Twice a Child Page 7

  He smiled. That meant several takes, choosing perhaps a few seconds for the final cut. The thought of what the day would bring, a full day of watching Riley Andrews’ twenty-two year old breasts and cooch (he wanted to see for himself if the rumors were true, that she sported a golden pelt), that slender waist and—God! He could hardly stand it!—apple butt in his face all day long, was too much for this horny bastard this early in the morning. His strokes grew more furious as he visualized Riley, and though he had no specific plan for how to go from her director by day to her lover by night, confidence swelled inside him in tandem with his first orgasm of the day.

  He’d be all business today.

  And all over her tonight.

  “Derek’s health insurance doesn’t cover cosmetic surgery. He’s suing us.” Ricki pounced on him as soon as she saw his boot tip enter the trailer. “And Saul’s got everything rigged to go. He wants to do it this morning, the light will be great and it’s going to be a mother of a hot day later. Better to get the fireworks off this morning.” She monitored her laptop as if it spoke to her. “Oh, and someone called, a woman. Said her name’s Tina.”

  The coffee burned on the way down Eddie’s throat. The bitter aftertaste lingered in his mouth, spoiling his good mood.

  “What kind of shit coffee did you pick up, Ricki? I told you: espresso beans from One Good Joe. How hard is that to remember?” He hurled the cup at her, narrowly missing her laptop.

  Ricki looked up from the screen in astonishment. “They’re closed on Monday.”

  “Then buy enough to last until Monday.” He measured his words, as if speaking to a child. A headache sprouted at the base of his skull. It was only seven-thirty. “When did she call?”

  “Right before you got here, boss.”

  The crew bickered outside as they set up the wreckage in a wooded area outside the staff tent. Metal clanked, leaves crunched beneath a steady procession of busy feet, profanity provided the soundtrack. Eddie watched the gate for Riley’s car; he had told her to be here by nine. Makeup should be a breeze: a gash to the forehead, some bluing under the eyes, and for added measure, a few blood drops on those luscious tits of hers.

  Tina probably needed some cash. Kids are expensive, how old was that little bastard of hers now? A baby, that’s all he could remember the last time she had emailed, that she had a baby, a boy. Well, that’s nice, kid. Have fun with that. She could have been Madame Curie but no, she had to go get herself knocked up, ruin her life.

  Ricki met up with him by the gate where he gazed skyward, checking the sun’s angle.

  “We have to shoot this scene this morning or else it’s going to be in shadow. It needs to be bright, like almost fuckin’ white . . . where the hell’s Riley?” Eddie’s stomach growled. As he watched the crew bury the wrecked car in leaves and mud, its front end smashed against a massive tree like an accordion, Ricki held out the phone for him.

  “Tina,” she mouthed as her face twisted into an apology.

  The pit in his stomach felt like the wreckage he watched slowly disappearing beneath mud and wet leaves. Pop couldn’t have died so soon. It’s only been a month, right? He knew they were close, like joined-at-the-hip close, but a month? Maybe the old man took more pills than he was supposed to, God knows he took enough of them.

  Eddie grabbed the phone. “What?” He blurted his usual greeting, something he had perfected over the years, a rushed greeting that implied exactly what it was meant to: can’t you see I’m busy here?

  “Is this—Eddie?” Tina sounded exactly the same—young, naive. “This is your company?”

  He looked around, maybe she was calling tucked behind a tree, watching him the whole time. “My company—what?”

  “Bloody Hell Productions. I found your card in my wallet and hung on to it. How are you?”

  “How’s Grandpa?” He hit up one of the guys from the crew for a cigarette.

  “Well, he’s okay. He’s with me . . . and Joshua.”

  “Yeah? Got you roped in, does he?” He kicked a pile of leaves, watched them scatter under his swing just like the crew working on the car did as he approached.

  “Why didn’t you come to Grandma’s funeral?”

  It wasn’t like that, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to come; he had other obligations, contractual obligations, damn it, that prevented him from taking a goddamn cross-country trip to Lebanon, P.A. for a two-day sob fest. He made his farewell to his mother in his own way. That was between him and his mother, he didn’t need to hear all the grief from the relatives as to why he never comes home and how could he let go of such a lovely family and— “I’m in the middle of a shoot, that’s why. People depend on me for a paycheck, I got investors wanting a return on their money—now . . .”

  “You also have us. And one of us, your mother, died. D.E.A.D. As in, you’ll never see her again.”

  “You’re good with all that guilt shit aren’t you? Look, Tina, you’re right. Mom—Grandma, died. She doesn’t know who the fuck went to her funeral, does she? Because she’s D.E.A.D. Funerals aren’t for the dead, they’re for the sorry assholes left behind. I made my farewell, okay?”

  A baby murmured in the background. Eddie threw his spent cigarette into a pile of leaves, causing a miniature bonfire. One of the guys scurried over to it, extinguishing it with a mound of damp dirt.

  “You know what?” Tina exploded. “You’re the asshole. I don’t know why I even try to talk to you—”

  Riley Andrews’ black town car pulled up the lane. “Yeah, okay, hey I gotta go. I’m on set. And my star just arrived.”

  Not even the sight of that glorious golden girl could keep Eddie from loathing his behavior on the phone with Tina.

  Was he supposed to feel badly about coming out here? The Night Lovers wouldn’t have happened in that podunk town, though he had tried to make it work. Months of blocking scenes, assembling a skeleton crew for the shoot, auditions for the extras, securing a location, only to be pushed to the side by the star, Hayden Northland, some goddamn prima donna, handed everything by his Oscar-winning father.

  The bile rose in Eddie’s throat. The son-of-a-bitch made a name for himself in his film—Hayden Northland basks in the glow of superstardom, thanks to him, star of a hit television series and God knows how many more films. Did he ever ask Eddie to direct him? Did he ever so much as throw him a crumb?

  “You ready to shoot? Light’s perfect.” His first camera operator shrank back at Eddie’s unspoken but withering reply.

  He motioned to the crew to be ready in five and walked the path Riley Andrews would take in the next few minutes. He’d appear to be scouting for the perfect angle. What he’d really be doing was talking himself out of a seismic bad mood he felt coming on: his breath growing shallower, his brow knitting together, the urge to spew hateful vendettas at anyone who crossed his path catching in his throat.

  You are a major director, A-list. You wrote and directed a film that allows you to live in Santa Monica. You will walk the red carpet.

  You’ll show everyone.

  Nothing helped, not the affirmations nor the walk. Not even the heavenly sight of Riley Andrews in a form-fitting beach cover-up, waiting to take it off at his direction.

  Blackness enveloped him. A quake began at his core, seized the rest of his body until the shaking began. He steadied himself against a tree, shooed away an assistant who rushed to help.

  Goddamn Hayden Northland for being born into an acting family, fuckin’ Hollywood royalty. And what did he get? A job at his dad’s steel plant in Podunk, P.A. where everyone hated him. He even hated himself. He had to leave, didn’t they see that? He wasn’t going to be stuck in some godforsaken backwater pretending to be a good father and husband, working day after day in a steel mill with a father who wouldn’t listen to any ideas he had about making the business grow, who was stuck in the 1950s where honesty and your work ethic were as effective as cheating and lying are today.

  He was the first born, the only
son.

  Eddie spat on the ground, took a deep breath. What the fuck could she possibly want from him?

  Why was Pop with her?

  The trees swayed in the balmy breeze. Eddie looked up into the branches and leaves and held on to the trunk. The last time this happened all he had to do was breathe, deeply like he was doing right now. In. Out. In. Out. There. Like that. There. The world would go on. He’d finish the scene, grab some lunch. Then maybe he’d call Tina.

  Leaves crunched beneath his feet as he walked toward the cluster of cameras, lights, and people scurrying to their positions when he came into view. They were ready, waiting for his word.

  They all know if this goes half as well as The Night Lovers they’ll be set for the rest of their careers. That’s because of me.

  He stopped and surveyed his kingdom. No one breathed; all eyes were directed to him.

  Eddie broke into a wide smile and climbed into the cage. “Up!” he commanded, and from twelve feet off the ground he set the lens on the wreckage now perfectly half buried in mud and leaves, Riley waiting in the passenger seat.

  At his signal, she removed her cover up. An assistant materialized and gathered it from the ground, ran out of camera range. In another minute, on his direction, Riley’s perfect body would emerge in full view of his lens and he would follow her through the camera to the end of the path. A few more shots and it would be a wrap.

  If he were lucky, he’d wake up tomorrow beside that naked body, in his bungalow, the sound of the ocean reminding him that he had gotten away, as far away from Podunk, P.A. as he could.

  Now was the time.

  “Action!”

  thirteen

  I don’t know this place. It’s too white and it hurts my eyes. All that white needs to be broken up with stuff on the wall or something. Even the furniture’s white—the tabletops, glass.

  It’s only two rooms. The toilet’s a closet. There’s a head and a toilet paper roll. I gotta wash my hands at the kitchen sink, if you call that a kitchen. Mamie won’t be able to make it from the sink to the counter without bumping something off it with that generous rump of hers. She’s going to throw a fit when she sees what we’ve come up with as a place to live.

  I’ll have a look outside. Tina told me to stay here, she’d be a minute, but that’s what she said yesterday and that minute took forever. I’d like to see her sit around this place, on this patio furniture that’s supposed to be the living room, staring at white walls. No TV, no nothing. A few noisy kids yellin’ next door.

  So what’s out here I’m not supposed to see? Tina’s got the place all closed up, but I know how to work these blinds. There should be a stick on the end of them, pulls them open.

  No stick. Maybe I can keep them open with my body.

  Shit.

  How did I get my nose to touch the window? Did I lock myself out?

  I’m still inside . . . how do I get out of here? Look at those kids, little ones, little brown ones. A whole bunch of them, splashing around in plastic pools, look at them all having fun. I need to get down there . . . that must be their mother over there reading a magazine. Where the hell’s the sand? Looks like concrete to me.

  It’s awful hot. Think I’ll sit down.

  Look at those kids pouring water all over themselves. Squealing, laughing. Kids don’t need much. Just someone to look out for ‘em, is all.

  I was good at that, taking care of my family.

  Hey, that’s a palm tree. Looks sick, leaves are brown. Must not get much rain here. I have to remember to tell Mamie about these kids. She loves kids.

  fourteen

  “Grandpa?” Tina set the car seat down in the living room. Joshua had fallen asleep on the way back from shopping and she hoped he’d stay asleep long enough for her to unpack the groceries and make some lunch. “Grandpa? You here?”

  He couldn’t be too far, she thought. Not many places to hide in here. Thank God they had found something furnished and somewhat livable. She imagined that if she was here under other circumstances—aspiring actress, say, or screenwriter—this place would be Mecca. It had everything they needed: a kitchen, a bathroom, a sofa, a bed stored in the wall, table and chairs, even dishes. Mismatched, but so what. She was relieved they could go month-to-month on the rent. Judging from the phone call with Eddie it would take some time until he agreed to meet her. She couldn’t even think about asking to stay with him. Besides, she didn’t get the impression that Grandpa meant to stay out here. He just wanted to see his son.

  Where was he anyway? Why were the blinds bulged like that—“Grandpa!” She pushed the blinds aside and discovered him, asleep, wedged between the patio door and the vertical blinds. The glass doors radiated heat from the afternoon sun, the tight space like an oven. She felt his pulse: strong, even. He had fallen asleep; probably the sound of the kids splashing around and the heat lulled him into it. She nudged him.

  “Grandpa? Wake up.”

  He stirred. She searched for the pull on the blinds to no avail, decided to sweep them open from the top. Sunlight poured into the tiny room, glaring down on Joshua who started to whimper. She nudged Grandpa a second time, and this time his eyes opened. She reached under his arms to give him some leverage, not sure how unsteady he would be.

  “You have to turn the heat down, Mamie. Too damn hot in here.”

  fifteen

  He promised her top billing and a profile piece in People magazine if she’d have dinner with him at the bungalow.

  “You’re different,” he had whispered in her ear after they wrapped for the day. And he could smell the earthiness of her, skin dappled with sweat, a musk all her own. He held out her robe. She was shy at reaching for the sleeves, keeping her back to him, where he enjoyed a view as spectacular as it gets: her legs and ass one in the same, a prized thoroughbred. “There’s a seriousness about you I haven’t seen in other actresses before.” He gently guided her shoulders to face him and went to jelly inside when she looked straight into his eyes, her large green irises a perfect complement to the freckles sprinkled across an upturned nose; a gamine with a chopped strawberry blonde helmet of hair.

  And that bush, now tightly under wraps behind pink silk. Eddie loved silk robes on his actresses. Their nipples added a peek-a-boo quality; enough of a tease to get him through until the evening when the ingénue would inevitably knock on his bungalow door.

  “You actually understand the material,” he said. “You inhabit the character. You are her.” He wondered if he got the smile right, going for a professorial quality, the wise mentor versus the kindly father, the concerned uncle. No, no, he was never very good at that, fathering. But he didn’t want to think about that right now, that business with Tina being out here in his little piece of paradise.

  “I was an English major,” she replied. A blush colored her alabaster skin as if Makeup had rushed over and applied it all in the right spots. “Cheever, Updike, Carver—they get people, you know?”

  Oh, her sincerity. Made his heart bleed.

  “I think that’s where my empathy for the character was born.” And, as an aside, “I read a lot.”

  Why waste a perfect opening? “Meet me at my place and I’ll make you the most exquisite risotto you’ve ever tasted. We’ll make a fire on the beach and you can read to me—whatever you’re reading right now.”

  “Eddie, I’m flattered.” She lowered her eyes, the fringe of eyelash brushing her cheek. “But, I’m in a relationship.”

  “Bring him along then! The more, the merrier!” Calling their bluff often worked.

  Riley Andrews blushed again, a crimson stain starting at her forehead and spreading to her Kewpie doll lips. Her eyes remained downcast, golden lashes fanning those cheeks. “Her,” she said.

  Jackpot.

  The girls left the bungalow early in the morning, the sun just beginning to crack the cover of night. Eddie walked to the deck, naked, and watched the sun rise, the scent of last night’s tryst lingering on his lip. He could id
entify each of them, one slightly salty with a hint of female musk, the other a bit earthier, maybe a bit unwashed. He liked that, the way the girls today reveled in the natural, no need to mask their scent with sprays or douche. His hard-on grew angrier, demanding, as he recalled last night’s tangle, an infinite pleasure of sensory detail he knew he’d be sore to miss when he stepped into his morning shower.

  He had two calls to place today, the first to cash in a favor from Roger at People—casting that queen’s boy toy in The Night Lovers still paid enormous dividends, and he didn’t care if Rog leveled a pained sigh at yet another request. Wasn’t it he who helped him climb the ranks to contributing editor of that inane magazine by feeding him a turnstile of starlets, some who went on to walk the red carpet? He’d remind him of Tara Newhouse, a sprite he featured in Dead Once More, her second film that brought out her comic edge. So much so that she had walked off with a Best Supporting two years after Roger splashed her supermodel face all over the cover. He’d remind good ol’ Rog how gracious he had been when People took credit for her discovery.

  Eddie put on a pot of water and scooped some espresso into the press. The smell of the strong coffee burned off the haze of the Maker’s Mark the three of them demolished last night. He blinked as if to remove debris from his eyes. The old feeling crept under his skin—that tingle of defense, as if girding for a fight with someone just beyond his reach. It invaded his soul with no warning. He wanted to cling to the scent on his mouth, the pleasure of two nubile bodies flanking him in his bed, the sight of their own generous lovemaking as he sat and sipped a tumbler of bourbon.

  But he had to make that second call. He had to call his daughter back.

  He sipped the coffee allowing the burn to cascade over his tongue, down his throat, into his empty gut. A few seagulls fought over a ghost crab, their shrieks and squawks like the laughter of an old woman. They’d peck at the bird brave enough to lunge for their breakfast, recoil, and then try again, never giving up; the hunger driving them to the point of their own demise, or victory. Rats with wings, scavengers, each day consumed with feeding a hunger that knows no end.