Hide and Seek (20 page)
“Will!”
I finally managed to whisper, my mouth dry with fear.
I pushed his hand away and twisted myself out of bed. I faced him with a fury that had grown all the time he was away, and now was at its height.
“Where have you been? Why didn't you call us? Oh God, Will. You think you can just come back like this?”
There was something in his eyes that night—something so different, so strange. It was subtle, but I picked up on it. He didn't look like himself.
He was dressed in unwrinkled black slacks and a black T-shirt. His hair was casual, the windblown look. His jaw was covered with a day or two's light growth.
He smiled at me the way I'm sure he did at every woman in his life who had been angry at him, and whose forgiveness he needed. I wanted to scream at him, lash out at him with my fists.
“I've been in London. I went to visit my aunt. She's like a second mother to me. Only she wasn't there, off on holiday with Aunt Eleanor, so I came home.”
Yes. Of course. To another mother. To me
.
“I'm sorry, Maggie, I shouldn't have done it, definitely should have called. You can't
imagine
how upset I was at that dreadful premiere. You have no idea what goes through my mind.”
No, I didn't, I couldn't, I didn't want to, but I tried to be patient, and to understand. Maybe, I tried too hard.
W
ILL HAD BEGUN to wear two-hundred-dollar dark glasses almost all the time now—at night and inside the house. He called it his “film star phase.”
He used any and every excuse to be out of the house. In truth, he was afraid to be around Maggie and the kids. Maybe he didn't love them anymore, couldn't
feel
what he wanted to, but he didn't want to hurt them either.
He didn't want to hurt them
.
He drove his new Mercedes convertible into New York one obnoxiously sunny afternoon. He felt hollow, as though there were absolutely nothing inside him. He'd spoken to his brother that morning, but of course Palmer wasn't any help. Palmer didn't want to have anything to do with him anymore.
He wanted to end it all—maybe in a spectacular car crash. He pushed the Cabriolet to over a hundred on the narrow, winding Saw Mill. He was much too skillful a driver to crash though; his reflexes were perfect. Or maybe he didn't really want to die—just yet.
Why the hell should he want to die?
Primrose
was fucking soaring at the box office. The absurd movie had made it to number one, and had stayed there for weeks. Even more absurd, he was being touted as the next Eastwood, or Harrison Ford. What a goddamn idiocy. Hollywood made him ill with its amateurish reading of public tastes.
In a single week, he'd gotten over a hundred loathsome scripts to read. He'd finally selected another best-seller, a powerful psychological thriller called
Wind-chimes
. He'd negotiated a contract for four million up front.
Principal shooting was set to start that very day with the famed British director Tony Scott. It was going to be another hit movie, everyone was sure of it. It had all the “ingredients.”
Well, Will was sure it was going to be another piece of commercial garbage. He knew what was good, and what wasn't. He knew when he was fooling the world, and that it would catch up with him sooner or later.
He couldn't stand the fucking reviews—
because they were true, his critics were right. He was dog shit on a stick
.
He couldn't stand it anymore.
He couldn't bear being Will Shepherd: the barely living legend, the ex-football great, “the incredible Hunk,” “Mr. Maggie Bradford.”
As he entered New York City and saw the road signs for Broadway and 242d Street, Will floored it and took the convertible to over a hundred again.
Traffic was thick, and he swerved from lane to lane as other drivers angrily honked their horns.
I don't want to be Will Shepherd anymore
, he was thinking as he maneuvered the car with one hand, then one finger, then
look, ma, no hands
.
I don't want to live like this
.
I can't
.
Was that what my father was thinking when he first went underwater?
H
E WAS GOING underwater. Down, down, down. The water was cool and dark. It wasn't so bad to drown
.
It was as “Will Shepherd” that he began the early evening at the Red Lion Inn in Greenwich Village. As Shepherd he consumed seven Scotches, neat; as Shepherd he was now playing out, for an audience of mostly inebriated admirers, his greatest triumph in a Manchester United uniform.
Since he was buying drinks all around, the audience was with him, hanging on every word.
“Will, Will,” one of them chanted. An Englishman. A genuine fan, probably.
“The Blond Arrow!” Will shouted back, his voice thick with irony that none of them seemed to appreciate.
“The Blond Bum,” another voice called out from the back of the barroom crowd.
Will stopped in the middle of his story. It was just some punk wearing black leather and black jeans, acting the macho man. He glared at the asshole, thinking
Eurotrash
, thinking
let's get it on
.
The punk made his way through the crowd. There were two friends with him. Will saw tattoos on their arms: falcons or eagles.
“A stinking bum,” the punk repeated, now facing Will as the spectators stepped back. His accent sounded German.
“A pansy,” one of the friends added. “A British fag.” Definitely German.
Anger, which had struggled for days to escape, now roared from Will's mouth. A string of curses exploded.
The Euro-trash punk stepped forward, beckoning to Will. “Come get me, bum,” he said. “Come get me, you has-been.”
Where he got the chain he held, Will couldn't imagine. It really didn't matter. He charged the German anyway.
The Blond Arrow charged blindly. He wanted a fight; and fight would do.
He got out of the Red Lion with only cuts and bruises. Nothing important. Nothing fatal.
He remembered that he was supposed to be on a movie set.
Well, fuck that. This was a better psychological thriller anyway
.
Now came a series of white explosions in the shadows of an abandoned storage warehouse just off Hudson Street. A gang was beating up on him;
he didn't know why. Could it have been something I said, mates?
He was aware only of the intense pain of their kicks—to the head, to the stomach and groin, to the ribs—of the relentless agony each hard blow produced in his brain.
Punishment
, he thought as he was falling to the pavement.
Fair and just punishment for his crimes, his sins, his entire life
.
His arms and legs were pinioned. He couldn't move a muscle. His face was smashed down onto the gritty concrete of the sidewalk. His nose was leaking blood. Then his legs were lifted off the ground like meat on a hook.
And he was really pounded. He was battered, kicked, butted, until he was sure that every bone in his body had been broken. Strangely, he welcomed the physical pain.
It told him that he was alive, right?
His entire world was suddenly spinning out of control. It was all bright liquid red. Will felt he was falling, pitching forward into a black hole.
He was being left to die on the New York streets, wasn't he?
It wasn't so terrible, really.
He was just following in the footsteps of his father. He'd always known it would end like this.
Will Shepherd found dead in the street
.
Strange, weird—his last thought, his final image was of the dog he'd killed years ago. He had loved that dog.
T
HIS HAD TO BE a nightmare. It couldn't be anything else. I wasn't really awake, was I?
The Manhattan police came to my home around midnight. They broke the news politely, but their good manners and tact couldn't ease any of the pain. I had to sit down immediately. I thought I was going to pass out or maybe be sick. I was in a state of shock.
I finally was able to call Winnie Lawrence. He lived close by. The two of us went to St. Vincent's Hospital in New York.
I was permitted to see Will only briefly—he was sleeping, heavily sedated, his face swathed in heavy bandages. He looked horrible.
I felt as though I were in a dream. Whatever was happening, couldn't be. What had happened to the man I had married, the person I loved?
This badly beaten person couldn't be Will!
We were approached by Detective Nicolo, the police officer who had come to Bedford with the news. I didn't want to talk to anyone, to see anyone.
“He's pretty beaten up, but it looks worse than it is,” said Nicolo. “The doctors say it'll be a couple of weeks before he can get out of the hospital. I'm sorry, Mrs. Bradford. We don't know how it happened. Or who did it. No witnesses have come forward.”
“He was supposed to start shooting a film yesterday,” Winnie Lawrence said.
“Good luck.” The detective smiled wryly. “If the part is
Rocky V
, he might be able to manage it okay.”
“Jesus!” Winnie said, and headed for a pay phone.
Detective Nicolo turned to me. He looked like Al Pacino, only with a larger hooked nose. His white hair was slicked back. “Do you have any idea why he might have been attacked, Mrs. Bradford? Do you know if he was with anyone last night?”
I shook my head. “I'm sorry. I don't, detective. I'm not myself right now. Sorry, sorry.” I fought back tears.
Nicolo clucked and nodded sympathetically. “He wasn't home with you last night then?”
“I expected him. He didn't show up.”
What was the detective implying? Why am I protecting Will?
I wondered.
Because he's my husband, and I love him
.
“It'll be hard to find the men who beat him up.” Nicolo had taken out a black notebook; now he put it away. “If Mr. Shepherd can't describe them, there's not much we can do. I'll come back here as soon as he's able to talk. I'll stay in touch with you.”
He shook my hand and left, telling me to call him if I had any information. An agitated Winnie joined me in the waiting room.
“They're going to replace Will,” he said. “They say they can't afford to wait until he recovers from this. Whatever the hell happened to him?”
I shrugged, feeling numb and cold all over. It was neither good news nor bad. A frightening thought crossed my mind.
I didn't know who my husband was
.
“He'll be devastated about the film,” Winnie said.
“I don't know, Winnie.” I felt a wave of sadness, an overlay on my fatigue. “I think maybe he'll be relieved.”
I
DROVE BACK to Bedford with Winnie Lawrence. Our nursemaid, Mrs. Leigh, was there with the kids. Fortunately, everyone was still sleeping when I got home.
I didn't want to explain about Will; I wasn't sure that I could explain, that I understood.
I loved Will, but maybe he'd fooled me; maybe he was a good actor when he wanted to be. I had thought I could help him, that I was helping him. My mother had made the same mistake with my father. Oh God, I didn't know what to think. I wanted to go up into the attic—and just write songs again.
I sat in the den, staring out onto the grounds. The morning sun was up and birds were chirping everywhere. But unpleasant images were flying inside my head—bad ones. I remembered a movie with Julia Roberts called
Sleeping with the Enemy
. I felt as though I were in it, or maybe this was
Gaslight
. Or maybe I was dreaming. Please. Let this be a dream.
I don't know who my husband is
, I kept thinking.
Is that possible? Is that what's happening? What is Will doing to himself? What is he doing to all of us?
Allie wandered into the den and found me there. I did my best to act as though nothing were the matter.
“I've been waiting, waiting, waiting for you to get up and come see me,” I said to him. I patted my lap for him to come sit. He ran to me and jumped into my arms.
I held Allie, and kissed and hugged him. He did the same for me. He had no idea how important that was to me right now. I felt as though I might start stuttering again. My chest seemed to collapse in on me. I loved holding him like this though. We'd done it every single morning since he was born. I don't think we'd missed a day.
Suddenly Allie turned to me. He squinted as he looked up into my eyes.
“What's wrong, Mommy?” my little boy said. “What's wrong?”
Later that morning, I returned to the dreary hospital in downtown New York. I was allowed to see Will again. He was sitting up, still incredibly dazed, and sipping juice through a straw.
The part of his face not covered by bandages was purplish; his eyes were horrible thin slits, his lips puffy, as though they had been stung by a swarm of bees again and again. He looked like one of those poor men who sleep on sidewalk gratings all over New York.
My husband looked like that
.
Will reached a hand toward me when I came in. I felt my heart soften. I couldn't help it. “Maggie …” he whispered.
I didn't take his hand, but instead stood looking at him. I hated holding back, but I had to.
“Maggie … forgive me. Please forgive me.”
“How can I, Will?” I finally spoke to him.
He began to cry like a little boy. Will curled himself into a tight ball, a fetal position, and he wept. He seemed so pathetic, horribly alone, and I couldn't imagine what was the matter with him.
My heart nearly broke, but I didn't reach out to comfort Will. This time, I couldn't.
B
AD THOUGHTS HAD been drifting through Will's head ever since he'd come home, but while he was in the hospital as well.
It frosted him that Maggie was still a huge star, and he was a nothing. But most of all, it incensed Will that she was
happy
. Maggie, Jennie, and Allie were a self-contained unit. They didn't need him. They functioned beautifully on their own.
