The Cutting Room (20 page)

Claude and Alice’s home was almost like the others on the unprepossessing block. Yet its overgrown lawn and rickety old station wagon in the driveway implied there were different kinds of people inside. The inhabitants were more impoverished—or maybe just more absentminded—than their neighbors.

But they were warmer, too. As soon as Jeanine cut the motor of our Mazda, Alice Kripp came running from the front door, her arms outstretched, her golden retriever, Gilda, beside her.

Gilda, of course, was named for the movie starring Rita Hayworth in the title role. Several shots in the film—in one, where Rita dares bar patrons to unzip her dress during her “Put the Blame on Mame” number—were clipped for initial runs, then later restored.

Surprised, I realized that anxiety was provoking trivial thoughts. Yet I was not being shot at, pursued on motorcycle, or beaten by a bodyguard. It was a smaller, domestic danger, one represented by the warm hug now being given by Alice, and gratefully reciprocated by Jeanine.

For the first time, I noticed that Jeanine was better dressed than before, her T-shirt and sweatpants exchanged for a fetching little jumper. Perhaps her feelings about me had been resolved, provoked by the Erendira scare. Or else she had never really been conflicted in the first place. Some mysteries existed because people created them intentionally, I thought, and I meant myself.

“Roy!” Alice was saying now. “Get out of the car and come on in!”

I did so, not sure if I were to be in hiding now or exposed to new threats. Arm around Alice, Jeanine went happily up the walkway, the dog wagging up the rear.

I couldn’t help it, two issues still nagged. The “blind” peace officer who decked me—obviously working undercover for Webby—had only been looking for a gun. So no one had informed him about a Filofax.
Had
the L.A. gunman really been working for Webby? Or had I been totally mistaken?

The other thing involved the Kripps. As I got inside, patted their dog, pumped the hand of Claude, and received a kiss from Alice, I wondered if they could offer me more than just a place to sleep.

The Kripps were advisers to the American Film Preservation Committee, set up by Congress to restore U.S. movies. Each year or so, they designated more pictures as worthy of being saved, and money was allotted to restore them.

Congressman Webby Slicone was their stumbling block.

It wasn’t the project to which he objected, it was some of the films. Anything remotely sexy or violent, anything R-rated—anything, in other words, recent—was rejected by Webby as unworthy, as a sop to his far-right followers.

This surprised some; Webby had, after all, come from “the arts” and should have been sympathetic. But I knew that those days were over and, besides, Webby had always been more interested in money than in the DreamDates’ songs. After all, no one could really be proud of “The New Math.”

Could Claude and Alice help me get to Webby without my telling them about
The Magnificent Ambersons
? I still didn’t trust other trivial people.

But the Kripps were now making it hard to think about any business, nefarious or otherwise. Though only in their mid-forties, they had a funky parental air that immediately put one at ease or on edge, depending on one’s relationship with one’s parents. (The less said about mine, the better.)

Claude was burly and bearded, with crazy, flyaway hair, and a cherubic face, most of which was cheeks. Alice was his distaff equal, her full face ruddy and cute, with a button nose and cheery, relaxed blue eyes. She, too, was heavy in a hearty and happy way.

I would have felt like crawling into their laps if I had not been planning on using their contacts, while revealing as little information of my own as possible.

“Sit down,” Claude said, lighting a cigar. “Our home is yours. Don’t hesitate to make yourself comfortable.”

Their son was six, and a scruffy, freckled, perfect lad he was. All arms and legs, he was presently placing two action figures in mortal combat against each other on the living room rug. I had not remembered his name or perhaps had just, for my own purposes, blocked it out.

“Orson,” his mother said to him, “do you remember Jeanine and Roy?”

He only remembered Jeanine.

The house—as cluttered and informal on the inside as out—smelled of old clothes, coffee, and the broiled chicken dinner that was presently cooking. Books, newspapers, and videos were everywhere, yet the squalor seemed happily domestic and not unhappily desperate. It was amazing what the addition of a spouse—and, of course, a child—could do to the trivial-person atmosphere.

Jeanine was already busy in the kitchen with Alice. They could be heard trading information about recipes that I had no idea Jeanine had. This left me alone in the living room with Claude, the dog, and, beneath our feet, the whirring, hissing form of Orson.

I could tell that Claude was looking at my bruised-up face, but he was too polite to mention it.

“So,” he said, “which way did you take to get here?”

The question took me aback. I was about to answer, “Well, through Hollywood, then into Spain, then back to L.A., then here,” but I realized that he meant which highway, in the usual manner of suburban men. I could only answer, “Uh, Jeanine would know. I don’t, uh, drive.”

This did not ruffle Claude, who was, amazingly, a good host in addition to being a trivia man specializing in film noir. He chuckled appreciatively.

“Well, I guess it’s a better season in New York than in Boston, ay?”

Now it was even stranger: weather. Well, who couldn’t discuss that?

“Yes,” I answered lamely, “it’s been a beautiful fall.”

Claude guffawed, pleasantly, at my misunderstanding.

“I meant that your Yanks are really tearing it up.”

My God, I realized to my horror, it was
sports
! That kind of trivia existed in another universe from mine altogether. I did not know anyone from that sphere, although I had heard that baseball statistics closed as many eyes at night as Oscar facts did mine.

Here was a trivia man who had room in his head—and in his home, evidenced by the different kinds of books around—for other interests, small talk, a cigar, and a son! Looking at Claude with a combination of awe and fear, I was unable to answer anything other than, “I don’t, uh, follow sports.”

My non-response still did not deter Claude, who merely kept smiling good-naturedly. His son, however, began to smell a scary creep; subtlely, Orson moved his battling figures from the floor around my chair to the space near his father’s feet, as if for safety.

I remembered the end of
The Heartbreak Kid
, in which Charles Grodin sits with discomfort amidst children at his own wedding, the one he had destroyed his first marriage to have. The original ending had him hitting on the mother of his bride, Cybill Shepherd, to imply his constantly restless nature. After unhappy previews, it was cut.

“Do you smoke?” Claude asked.

I was starting to sweat now. I recalled the original ending of
Where’s Poppa?
, in which George Segal—that ethnic pioneer—hits the sack with his own, senile mother, Ruth Gordon, who thinks he is her husband. In the released version, he only drops her off at an old folks’ home.

“Close,” I said, trying for humor, “but no cigar.”

This joke was a lucky one. Claude—who knew music, too, and pop music at that!—came back with, “I think you owe our friend Webby a royalty. And believe me, knowing Webby, he’ll collect!”

I laughed, too, and gratefully. This was my chance: an ideal opportunity to swerve the topic away from general interest—and normal life—to my single-minded pursuit.

“So, how often do you two meet with Webby?” I asked.

“You make it sound like we all play bridge, or something,” Claude chortled. “There are lots of people on the panel, and we just make our report to him.”

“And he generally shoots down whatever films Claude and I suggest,” Alice added, re-entering the room. She was carrying a plate full of chicken, and Jeanine followed with salad and bread. Gilda, the dog, stood up and joined them.

“But we
have
arranged to meet with him,” Claude said, “to lobby him, I should say, for certain films—while he’s here in town.”

“You
have
?” I said, my voice breaking.

But that was the end of the subject. It was time for us all to eat.

“Why, what a feast,” Claude said, rising to take plates and help.

“Yes,” I said, trying to approximate normalcy. “You, uh, really shouldn’t have.”

“Are you kidding?” Alice said congenially. “How often do we get to see old friends?”

Everyone agreed with this, sincerely. Then we all took our seats at the table, Orson avoiding the chair beside me and choosing the one next to Jeanine. As I opened my mouth to continue my discussion, I saw Alice and Claude join hands.

“Claude, honey,” Mrs. Kripp said, “will you say grace?”

The trivial firsts just kept on coming! Shaken, I felt Jeanine take my hand, her head bowed, with real solemnity. My other hand was held by Alice as her husband murmured thanks.

“For good food, health, and fine company.”

Everyone chimed in with “Amen,” and I came in a moment late, so I said it by myself. This gave the impression of unselfconscious spirituality, and Alice smiled at me beneficently, moved.

“Now, let’s dig in,” Claude said.

Jeanine helped little Orson—who had brought an action figure with him to the table—cut his meat. She spoke to him in a gentle and whimsical tone I had never heard from her before. Then my attention was diverted to the beverage bottle that sat before him.

To my shock, I saw that it was Fizz.

I reached over to examine it and, as my fingers grazed the bottle, Orson grabbed it back, as if my touch would taint it.

“That’s mine!” he said.

Slightly frightened by his hostility, I instead addressed my question to his mother.

“What is that stuff, anyway?” I tried to sound casual.

“Oh, some trial giveaway at school,” Alice said. “Apparently it’s very popular in Europe. They’re trying to bring it to America. Would you like some?”

“Oh, no,” I said quickly. “That’s really all right. I was . . . just curious.”

As Orson turned and sought to shield his drink from me, I saw a tiny figure on the Fizz label. Astride her bike, hair blowing wildly in the wind, a minuscule Erendira appeared only inches away.

A slight shudder went through me as I swallowed the—delicious, by the way—chicken. Would Erendira actually be in the country now? Had Jorge allowed her to leave Spain, or had she broken off with him? The need to retrieve
Ambersons
from Webby suddenly seemed an even more pressing concern.

Yet there seemed no way to re-introduce the subject. Jeanine was either discussing children’s eating habits with Alice and Claude—who were very interested—or else bending to “battle” Orson’s figure with a chicken leg.

The best I could do was venture into typical trivia territory, hoping to steer the talk back to where it was at least recognizable to me.

“Well, you know what John Huston said about kids, when he was directing
Annie
. . .” I began.

But no one picked up on my segue. There was just as much indifference as there might have been at any other table, as indeed there had been at the police station so long before. I felt my left leg begin to vibrate agitatedly beneath the table, causing Jeanine’s plate to rattle a bit beside mine.

She reached over and, with a soothing touch of my arm, said, “Relax. Just for tonight, okay?”

I tried to do as she suggested, just to keep my leg from kicking. For a minute, I banished any thought of trivia, even any idea of
Ambersons,
and tried to concentrate only on the words said around me.

And I found that there was a kind of peace to it. They talked of politics—Webby wasn’t mentioned—of home repair, and current academic issues at the college. We ate dessert—a luscious mocha layer cake, by the way—and drank an exotic decaf coffee.

“Care for an after-dinner drink?” Claude asked.

I did.

My mind swirling from the very mild liqueur, I retired to the living room with the others. In the corner, Orson colored by himself. Despite the stacks of videos everywhere, we played Scrabble, and the TV was never turned on.

Alice won, Claude was a close second, and Jeanine a surprisingly strong third. I didn’t even break double-digits, and everyone was polite enough not to laugh.

Then it was time for bed.

Claude “airplaned” Orson up the stairs, the boy laughing and squealing, Alice calling “Be careful!” but not really seeming afraid. I ascended the stairs after them, Jeanine walking arm in arm with Alice in my wake.

“I made up two rooms,” Alice said, carefully but also kind of coyly. “Is that all right?”

Jeanine gave me a quick glance, and I looked back at her, the drink making me mute. Having relinquished the controls I usually applied in my head, I now had no idea what to do or say. So I left it up to her.

“Two rooms,” she said, “yes.”

Claude and Alice discreetly went to bed, whispering, “Sweet dreams” to us both. Then Jeanine wavered in my doorway for a while.

“Well,” she said then, “that was a lovely evening.”

She did not say it casually. She said it wistfully, as if she had witnessed something attainable but ever out of reach. Then she stared at me directly, and I could only look away.

I still restrained myself from introducing any side issues, from asking why Webby had looked at my face as he had, or wondering if the Kripps would help me out, certainly from any utterance about Erendira. And I found that, far from making things harder, it made them easier.

Had everything always been an avoidance? Was even finding
The Magnificent Ambersons
an excuse? By fitting films together, searching for lost pieces, unearthing treasures, was I—were all trivial people—trying to repaint a picture that was missing something crucial? Was it standing in the doorway before me now?

I decided to find out. Taking Jeanine by surprise—indeed turning her back, for she had turned to go—I said, “Why don’t you close the door?”