Hollywood Boulevard (35 page)

    Hours passed with nothing from Sylvia. The evening news was on. Maybe I would be reported missing on the broadcast. I didn't care. I'd crawled as far back as I could and hidden under some of Sylvia's gowns, the pillow over my head. I hadn't eaten since morning. I was out of water. I'd sucked on the stale candies from my purse and was out of supplies. I felt exhausted even though I'd hardly moved in two days. I yanked at the fishnet rope. Did she drug me again? Or was it just the dark and the not knowing that made me so sleepy? A kind of escape? I shook my head and tapped it. I needed to wake up and start thinking. And where the hell was Andre? How much time was he going to let go by before calling the cops . . . And Billy? What kind of cop was he? Shouldn't a SWAT team have stormed the place by now? What would Joe say to my present predicament. . . . You know, Ardennes, you need to stop referencing Joe. Really? Says who? Says I. And who are you? You. Me. Us. Joe didn't want to be anybody's daddy.
Nobody's daddy. Nobody's
mommy
. . . I was singing. Who said anything about a daddy? I was so in love with Joe, but was there a whiff of that idea in him? I mean, the man never had a doubt in his life that I knew of. So? What would Simon Thrush say? He'd say: What page are you on, Ardennes? Yeah, what page am I on?

    I was seven before I realized my handsome daddy was old. It was Father's Visiting Day at school, some of the girls acting like real twits, excited brides awaiting their grooms ( Freud wasn't entirely off). I saw the day as an opportunity. I already hated math, and the dads were due just as we were set to open our dreaded red- and- blue workbooks. I was watching the clock. "Arithmetic is canceled today, students," Miss McCarthy announced as the fathers filed in. Most of the fathers filed in; what about kids without— dead, divorced, unwilling or unable to get time off work? What about daddies who hit their kids or preyed on them sexually? Whose idea was it to pretend we all lived in a happily- ever- after world? I had it pretty good, but then I saw how old my dad was compared to the others. He had all those
gray hairs
mixed in with the brown! How come he was so old? My half- siblings were old too. This was not normal. He smiled at me and winked. I waved back, involuntarily, but I wanted to climb inside my desk. The fathers lined up in the back of the classroom and our teacher welcomed them. I didn't hear the rest of the presentation. I would rather have done numbers. There was a chink now in my total adoration, like I'd caught Daddy with his pants down and seen something scary. That never happened; years went by in blissful ignorance before I saw anything scary between a boy's legs. Big deal; I had an older dad. I just didn't want the other kids to see. I didn't go over to him, kept my eyes on my sneakers when he came to claim me. I'm sorry, Daddy . . .

    I WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE!

    I banged as hard as I could on the carpeted floor with my tied- up fists until I was short of breath and worn out, all to no avail.

    When Sylvia finally turned up again and unlocked the door, I didn't move a muscle. Come get me, you old witch. Come get me.

    At least the TV was off. She shone a flashlight on me, and I blinked, a deer caught in the headlights. I kept still. She left the light off and unbolted the chain. This was my chance, but Mucho burst in and tore at me, all ten inches of him at face level where I lay on the pile of Sylvia's clothes. I sat up. He growled and paced in front of me as Sylvia put down a tray of covered food. She held the gun in her hand the whole time, using her right hand to slide the items into my prison.

    "Mucho! Come!" The dog ran to her, and she slammed the door, rechained it, turned on the light and opened the door to the chain. "Bon appetit," she said.

    "Is it nighttime?" No answer.

    I was disheveled, hungry and glum. I tried to resist, but the food smelled good. I dove in.

    The Muse doesn't have much of a kitchen, no complicated cuisine; the breakfasts, sandwiches, and snacks but no dining room, only limited room service down below. Up top we didn't even have minibars. Sylvia had helped herself to a stainless- steel dish cover, a tray with the hotel logo on it, and likewise the table linen. There was a white carnation on the hotel tray, set in a tiny glass vase, and a meal of capon, carrots, red potatoes and avocado. The food was precisely prepared and delicious, only there wasn't enough of it. Minute bones were all that remained on the plate when I was done. I licked it clean. Dessert was sliced papaya. I was still hungry.

    I crawled to the back of my cave to digest. The day must have remained cool because the closet wasn't hot at all. That was yesterday that it was hot, right? Or was it the day before? What difference did it make? You're supposed to keep track of time, I told myself. How? I asked back. Make marks on the wall, like prisoners in movies do? I wonder if Sylvia locked Lucille in this very closet. I had my pillow and my little flannel blanket, the flashlight. The light was still on and the door was open to the chain. I should be trying to escape. Isn't that what they tell prisoners of war? What about
The
Great Escape
with Steve McQueen; wasn't that a true story? He was supposed to be a messed up guy, or did Hollywood success mess him up? Probably Hollywood did. All the lackeys, even the lowly PAs on a set have attitude, as if being in the vicinity of a star gives them an edge. For
what
? Stars are objects in the night sky, diamonds the at mosphere wears of an evening. Luminaries! Crap! It's all filling and no cake. Is that why you quit, Ms. Thrush?

    I was beginning to see certain advantages to captivity: a chance to think, guilt- free, to clarify everything that needed examining. Clear out the mental dust, wipe away the cobwebs, rearrange the files— a life's work, in other words. Here I lay committing the sin of idleness; an empty chair, enforced downtime, and oodles of it. If only I wasn't so sleepy. Maybe that's what I really want to be when I grow up, a prisoner. Silly, silly me. Old Sylvia's a pretty good cook. Where is old Sylvia? Out reconnoitering? It must be late, moving toward the end of day two? And I'm still supposed to be in Indio, thinking? Where's the cavalry? I didn't go to the moon, Billy, I'm right here. What about all those horror movies where the girl is abducted? There's always a cabin in the woods, miles from the nearest gas station, only bears to hear her cry out. What's that supposed to be about? Primal insecurity? At least Sylvia won't rape me before slitting my throat. And there's that hideous movie where the madman throws the drugged woman alive into a coffin and buries her. Who thinks this stuff up? Why? What's the thrill for the sicko? Fear of annihilating solitude, death of human contact? He imagines himself buried, reaches sexual climax while she slowly expires, but not before waking up in a narrow box six feet under? I shivered, stood up, did some clumsy, hand- tied jumping jacks, stretches, squats. I was not sorting anything out. . . . I lay down again. I'll make lists, that'll pass the time. Start with my directors and work my way through all the other actors . . . every part I ever played . . . no matter how small . . . get a handle on all of it . . . Maybe I should do charity work when I get out of here. . . .

    Eventually, clean out of profound thoughts, with a little help from whatever Sylvia was slipping me, I fell asleep again. It was downright cold when I woke up. The closet was black. I felt chilled, but no way to put a sweater on while tied up. I wrapped the blanket tighter and crawled to the door; it opened to the chain. There was a low light from somewhere. I got my compact and stuck the mirror out as far as my hands could go. I saw a little half- moon nightlight plugged into the wall near the bedroom door. How quaint, in case Sylvia had to go wee in the dark, not to break her old kidnapper's dancing legs. Mucho lay at the foot of her bed in a regal, downy little bed of his own, and he was snoring pretty loud for such a runt. I could just see the rise and fall of Sylvia's body under the covers. It was the middle of the night. I flashed my light along the closet walls, careful to avoid the wig heads. My dinner things were gone! The chamber pot was empty and clean, and there were new water bottles. I'd slept through Sylvia clearing the dinner things? The potty removal too? Dammit, she drugged me again! I couldn't have slept through all that activity. Was she still using my Valium, or what? Well, I was wide awake now. I should start yelling, wake her up; why should Sylvia rest peacefully? Maybe someone would hear me yelling in the quiet of night. Andre must be asleep next door. Right next door, for shit's sake! Only he was way on the other side from my closet domain.

    I didn't yell. I sat there, my mind running like a high fever. Nothing to conclude, I told myself. Hours went by. I think. Maybe not, maybe only ten minutes. One Mississippi, two Mississippi . . . I imagined myself in one of those vegetative comas, fed by a tube, sponge- bathed, my body creamed against bedsores, fingernails cut so they didn't grow into claws, hair combed each day, trimmed when required, teeth brushed, shades opened and closed accordingly morning or night, cheerful chatter from the day nurse filling the waking grave of my room. Not that I would know, being a turnip. What a great part that would be to play, just lying there acting in voice- over . . . lying there thinking all kinds of things with my vague coma- way of knowing. Fed and brushed and bathed; no worries. But what if I could hear and feel and had not even an eyelash motion to communicate with, just an endless tooling around in my brain over absolutely nothing? I'd want to yell, kick, scream; I'd go mad and no one would ever know. . . . The equivalent of being mentally buried alive. There I am, buried alive again. This is not good. Quick, change the topic. But if I am buried alive, did I do the burying?

    Okay, Ardennes, think of something else. . . . One Mississippi . . . breathe . . . two Mississippi . . .

    Then it was morning again, and Sylvia was waking me up. There was a new tray. It was oatmeal this morning, with milk and butter, toast and jam, and tea. She looked at me as I lay in my corner. I like oatmeal, and I suppose I was hungry, but I didn't budge a muscle.

    "Sick?" Sylvia asked. She was seated on a vanity chair in the open doorway, wide open, revolver in hand. The balcony curtain was open partway, I could tell by the extra light outside my jail. It must be a sunny morning out in the world.

    "Not sick, Sylvia, hungover from all your doping." She didn't react. "I've been wondering what I did to make you hate me so much." I didn't sit up. I watched her sideways, my head on my pillow, cheek in both tied- together hands. I imagine my not eating her food irked.

    "I don't hate you."

    "What, then? I'm locked up three days. Why?"

    "Your oatmeal is getting cold."

    "If you let me eat with the door open, I might jump you." She waved the gun by way of reply. "Sure," I said to the gun. "But would you really shoot me, Sylvia? I don't think you killed Lucille. You loved Lucille. And I don't think you'd shoot me any more than Mucho."

    "Try me."

    I shrugged and slowly rose. She sat straighter. I crawled over to my bowl and picked up my spoon. I ate, and I drank my tea. There was a banana on the tray too. Mucho wandered into the closet. Sylvia called him back. I finished my breakfast while she watched, feeling like a death- row prisoner eating her last meal, the warden look ing on.

    "Do you look at pornography, Ardennes?"

    "Oh, are we having a conversation? How pleasant. Yeah, I've glanced online, occasionally, casually. Why?"

    "Even at my age I love a woman's body. I made my living showing mine. No touching, though. The men did not touch Sylvia Vernon, even when I was getting almost too old and the dance numbers too raunchy and I needed the money. I've displayed enough of myself to make a clock blush, but I kept the men off. These girls today have it bad with lap dances and back rooms. That's not dancing."

    I'd heard this from her already, the tragedy of stripping today. Was this feminism on Sylvia's part? It's not as if anyone was going to pay her anymore to spread her inner sanctum open to the klieg lights. "Is it money you're after, Sylvia? You don't have to go to Andre. I made a ton on films. I'm not greedy, and I'm happy to share." I meant it too; I had enough money to live comfortably for two lifetimes.

    "I've wondered what you do now you no longer act. Actors don't seem to know what to do with themselves when no one's looking."

    "You're not in love with me or anything sad like that, Sylvia?"

    "I could be. I've watched all your films. That first day in the laundry, when you waltzed in out of nowhere, I thought I must be dreaming. What was Ardennes Thrush doing in the Muse laundry room? And you were as down- to- earth as a mouse."

    "A mouse?"

    "Beautiful, and not always a mouse. Who frightened you? Who took your nerve away?"

    "What makes you think I'm frightened, other than of the muzzle of your gun, Sylvia?"

    "What do you want?"

    "I've been asking you the same thing for three days, Sylvia. One of us must know."

    "It doesn't matter what I want."

    "It matters to me; I'm living in your closet."