Gumshoe Gorilla (18 page)

Under the bed? --Unfortunately, this was one of those beds that went all the way down to the floor and didn't have an under.

Beneath the table? --Fine, unless they sit down at the table, in which case they'd be using me as a foot rest.

In the end, my feet figured it out before my brain did. I found myself at the front of the Winnebago as the door at the back of it opened. Right. Good thinking feet. I pressed myself into the floor space in front of the driver's seat. Whatever Charles had in mind right now, he probably wasn't going to take this thing out for a spin.

I heard the door close, and then the sound of kissing. A woman's laugh. The squeak of bed springs. A lot of heavy breathing, and the sound of clothing being tossed on the floor.

Carefully, I peaked over the seat.

It was Charles and Skye. I glanced at my watch.

"Oh, come on!" I thought to myself. "You two can't be serious! They start filming again in ten minutes! There's no way..."

But as I watched, I found out how wrong I was.

As the saying goes, "Where there's a will, there's always a way."

Skye collapsed onto me, her warm body pressing into mine, her sweat mingling with mine. It ran down my stomach in slow moving drops, as we lay there, trying to catch our breath.

Finally, Skye propped her head up on my chest and looked at me.

"Happy you?" she signed with one hand, making the inquisitive face.

"VERY," I signed back, shaking my hand for emphasis. "You not know?"

She smiled, that little elfin smile that first stole my heart. I slipped my other arm out from under her and continued.

"I not know my brain make... C.H.E.M.I.C.A.L.S..."

She laughed and showed me the sign for the word, so that I wouldn't have to spell it out the next time.

"Right... chemicals like that," I finished, rolling my eyes back in an expression of ecstasy.

Skye giggled, and made a sign involving her finger and a hole that even most third graders are familiar with.

"Yes," I signed back. "Sex. I know that one."

She smiled, and showed me another sign, one that I had learned more recently. Literally, it breaks down into
two bunnies meeting
.

"Yes," I signed. "Very-good-sex. You show me time past."

She smiled again, and this time showed me a sign that I hadn't seen before.

"I not know," I admitted.

She made it again, and I tried to guess.

"Broken legs?"

She clicked her fingers together into an N for "No", and showed me the sign again.

"Frog legs?" I guessed.

"No. No," she signed. "Watch."

She made the sign a third time.

"Bad accident? A.M.P.U.T.A.T.I.O.N.? L.E.P.R.O.S.Y.?"

"No, No, No!" She grabbed my chin with one hand, then signed very slowly with the other. "You watch carefully."

First she made the sign for sex. Then the sign for good, morphing it into a big gesture that took up a lot of room. Then she made the sign that looked like someone's legs falling off.

"Sex so good your legs fall off?" I signed back.

She clapped and lifted a finger to her face in the "on the nose" gesture. I shook my head in disbelief. I'm still getting used to some of the odd quirks of sign language. There are some really weird idioms, and sometimes the same sign can mean several different things. For example, there's one sign that can mean either "blond", "Californian", or "bimbo", depending on how you use it.

"Tell me," I signed to Skye, "who teach you sign
sex-so-good-my-legs-fall-off
?"

Skye smiled coyly.

"Long story."

Yeah, I'll bet.

"You tell me, time future?" I asked.

"Maybe," she signed. "If you good."

There was a knock on the door.

"Charles? You in there? They need you on the set!"

It was one of the production assistants. I ignored him, hoping that he would go away. Since Skye's visor was lying on the floor next to my pants, I assumed that she wouldn't know.

Wrong.

"Who door?" she asked.

"You know?"

She pointed to my eyes, then to the door, then made the sign for "open book". Dang. It's hard to put anything over on Skye.

She reached over the edge of the bed and fished around in the pile of clothes for her watch. She found mine, looked at it, and then made a big gesture that translates somewhere between "whoops!" and "damn!".

"We're late."

She started to get up, but I pulled her back into bed. She turned and pointed to her wrist, indicating the time.

"You go work now," she signed.

"No." I signed back. "I get half-hour rest after sex-so-good-my-legs-fall-off with pretty plot-coordinator. In my contract."

Skye rolled her eyes.

"Your agent negotiate
my
contract future time," she signed.

She grabbed her pants and blouse off the floor, and then looked back at me.

"You dress now."

"Five minutes." I signed back.

Skye frowned.

"I go writer meeting now. You work."

"Five minutes," I signed again.

Skye turned her back on me and put on her visor. I moved in behind her and began massaging her shoulders.

She held up one hand and made some fast signs.

"OK. Five. That's it."

She lay on the bed and let me work my way down. By the time I go to the small of her back she was letting out happy little sighs. And then she suddenly rolled over and looked up at me with a concerned expression. She lay there for what seemed like a minute without saying anything, just looking at me.

"Tell me," she finally signed.

"Tell what?" I responded, making the inquisitive face.

"Thing worry you," she signed.

"Why you think I worry?" I shot back.

She put a hand on the back of my neck and traced the line of a muscle that's been tense for almost a week now.

"I know you," she signed with her free hand, and then went to work on the muscle. I relaxed my neck, lowering my head to her chest, and thus conveniently ending the conversation. Or so I thought. A moment later Skye gave me a shove that rolled me right out of bed.

I landed on my back with a thump. Skye stuck her head over the edge of the bed and looked down at me, laughing.

"Oops!" she signed.

"That was no
oops
," I signed back.

"So you tell me now?" she asked.

"OK."

I pulled myself off the floor and crawled back into bed with her. I looked her in the eyes and gave her the news.

"My mother in Atlanta now."

Skye raised an eyebrow.

"Your mother?"

"Yes. She call many times last few days. Ask me do things with her."

Skye made a facial expression that translates as "So?"

"You not know my mother," I explained.

"No. But I want know. We three eat together?"

"Bad idea," I signed back.

Skye waited for me to explain, but I wasn't sure that I wanted to. The last time my mother and I had shared a meal was a few years back, right after
CzechMates
got picked up for its second season. Mom had invited the three of us on the show out to a celebratory dinner at the Bison Grill. Bernie and Doug had the good sense to decline, and went off on some double date with a pair of Korean stunt women. But me... you'd think that after all these years I could have seen it coming. But I didn't. I actually thought she wanted to have dinner with me.

I realized that something was up as soon as I saw that she'd reserved an outdoor table. The shutter clicking and flashbulbs started during the appetizers. She'd called the tabloids, given them the name of the restaurant, the time we'd be arriving. The whole evening was nothing but one long photo-op for her. A chance to be seen with one of her famous sons, to remind the world of her celebrity by way of offspring. And I had to sit there and smile all the way through it.

Skye brought me back to the present with a sharp poke to the stomach.

"You make unhappy face," she signed.

"Sorry," I signed back. "Mother, me... complicated."

"Everybody mother complicated," she responded.

Yeah but not like mine. Most people's mothers don't practice the mass-production theory of parenting.

"I want meet her," Skye signed.

I wanted to respond with "When Hell freezes over", but I could tell from Skye's expression that I wasn't going to win this one. If I didn't introduce her, she'd just track down my mother on her own. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I have this horrible fear that if Skye meets my mother, she'll begin to see me the way my mother does. And I couldn't stand that. Lately I've begun to realize just how much of my identity is tied up in Skye. Maybe that's love, or maybe it's just some personality disorder of mine. But the fact of the matter is that if I fell off the edge of the world tomorrow, almost no one would notice. After all, there are four more of me waiting in the wings. The show would go on, and who could even tell the difference?

Growing up, my brothers and I had each staked out our own territory. Albert is the independent one, who likes to work alone. Bernie's the Don Juan. Doug's the clown. Eddie is the screw up, who always gets someone to take care of him. And I'm the conciliator, who tries to keep everyone together. But those are just characters, roles we created out of self defense to try and claim a little space of our own. They're arbitrary. Nothing more than a habit. I could just as easily play any of the other parts. Deep down, we're not that different.

Or at least, that's what I thought until I met Skye.

Skye had chosen me. And I still don't know why. Doug asked her out before I did, but she turned him down. Later, Bernie tried to seduce her by pretending to be me, but she saw right through him. For some reason, Skye loves me, just me. She can see something different in me. Something special. And even I don't know what it is.

Skye interrupted my thoughts with another poke to the stomach.

"No more unhappy face," she signed.

"OK," I responded. "No more."

"And I meet your mother?"

"OK. Maybe we eat hotel room. No reporters."

"Good," Sky signed. "I talk nice to her, and you can sign all nasty things about her while we eat. Deal?"

"Deal."

We shook on it, and then Skye searched through the pile of clothes on the floor. She tossed me my pants, and then set to work untying the knot that her bra and my shirt had somehow worked themselves into. When she was done, she turned back to me.