Monsters (9 page)

Jenny is in the kitchen pouring the coffee when my phone rings. It's sitting out on the coffee table, and I see the screen light up just as it starts buzzing. It's my editor, who honestly never calls. I haven't talked to her in forever. Even with the movie, it's been strictly through e-mail. They don't technically have anything to do with it because they don't own any of those rights, but obviously I've kept them in the loop. She's said sales have already been picking up.

“Hi, Erin,” I say. “How are you?”

“Oh, Stacey, good, great. I'm so glad I caught you.”

“Sure. What's up?”

Jenny walks in with our coffees on this little tray with a plate full of butter cookies. Neither of us is going to eat them. We'll just leave them for the kids. She gives me a look like,
Who's that?
and I shake my head.

“Well, we've got an opportunity we want to talk to you about,” Erin says. “The L.A. book festival is in April, and you know the panel proposals all had to be in months ago, but I was talking to the festival director about how their registration has been really down this year, and how they really need some kind of buzz.”

“Yeah?” I already don't like where this is going.

“And anyway, we got to talking about you and your movie project, and well, we'd really like you to fly out for it. People are always interested in hearing about screenwriting. Especially in L.A. Everyone wants to get into the movies.” She's talking fast. She always does when she's trying to convince me of something. “So you could talk about the project and how it all went and maybe someone from the movie would be willing to join you? That would really be something.”

“You mean like Tommy DeMarco?”

Jenny makes another face at me like,
What the hell is going on?

“Well, that would be fantastic, but we'd honestly be thrilled to have anyone who could speak to, you know, their end of things.”

“Look, I don't know, Erin. You know how much I hate these things, and asking for this favor, this all puts me in a strange spot.”

“I know. I know. But you have to think about how much the book deserves this attention. It's a fantastic book. We all really went out on a limb for it. That's how much we believed in it, and sometimes you have to go out on a limb for it too.”

I close my eyes. “Look, I'll ask,” I say finally. “E-mail me all the dates and specifics.”

I hear this little intake of breath on the other end. “I'm sending you everything now. Call me the minute you know. And Stacey? I really appreciate this.”

I end the call, and Jenny says, “What was that about?”

“It's just this book festival thing, and they want me to go and ask Tommy, and I just . . .” I shake my head. “The whole thing is not what I want to do.”

I'm feeling a little sick. I don't want to call Tommy, but I also don't want to put it off. The longer I wait, the more I'll have to think about it, so I thumb over and scroll through my contacts. He's texted me a
few times, but we haven't talked in over a week, not since the bowling alley.

“Are you calling him now?” Jenny says, and I nod. “You have his phone number?”

“Yeah,” I say, tapping it and holding the phone up to my ear. He picks up on the third ring.

“Hey,” he says. “You know, I'm not really available right now.”

“Oh, sure, no. That's fine, I'll just send you an e-mail.” I close my eyes really tightly, press my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose.

“I'm just fucking with you, honey,” he says. “I thought you weren't gonna call.”

I make this exasperated sigh. “God, you're an asshole.”

Jenny makes a little
oh
sound and holds her hand up over her mouth.

“You keep saying that,” he says.

“You keep acting like one.”

He laughs. “I know. So what's up?”

“Look, my editor just called about doing this thing for the L.A. book festival, talking about the book and making it into a movie. Anyway, it's in April, and I don't know what your schedule is like, but, I don't know, I just thought I'd see if you want to do it with me.” I think I'm talking fast too. I might sound like an idiot.

“Yeah, totally. I'm in.”

“Well, let me send you the date and see if it works for you.”

“No, I'm in. I'll just rearrange shit if I have to. Send it over to Daniel, and we'll get it set.”

“Seriously?” I look at Jenny like,
He said yes!
and she claps silently.

“Yeah. I'm happy to.”

“My editor is going to be thrilled. You're the best.”

“That's what I keep trying to tell you, Stacey, but you don't fucking listen.”

“I'm totally listening now. You're fantastic. You're amazing. I could absolutely kiss you.” I kind of wish I hadn't said the last part, but he just laughs and says, “Of course you could.”

I take this deep breath and let it out slowly. “I'd better call my editor back, but seriously, thank you.”

When I hang up, Jenny gives me these wide eyes and says, “How close are you two?”

“Tommy?” I try really hard to look confused. “I mean, we're friends. It's not like we talk all the time or anything, but you know, I guess we're friends.” I lean forward and take my coffee from the tray, hold the saucer in my left hand, take a sip. “What?”

“You sounded a little flirty,” she says.

“Oh god, yeah, of course. I mean, Tommy's super flirtatious. He's kind of a bully with it actually. It's just, whatever, it's like how he is.”

“You sound like you like him,” she says.

“Oh, come on, Jenny, who wouldn't? I mean, he's gorgeous and smart and funny and mostly very nice, but he's also just a tremendous asshole to women and his life is ridiculous. I mean, yes, of course I like him, but it's not like it's real.” I take another sip of the coffee. I like the way the cup and saucer keep both my hands busy. “I'd better call my
editor.”

“
I
DON'T WANT
the kind with stickers. I want the kind with candy,” Stevie says.

“Honey, everyone's going to be giving out tons of candy. Maybe we should do something different. How about pencils?” I say. I hold up a box of Valentines. They come with silver pencils with blue and pink hearts.

“Those look girly,” Stevie says.

The shelves on either side of the aisle are a mess. There are plenty of Valentines left, but lots of the boxes are in the wrong place. There's a bag of candy hearts on the floor. I watch a woman in the aisle with us nudge it out of the way with her foot, and I'm like,
Seriously?

“They have blue ones too,” I say, and I hold the box close to him so he can see through the little plastic window. “Half of them are pink, and half of them are blue.” Ben's favorite color for a long time was purple. Then he graduated from preschool into kindergarten, and he didn't want to carry his purple umbrella anymore. For a while he said it was his
secret favorite color
, but by the time he got to first grade, it was through.

“Hearts are girly,” Ben says.

Stevie walks to the end of the aisle and comes back with a box in his hands. “I want these,” he says.

“Sweetie, it's just so much sugar . . .”

“No one even likes pencils,” Stevie says, and he starts to cry. “You just want everyone to hate me.”

“Baby,” I say, and I squat down, rub his arm. I know I'm supposed to say no here, and there was a time I was pretty proud of never being manipulated by tears, but since Michael died, it's hard to say which ones are genuine.

•   •   •

The boys dump the boxes of cards out on the dining room table. It usually has some sort of school crap strewn across it. We never eat there anymore. I print out their class lists and dig through my desk for a couple of sharp pencils.

“I can't give this one to anybody,” Ben says. “It says, ‘I'm sweet on you.'”

“I'll take that one,” Stevie says. “I don't care if it's mushy. Nobody cares in my grade.”

“They do in mine,” Ben says.

“So give all the mushy ones to your brother, and Stevie, you give the not-mushy ones to Ben.”

“Is ‘Sweet Stuff' mushy?” Stevie says.

“I don't know,” Ben says. He looks at me.

“It's just objectifying,” I say.

“What does ‘objectifying' mean?” Stevie says.

“Nothing, never mind, I was just making a joke.” They're all mushy. And stupid, and when has “Be Mine” or “Sweet Stuff” ever worked on
anyone?
Would you please just put the names on the candy and let's get this done with?

“But what does it mean?” he says again.

I hear my phone ring inside my purse in the kitchen, and I say, “Hang on, baby. I'd better get that.” It's Daniel.

“Hey, what's up?”

“We've got a problem. It's the script. Jason and Joe. I don't know. You have to come out.”

“What are you talking about? What happened?”

“I don't know. Tommy just wants me to set up a day to get all four of you together.”

“Seriously? I thought the script was done.”

Daniel laughs. “Oh, sweetie, you're cute. They'll be changing shit every other minute. Okay, so, get your calendar out. Jason and Joe can do the thirteenth or the seventeenth.”

“This Friday the thirteenth? Jesus, Daniel, you guys never give me any notice.”

“I know. I know. So which one?”

“My kids are having their Valentine's parties on the thirteenth, so not that day.” I'm one of the party moms.

“Seventeenth it is. Meeting'll be early, so I'll book you a ticket for the sixteenth.”

•   •   •

“Are you kidding me?” I slam the script down on the table. We're in Tommy's study. He's standing in the center of the room, watching me, his arms crossed in front of him, one hand on his mouth.

“I knew you wouldn't like it.”

“This goes way beyond not liking it, Tommy.” I prop my feet on
the edge of the table, but then I drop them back down to the floor, lean my elbows onto my knees. “Goddamn it.”

“Let me get you a drink,” Tommy says.

“I don't want a drink.”

“Well, I want a drink if I have to listen to you.” He walks out of the room.

By the time he comes back, I'm pacing. He's got two small glasses of vodka in his hands, the bottle tucked under his arm.

“Drink this,” he says, handing me one.

“I don't want it.” I set the glass on the table next to the script. I think about dumping the vodka out onto it.

“All right, let me explain Jason's position.” Tommy straddles the arm of the loveseat, balances his glass in front of him. “He's not asking to give her a happy ending. I mean, it's not like he's looking to tie things up, but the original ending is so fucking desolate . . .” and I glare at him, so he holds his hand out and adds, “which I love. But Jason wants a more open ending, not happy exactly, but with the possibility—and I'm quoting him here—of redemption. He thinks it would be easier on the audience. Better for the bottom line.”

“I don't care about making things easier on the audience.” I cover my face with my hands and talk through them.

“And better for the bottom line.”

“That's your problem.”

“Yeah, Stacey, it is. That's why we have to have this conversation.”

“Great.” I cross my arms, look at the floor. It's covered with this expensive Persian rug, all shades of beiges and browns and deep maroons.

“Look. It's not just my money, or I'd say fuck it, let's see what
happens.” I can hear the ice tumbling in his glass as he takes a drink. “A lot of people have money in this. People I don't want to screw.”

“You promised you wouldn't fuck this up, and now you're going to.” I shake my head.

“Slow the fuck down, Stacey. If I wanted to fuck it up, you wouldn't even be here. We'd have just done whatever we wanted, and you would have had to live with it. Let's remember that you don't have any actual rights here, so maybe you should be nice to me for keeping you involved.”

“So you're what, asking for my approval?” I may sound a little bitter, a little snide.

“I'm asking you to make your fucking case.” He takes another swig of his drink, and then his voice softens. “Look, you know I'm on your side, but I can't just lay down the law here, or Jason could walk. Nobody wants that.”

I don't say anything. I lift my arm up, slide my fingers deep in my hair, make a knot of it in my fist.

“Tell me why it's better your way. Convince me, convince Jason, convince Joe. Well, fuck Joe. I don't care about Joe.”

I laugh a little, more to release the tension than anything. I drop to my knees, sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the table, pick up the vodka, but I don't drink it. I just hold the glass in my hand, rub my thumb through the condensation on the side.

“This isn't a Disney story. I mean, we're exploring this whole system of privilege and oppression and then you want to turn this into ‘Oh, she's a plucky heroine, so she's fine, she saves herself in the end.' That's not real, that's not true.” I turn the glass in my hand again. The ice is melting. I finally take a sip. “We have to take the reader, the audience, whatever, all the way. We have to make them feel complicit.”

Tommy sits for a minute. Maybe he's waiting to see if I say more. Maybe he's just thinking. “Okay,” he says. “But you'd better sound a hell of a lot more eloquent tomorrow. And with Jason, you know, it wouldn't hurt if you wore something a little more revealing.”

“If you think it'll help,” I say. “But you're with me on this?”

He nods, sets his glass on the table. “I always was.” He reaches his hand out, pulls me to my feet. “You want me to take you to dinner?”

I hate being in public with Tommy. I hate feeling watched. “I don't know. I've been traveling all day. Can't we just stay here?”

“We can do anything you want, baby.” When he says this, he gives my hand a little tug and raises his eyebrows. “Or did you want to wait till later?”

“Jesus, you are obnoxious.” I try to say this like it isn't a relief to have the question answered.

“You didn't think I was gonna have a room made up for you, 'cause I most certainly did not.”

“Wow,” I say, pulling my hand out of his. “That's a hell of an assumption to make.”

He moves toward the door. “The word ‘assumption' implies the possibility that I could be wrong, and you know, you'd think as a poet you'd be more mindful of your vocabulary.”

“You'd think as a human being you'd be more mindful of being a dick.”

“You'd think, yeah”—he turns back toward me and nods—“but you'd be wrong.”

•   •   •

I wake up around five, which is seven o'clock back home. It's practically sleeping in. Tommy's arm is under my head, sort of on my hair. It's hard
to get free without waking him, but I do. It's so early no one will be here, so I don't really bother getting dressed. I just pull on my T-shirt and slip out to the kitchen, make coffee, take a mug of it into the study, and sit with the script. I read the whole thing. I start on page one, and I read and read and read. Sometime around seven, I hear Tommy in the kitchen, and when I look up, he's leaning against the door frame.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he says.

“Can't sleep.” I lean forward for my coffee, but when I pick up the cup, it's almost empty.

He walks behind the couch, massages my neck, works his fingers up into my hair. “You should try staying in bed.”

“It just makes me feel anxious.”

“Then you should try going back to bed.” He leans down, kissing the curve between my shoulder and neck. He works one hand through the neckline of my T-shirt, rubs his thumb across my breast.

I say, “I'm trying to work here.”

“Yeah, me too.”

He takes the script out of my lap and tosses it on the table in front of us, and the pen I had tucked in the middle of it falls to the floor. He reaches both hands around me, his fingers massaging the insides of my thighs.

“Jesus, Tommy.”

“You can keep fighting me,” he says, his mouth against my ear. “I mean that's a lot of fun too, but they're coming at eight-thirty, so if you want time to shower, you're gonna have to give in soon.”

•   •   •

When I come out, Daniel is bustling around the kitchen, setting everything up. He fills a carafe with coffee, sets it on a tray with cups
and spoons, a little pitcher of milk, and a sugar bowl, and when he turns around, the tray in his hands, he sees me and smiles. He sets the tray back down and circles the island toward me.

“So good to see you,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “There's toast, yogurt, fruit. What can I get you?”

“I'm good,” I say, and he frowns at me. “I'll grab something in a little bit.”

He picks the tray back up and carries it across the room. “Meeting's in here,” he says. “Tommy says it's more intimate, it'll bring down their defenses.”

And it is. If the living room is clean and spare and modern, the overstuffed leather couches by the fireplace are absolutely cozy, positioned closer together than they'd need to be in a room this size, the heavy wooden coffee table weathered-looking, the sort of table where you feel comfortable putting your feet. The fireplace is oversized and old-fashioned and wood-burning, and there's a small fire crackling away. It's not like it's cold here, not compared to Nebraska, but it's all for show. The ceilings in this room are high enough that the extra heat shouldn't matter.

•   •   •

Jason and Joe walk in together. I've already folded myself into the closest corner of one couch. They'll have to walk past me to sit down. Tommy greets them both in the kitchen, but I don't stand up. I just glance over and wave. As Jason approaches, I hold my arm up toward him, and he leans over the back of the couch to kiss me on the cheek. I know he looks straight down my shirt, but it's okay. I'm kind of inviting it.

“I hear you want to fuck up my book,” I say just as his lips touch my cheek. I feel him startle against me, but he laughs, pats my shoulder.

Joe does not kiss me on the cheek. He sits down heavily on the couch across from me and says, “Hey. Good to see you.” He says it like he absolutely does not mean it.

Jason looks like he's moving toward the opposite couch, but Tommy circles the long way around and steals the spot, so Jason has to sit beside me, close to the fire.

Joe has already poured himself a cup of coffee, selected a Danish. He looks thoroughly uninvested. Jason looks a little uncomfortable. Maybe the fire's too hot, but Tommy's sitting right next to the fire too, and he seems completely relaxed. He has one foot resting on the opposite knee, and the script open in his lap. He's flipping through the pages near the end of it.