle. “Objective of the last mission: drink yourself to death until New Year’s.”

“You have no one to take care of you?”

“When I am drugged, no one wants me around. I am violent, unpredictable, ugly, pissing into the fridge, stuff like that. My ex-wives know what to expect, so them and the kids steer wide clear of me.” Josh burped. “Wise, wise choice!”

“No folks?”

“Long gone. I am on my own, baby! And on a direct collision course with my maker. In a week, God-baby!” He toasted toward heaven. “See you in a week!”

They sat side by side, Josh running slowly out of steam, and Rick was tired. A boat was being prepared at the opposite dock, an early fisherman leaving for a good catch. For about five minutes neither man said anything.

“I saw Vicky Wallace a while ago,” Rick said.

“Really?” Josh said, turning toward Rick. Sounding sober.

“Met her in Nantucket while I was hunting down the boat’s heritage.”

Josh stopped breathing for a moment. “Vicky. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“She asked me not to. Not unless you asked.” Rick grinned and raised his bottle. “To screwed-up relationships.”

“How is she? Is he happy?” Josh asked.

“She’s doing . . .” Rick started. “Well, honestly, I don’t know how she is doing. She is working on Nantucket as a high school teacher. Living with her grandmother, Vera. The real Vera.”

“Vera! John Scott was so crazy about her; it was pathological. She was older than him, so she must be what? Over a hundred years old?”

“Ninety-eight when I met her.”

“Vicky looked good?”

“If I were into women a little older, absolutely. She’s an outdoor type, sails a lot, kept in shape, great body. Go, tiger, get her!” Rick laughed, and they clinked bottles.

Josh also laughed. “Now the time with Vicky was a great summer. I had been admitted into Strasberg’s one-year conservatory, spent a last summer with my parents in Nantucket, and I met this great nice girl. All possibilities ahead of me.”

“Don’t come with the big regret baggage now, please. Vicky and Vera were full of that. I felt certifiably depressed after that day.”

“Don’t care about Vera. But Vicky . . . I’d like to see her again. We had a great time together. But drug addict actor and high school teacher is not a good combination.”

“Then clean up first. Use her as a motivation to get sober again. And then visit her. Reinvent yourself.”

“I am fucking fifty-one. There is no reinvention for me anymore.”

“I feel like a psychologist here; maybe I should charge you two hundred dollars an hour for this,” Rick said.

“Charge away,” Josh laughed and took a swig again. “I am broke. I don’t care. And my aim is . . .”

“To kill yourself by the end of year.”

“And you’re barreling down the boulevard,” Josh started to sing again in a low haunting voice, slurring the words. “Looking for the heart of Saturday night.”

Tom Waits songs are meant to be sung while drunk, Rick thought.

The morning broke slowly, turning all shadows into blue, the two men talking no more, thinking their thoughts. Josh finally fell asleep. First leaning on Rick’s shoulder, then when things became too buddy-buddy for Rick’s taste, he gently let his former client go horizontal on the bench and saw him curl up in the morning light. Rick retrieved a blanket from the office and put it over Josh. As long as he did not sleepwalk and fall into the harbor, Josh would be fine. Rick had a household to manage that would wake up soon, so he had to get back and leave this bizarre night behind him.

twenty-eight

We Were Here

Baltimore was in deep winter five days before Christmas when Louise arrived at the Johns Hopkins Hospital. They settled her into a comfortable room that had the qualities and amenities of a hotel suite. Floris sorted out the security setup, including a guard in front of the VIP corridor and mirrored glass windows that blocked telephoto snoopers. Then a young man of Indian origin greeted her; he couldn’t be older than twenty, smooth skin and short fashionable hair. “I am Dr. Singh. I’ll be your lead oncologist for the journey we have ahead of us.” He saw Louise’s skeptical look and raised his hands. “Don’t mention the D-word.”

“The D-word?”

“You were about to comment on my age, right?”

“Have you ever seen Doogie Hows—” Louise started and then interrupted herself. “Oh,
that
D-word!”

“I have already treated over a thousand patients, I’ve been a registered doctor for four years now, certified oncologist for two, have won eight prestigious science prizes in the area of oncology, and I am one of the lead drivers behind the new drug we are testing. If we succeed, we might cure cancer.”

“That is impressive.”

“I know. But to complete the Doogie Howser comparison: yes, I am still living with my mom and dad, who were so gracious as to move to Baltimore with me after university.”

“Don’t tell me you are already married with four children?”

Singh had to laugh out loud. “We will have a lot of fun together. I will be blessed by your beautiful presence and your wit; you will go through hell on earth in the coming weeks.”

The next morning, Singh came for the morning round and smiled at Louise. “This will become your most prized possession.” He held up a stainless-steel bucket.

“A wine cooler? That’s your treatment? Getting me drunk on expensive wines?”

“We could achieve the same result on cheap wines, too, but it will be much less fun. No, the experimental drug has side effects that might not sit well with your stomach.”

“Does it come monogrammed?” Louise looked at it doubtfully.

“After you used it once, no one else will want to touch it, don’t worry.”

“There have been stranger things offered on eBay with my name in the title.”

“No doubt they all fetched fabulous prices. You must be proud.”

A lot of time was spent once more with various tests and examinations “to get your baseline and to understand what makes Ms. Waters tick,” Singh explained.

“Years of psychotherapy and biographers have attempted that.”

“I am only interested in your body.”

“The boys all say that.” Louise laughed. “So that you can clone me?”

“No, but you are participating in a trial for a new drug. Everyone is keen to know why the drug works for one person but not another.”

“Which group will I be in?” Louise asked.

“Tell me your age, your true age, your measurements, and your secret phone number, and in about four weeks I’ll be able tell you,” the young doctor said.

“In about four weeks I’ll know that myself, Doctor, because I might be dead!”

“Ah, you’re catching on, Ms. Waters. We’ll make a scientist out of you yet.”

On day three, the treatment started. One infusion a day, administered every morning. Louise watched the drip. “Side effects?”

Singh smiled his young boy smile. “Oh, come on, I won’t spoil the surprise.” He gave an exaggerated glance toward the stainless-steel bucket beside her bed.

“Really. I feel fine.”

“You will feel some dizziness after about half of the bag is in you. The dizziness will last for a few hours, but for some it is like an extended ride on a roller coaster.”

And it was.

Life at the hospital became routine after that. Infusion every morning at eight followed by roller-coaster rides, excessive use of the bucket, and various tests in between. Then around three p.m., her body calmed down again, so that Louise had a hearty late brunch to get some solid food into her in addition to the fluid nutrition. Even though her joints had started to hurt, another side effect, she began to roam the other floors of the oncology wing. Many patients and their families recognized her; she gave some autographs in books and on toys and posed for a round of photos under the condition that they not post them online until the news of her sickness broke. Her fellow patients were in various stages of treatment, and according to Dr. Singh, five other patients were participating in the same trial. The most heartbreaking part of the hospital was the children’s cancer wing. A big room was used as a playroom with scooter cars, tables with toys, a small indoor trampoline surrounded by a security net, and a small movie theater. The first time Louise passed the room, she had to turn away after a few minutes, as some of the kids looked so sick that it was too morbid to watch. Shocked, she went back to her room.

The first idea that something was wrong came when Altair Studios announced the recasting of
Five Ways of Solitude
. Members of the Flint family watched
Entertainment Tonight
on the sofa, partially out of habit, partially because everyone hoped to catch a glimpse of Louise on the news.

“Louise Waters bought the film rights earlier this year in an unprecedented bidding war, beating out Madge Hardy’s production studio and other major players,” the reporter spoke into the microphone.

“Wasn’t
Five Ways
a very special project for her, Joanne?”

“Walter, yes. After Louise’s failed excursion into suburban housewife territory with yacht builder Richard Flint . . .”

The kids high-fived one another. “Way to go, Dad, you got promoted to
yacht builder
!” Britta yelled over the laughter of her siblings.

“I wanna hear!” Dana complained.

“. . . her return to the big screen. A low-budget production—for an actress of her stature, that is—with a young genius director and Louise producing the film and playing an important supporting part.”

“What do we know about why she dropped out of it?” the anchor asked.

“There is no formal announcement, neither from Louise’s management nor from Waterstone Productions, Louise’s company. Maybe she had a change of heart about the project. But there is another pretty exciting rumor flying around Tinseltown.”

“We can’t bear the suspense,” Charles snorted on the couch.

“Sh.” Britta elbowed him, glued to the screen, leaning forward.

The reporter continued. “There is talk about a remake of
Gone with the Wind
. And currently it is Atlanta native Madge Hardy who is in negotiations to play the role of Scarlett O’Hara. We can’t imagine anyone else playing this iconic character.” She gave a dramatic pause. “Except maybe for her long-time nemesis, Louise Waters. With a budget of over two hundred million dollars, this would be more of a draw to come out of early retirement. Back to you, Walter.”