Mary Ellen Courtney - Hannah Spring 01 - Wild Nights (8 page)

“You don’t like mine?”

“It’s great, but I smelled this on one of the guys and thought I’d like to smell it on you. Variety is good.”

He looked at me with the same curious smile from the night before. I told him I was going to fix dinner, meaning transfer from cartons to pottery.

He came in the kitchen and put his neck near my nose. “What do you think?”

I sniffed. “Yum, I think I love it.”

I lit candles, dimmed the lights, and added a log to the fire. We talked about his trip to New York and our last run before wrapping the show for good.

We decided to spend our first Christmas/Hanukkah in Hawaii, religiously neutral territory, not that either of us cared about religion. He always went some place sunny when he finished a project. He needed sunlight to purge the gray pallor that developed after sitting in the dark for six or more months editing a picture. I loved Hawaii period; it was my favorite place. We’d make plans when he got back. We did dishes and got ready for bed.

We were lying looking at each other. We started out very slowly, taking it right from the top. We roamed around each other while things heated up.

He slid his hand between my legs and looked at me. “You need to keep showing me. I can’t be completely responsible for both of us.”

“I know.” I showed him again, he stayed put twice as long.

We talked in low voices. I almost started laughing when I considered making a chip shot analogy, not that I’d even know how to do that. Instead I rushed him when it felt like his nose was going to revisit. It still involved a lot of academics, but we were improving, if you call avoidance an improvement. Baby steps. He’s a nice man. I squelched the thought that maybe he wasn’t a slow learner at all, just stingy.

Steve decided to stay behind and do some laps when I went to work.

Karin was already on the set talking to Jim the gaffer and his assistant David. I loved Jim; I detested David. His frequent sexual observations were always creepy.

“Is Vampire Chick going to meet someone before this is over?” asked David. “Or is she going to end the show just rubbing them out herself?”

David always referred to one of the saddest characters in the show as Vampire Chick. She’s an uninspired young artist who really belonged at home with her parents in Palos Verdes. Instead, she sewed shirts and baked cookies for ungrateful deodorant deficient poseurs, and secretly masturbated to vampire shows on her computer. The masturbating part was off screen.

“They’re not mutually exclusive, David.” He snorted, either at the idea that we could take care of ourselves thank you very much, or because I was using my snotty voice.

Karin and I went back to Café Café for lunch so I could give her a progress report in private. I told her that we’d had a definite jump up in skill level, but that I didn’t want to overwhelm him with the bad news about the overall fit.

“A little talking goes a long way,” she said.

“Did you and Oscar talk?”

“Not technicalities. What we said isn’t appropriate for the lunch crowd. We talk now.”

“That’s what I mean, I don’t want a bunch of talk. The whole Stroud thing felt like it had a mind of its own. Steve says he can’t be responsible for both of us. What part of him is he responsible for?”

She started cracking up. “Steve? A heart beat is my guess.”

“He’s okay.”

“You’ve got some magic glasses, girl.”

I told her he was headed to New York. She said I should call Stroud. I told her she needed to let it go.

“Just call him and see if he’s coming this way. Keep it simple.”

The rest of the day was uneventful. The Director sets the tone and ours was much calmer since rehab.

Steve and I talked early in the evening; he was going to bed and catching a ridiculously early flight to allow time for a meeting at the other end. I said I’d start researching beach houses but he already had a deposit on one and he’d send me the link.

I let out my breath. I’d been trying to stuff the memory of Stroud, how that had felt, but now, with space and time opening in front of me, it rushed back in with a vengeance. I slid the Nancarrow CD in. It sounded almost as good at home as it had dancing in a dark bar. The lead singer had been a hottie. I got out Grandma’s box and found Stroud’s card. I wandered around the house turning it over and over in my fingers. My bare feet rippled over every bump and cleft in the stone floors. I poured a glass of wine and ate a banana. I felt so guilty. I called.

“Hi Alan Watts, it’s Hannah Spring. Or should I call you Stroud.”

“Whatever makes you happy.”

We were quiet. Part of me was embarrassed that I’d called; but the wild animal part had opened her lazy eyelids and pricked her ears when she heard his voice. She smiled.

“I wondered if you’d call,” he said.

“I thought I’d give you my number in case you’re coming this way.”

“K. Now I have it. Car still okay?”

“It’s fine.”

We fell quiet again.

“Do you have plans to come this way?” I asked.

“No. Maybe Bakersfield on Sunday, quick flip-flop though.”

“We’re burying Grandma in Altadena on Saturday.”

“Be good to get that done.”

“Well I just thought I’d call.”

“I heard that. Your not a boy boyfriend?”

“He’s going to New York for a week.”

We said good-bye and I kicked myself around the house for a good hour. What was I doing? I knew exactly what I was doing, or at least I thought I did.

“I feel possessed,” I said. “Like I’ve lost my mind.”

“There’s nothing rational about it,” Karin was back at the granola. “I don’t know why you’re beating yourself up over this.”

“Because it’s not fair to Steve. Can you imagine his reaction if he knew I was even fantasizing about a truck driver from the boondocks, much less calling him?”

“He wouldn’t be happy no matter who it was.”

“Well, he didn’t say he’s coming.”

“He’ll come.”

We put in another day making sure that Layla’s slobbiness was in all the right places, that Vampire Chick had fresh looking cookies to offer some asshole who was taking advantage of her, and that the old lady landlord had her doilies and chipped cookie jar in order. Bruce, our director, sent his assistant to see us after lunch.

“They’ve written in a sex scene with a living person for the vampire girl,” she said.

“Really?” we said in unison.

“Yeah. Her agent has been hammering the writer. He doesn’t want her left hanging like that, too hard to shake the image. They’re going to do some heavy petting; then cut to train in tunnel stuff. She’s still a nice girl.”

She handed us the new script pages and rushed off.

“Why can’t she have on-camera sex and still be a nice girl?” I asked.

“She’s from a good family,” said Karin. “And we’re not on cable.”

I drove home in mostly stopped traffic. It would be nice to work in the wide-open Southwest. I had no idea what India was all about; Margaret said we’d have drivers. That alone could seal the deal. Both projects were starting up at the end of January. I needed to make a decision.

I called Steve when I got home. He was heading out for dinner with friends. I envied him a trip to New York while I was pinned down in the last gasps of a bad show.

The phone rang. Eric. “There’s been a hang up. Mom went to an AA meeting today. I guess you knew about that. She came home, called Binky, and read her the riot act about being an alcoholic.”

I thought my brain would explode. “Mom is blaming Binky because she’s an alcoholic?”

“No, Mom is blaming Binky for Binky being an alcoholic,” he said.

“Perfect. I think maybe Mom missed the message,” I said.

“No maybe. World war three has broken out down here.”

They’d been screaming and crying for hours. Mom was insisting that everybody attend the burial. After going to the meeting she had decided to see her mother buried, I didn’t get the connection. She was also hoping that Binky and I would make up. I didn’t see that connection either.

“We need to get Grandma buried before we leave for New York on Monday,” said Eric.

“You’re going to New York?”

“Business trip. Binky has agreed to be there, but it has to be Sunday.”

“I can’t do it Sunday. I have plans,” I said. “Can’t we just go back to Plan A? Let them all stay home?”

“Mom’s coming and now she won’t do it without Binky,” he said. “She says it will be good for her.”

“This is nuts.”

“It gets better. The nice man is coming.”

“What? She just met him. Well she can’t be drinking then.”

“Who knows? As you like to say, he’s a man. Anyway, what do you say, Sunday okay? We plan to get there by 11:00 and do the internment at noon.”

“Mom has a call into me. She probably wants to tell me all about it.”

“Or to tell you you’re an alcoholic.”

“Well if she does, I won’t be there.”

“Relax, I’m kidding. Ted said that during one tirade Mom told Binky she’s a selfish alcoholic bitch, unlike you. You should bring Steve, round things out.”

“He’s in New York.”

“Lucky bastard.”

“What’s Ted think about all this?” I asked. “He must know she’s an alcoholic.”

“He says what he always says. She’s just tired.”

We both said good-bye like the polite people we are. I went straight to the kitchen and poured a glass of merlot. The irony was not lost on me.

The phone rang, no way mom. If she had quit drinking that morning, it meant she had just set the world speed record for obnoxious self-righteous converts. She even beat out Bettina who, when she became a Catholic, after she’d converted to Judaism, after being a fallen Presbyterian, spent six months carrying around some catechism book with her name embossed in gold. I could see Mom getting just
Jackie
, embossed on an AA big book. Nope, not ready for that phone call.

I swam laps until my inner voice went hoarse nattering about Mom, and went to bed.

I was having breakfast the next morning when Mom called.

“Hi, how’d your date go?” I asked.

“The date went fine. His name is Arthur. You probably heard I had a little disagreement with Binky.”

She was using her breathy little hiding out voice, like I might hurt her.

“I did. Have things calmed down?”

“Yes. Though she hasn’t admitted that she’s powerless over alcohol.”

“Did you mention to anyone at the meeting that you were going to confront your daughter?”

“No. Why would I? Everyone was talking about their own problems.”

“That’s my point, Mom. AA is for the people who’re there, not for people to get armed and take the fight to their children.”

“That’s what Arthur said; I don’t see what difference it makes. Your sister’s an alcoholic and she should get help.”

“She has to want help. It’s totally different.”

“Well I talked to Ted last night. He said she might drink too much. He knows.”

“You know Ted, Mom, he probably just said it to get the situation calmed down.”

“Oh well, Hannah, I don’t know why you know so much about this.”

“Because I’ve gone to Alanon.”

“What for?”

“Never mind.”

“Is Steve coming on Sunday?”

“He’s in New York.”

“Well I hope it works out. Men like kittens, you’re almost a cat.”

“I have to go to work.” I hung up without being polite.

Waiting to talk had given the situation a chance to mellow. I was spared the blow-by-blow; I was not spared being called a cat. How do they do that? They roll in the Trojan horse of family concern and out pops the fucking cat.

The buzzer at the gate announced a flower delivery guy with a huge vase of anthuriums, possibly the most overtly sexual flower on the planet. Talk about a clitoris, no man could miss those.

One of the experienced guys I’d known briefly in my wild young days said he’d known a few hookers who looked like that. It’s amazing, really, how freely the men who don’t love you tell you things in bed. I’d heard a little too much honesty from men. I’d like to say it was fun, but in the recesses of my heart it hurt. It got stored away, unexamined, in the shame box. Maybe getting paid to listen made it okay. Hookers must get an earful on top of everything else.

The note said, “Aloha—Steve.” I put them under the white paper lantern where they’d be lit up. They look like wax and have no scent, but the visual can’t be ignored. They murmured under the light like an oversexed Greek chorus. Steve may be in New York, but he was imposing his vision on the film playing in Los Angeles.

We got Vampire Chick all set up for her big breakthrough, then watched as the action unfolded. She chewed-up the scenery. Like the rest of us, she did not want to go out a pathetic rubber-outer. Unlike the rest of us, she had an agent to make sure that didn’t happen. We were getting ready to take down the sets for good. The landlady was scheduled to die the next day; then we’d pack up her doilies and send her to storage.

I got home and called Steve. He planned to take Anna and Eric to dinner. I read scripts by the fire. Steve’s was set along the border with Mexico and revolved around drugs, money, and humans dodging rattlers, cactus, and rubbing bad aftershave against cheap perfume.

Margaret’s took place in 16th century India as the Mughal Empire was in ascendance. It would be a lush period piece that spun around an arranged marriage and palace intrigue. The wife ended up dying for cheating on her husband.

One sounded depressing as hell and involved a lot of gun-toting sadistic assholes with metal-tipped boots, half of them wearing badges; and one conjured silk and incense swirling around people who were depressed as hell with their partner assignment, hapless hoards, and one depreciated woman dying at the hands of sword-toting sadistic assholes. At least the swords were jeweled. I was in a foul mood.

I jumped naked in the dark pool and put in some half-hearted laps before getting in bed with Steve’s script and my laptop. I would be working as an assistant to their guy. I didn’t know him, so overall feel was all I cared about at that point. I was really drawn to working in India with Margaret; she’d never treated me like a peon, even when I was one. But the New Mexico project meant being with Steve, which meant keeping our relationship, which I still hoped meant getting rubbed out one way or another before too long. I was deep into the so-called war on drugs when the phone rang, A. Watts.