The Woman Who Fell From Grace (36 page)

“You actually sound like you feel sorry for her.”

“I feel sorry for both of you. And for Georgie most of all.”

His brow creased at my mention of his baby.

“What do you feel for her?” I asked him.

“I feel nothing. Pennyroyal is from the past. Pennyroyal is history. My life starts now.” He chanted this woodenly, as if it were a mantra.

“You’re saying you wouldn’t take her back?”

He let out a short laugh. “Would you?”

“If I loved her.”

“Well, I don’t. I don’t love her. It’s over. We had some good times together. Fixing up the house, having Georgie. We had fun. She showed me how. I’d never really enjoyed anything besides my work until I met her. That part … that was good. Like when she showed me around Las Vegas on our honeymoon. She used to party there in college. She likes to party. She likes to go out and do things, be around people. I—I don’t. She just never accepted that about me.” He stuck his chin out stubbornly. “Look, I know it would be a lot easier for everybody if we just kissed and made up. But that’s not going to happen, okay? This isn’t …”

“This isn’t one of your movies?” I suggested.

He grinned at me crookedly. “Then you
have
seen them.”

“They’re kind of hard to avoid.”

“Is that so bad?”

“Don’t mind me. I just tend to prefer things that are in short supply.”

“It’s over, Meat. Penny and me. Don’t think of it as anything but over. All I care about now is my studio and my son.” He let out another of those sobs. “God, I miss him. It’s driving me crazy how much I miss him. I have a mind to drive over there in the night and just snatch him from her.”

“And get thrown in jail for it? That’s precisely the sort of fool thing Zorch would love you to do.”

“But he’s
mine
!”

“She was in on it, too,” I said coldly.

That one made him mad, so mad he nearly blew. But he didn’t. He just glared at me in angry, hurt silence.

“Anything you’d like to ask me?” I said. A peace offering.

“Yeah, there is. Did I piss you off before?”

“When?”

“When I asked you to stop here before you went to your hotel.”

“You didn’t ask me. You told me.”

He chuckled, amused. “Gotcha. I’ll remember that.”

“See that you do. Anything else you want to know?”

“Yeah. How do you feel about
It’s a Wonderful Life
?”

I tugged at my ear. “I understand that’s your favorite movie of all time.”

“Because it’s so uplifting,” he said enthusiastically. “I must have seen it two hundred times, and every time I do I sob with joy. It’s definitely what I’ve aspired to with my Badger movies. You’ve seen it?”

“I hate it.”

The color, what little of it there was, drained from his face. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not.”

“B-But how could you?” he sputtered, flabbergasted.

“Because I come from a small town. A real one, not one that’s on a back lot in Culver City. It was a mean, narrow-minded place, and no one lived happily ever after. I fled as soon as I could. That movie takes me back there. I find it depressing.”

“But it’s such a
happy
movie!”

“It’s a fake movie.”

“No, no, no,” he argued vehemently. “It’s not fake. It’s an
ideal.
We need our ideals, Meat. They’re vital. Without them, we’d all be lost. Totally
lost
!”

He got good and worked up. I let him. Because it wasn’t Frank Capra he was defending. It was Matthew Wax. He was answering all of those critics who had blasted his last Badger movie. He was also giving me an excellent self-appraisal of his work.

“I can’t
believe
you, Meat!” he fumed. “I really can’t. I mean, I’ve
never
met
anyone
who said that before!”

“You never met me before.”

He shook his head at me, baffled. “I don’t understand you.”

“I’m something of an acquired taste, like raw oysters.”

“I hate raw oysters,” he snapped. “They taste like snot.”

Lulu sat up at all of this talk of seafood. I glanced at Grandfather’s Rolex. It was past her suppertime back home in New York, where her stomach’s clock was still set. Of course, when it comes to Lulu and seafood, it’s always suppertime somewhere in the world.

I got to my feet and smoothed my trousers. “I’d like to go to my hotel now.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, agreeably. “Hey, you in a hurry?”

“Seldom.”

“Then c’mon,” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “I want to show you something first.”

He bounded off of the set into the darkness beyond. I tagged along, Lulu bringing up the rear. The late day sun was almost blinding after being inside the soundstage. Lulu froze there in the doorway, blinking, until I slipped her shades on for her. Matthew pulled a Western Flyer out of the bike rack and climbed on. I did the same. Then we set off, riding slowly. It was a comfortable ride, what with the padded seat and whitewall balloon tires. Also a familiar one. I’d had one just like it when I was a kid, and deep down inside I’d always preferred it to the jazzy, grown-up ten-speeder I gave it up for. Matthew’s was somewhat small for him. He rode with his knees stuck out, like a kid using his little sister’s bike. But he seemed used to it. Lulu ran up ahead and escorted us, arfing ebulliantly. More hamming.

“Definitely a great dog,” observed Matthew. “She ever do any acting?”

“Every day of her life.”

“I’ve always loved dog pictures.
Rin Tin Tin
,
Lassie.
Ever since I was a kid. Lulu would make a perfect star, y’know. She’s got looks, personality. Have you ever considered …?” He trailed off when he noticed the look on my face. “Why are you glaring at me like that, Meat?”

“No reason.” A conspiracy, that’s what this was.

“I’d love to direct one of my own someday,” he went on. And on. “I’ve just never found the right story. Hey, if you come up with an idea, let me know. We could develop it together.”

“I don’t do screenplays,” I said. Because I don’t, and because there’s no greater way to keep a movie person eating out of your hand than to reject them. I’ve never understood why that’s so, but it is.

“Suit yourself.” He seemed disappointed.

But not as disappointed as you-know-who. She slowed up alongside my bike and showed me her teeth. I showed her mine.

The studio was quiet now. It was past five, and many workers had gone home. The few we saw gazed at Matthew with reverence as he rode by. But they didn’t wave or call out to him. And he seemed not to notice them at all. We turned off into Homewood and rode our bikes leisurely along Elm. An odd sensation. I felt like I should be tossing the evening paper onto everyone’s front porch. My first paying job, a few short decades back.

“Tell me about your new movie,” I said, shaking off the memory. “I understand it’s to be another Badger.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I’m picking his story up a few years after he’s graduated from Homewood State. He’s moved out here to L.A. and become a really successful film director—although the critics hated his last picture. Debbie Dale is an actress. The two of them are married, but she’s just left him and taken their baby with her.”

“Sounds somewhat autobiographical,” I observed.

“Yeah, it kind of is,” he said sincerely. “I’m calling it either
Badger Goes to Hollywood
or
Badger All Alone.
Which do you like?”

“Neither.”

“God, you’re so negative!” he cried out, chuckling. Then he turned serious. “See, Badger, he’s always had things turn out his way. And now they’re not, and he’s all alone and—”

“Hence the title.”

“Maybe that is a little heavy-handed,” he admitted, glancing over at me. “Johnny’s coming back in it. This is an important picture for him.”

“And what about Pennyroyal?”

“Oh, she’ll still be a presence. Debbie’s constantly in Badger’s thoughts. His dreams, memories. I’ve got footage of her from the first three movies that I never used. Plenty of stuff. She’ll be in it. She has to be.”

“And Trace Washburn?”

“Badger doesn’t need a dad anymore,” he said gruffly. “Badger’s on his own now.”

And Trace was out on his ear. His affair with Pennyroyal was costing Matthew’s one-time leading man plenty.

“And how does it end?” I asked.

“Not happily, Meat,” he revealed. “At least it doesn’t in my current draft. I’m still not a hundred percent sure though. I guess I’m still trying to find it.”

“ ‘The thing that’s important to know,’ ” I quoted, “ ‘is that you never know. You’re always sort of feeling your way.’ ”

“Very true,” he agreed. “Who said that?”

“Diane Arbus, shortly before her suicide.”

The town square was shady, and a bit cooler. Matthew pulled up in front of the courthouse and got off his bike and sat down on the courthouse steps, his long legs stretched out before him. I joined him, the steps feeling warm through my trousers. Lulu stretched out languorously on the sidewalk directly before Matthew, preening like a bikini-clad starlet at a big shot’s pool party. It was a truly shameless display. A stern talking-to was definitely called for.

“I really love this place,” Matthew said wistfully, gazing out over the town green to the old white church. Its steeple was still brightly lit by the sun. The rest of it was in shadow. “A lot of good times here, Meat. Good memories.”

I glanced over at him. There was something creepy about the way he’d said it. As if this were an actual town, not a collection of false fronts.

“I’m gonna use it again in my new movie,” he said. “As what it really is—the place where Badger filmed his last hit, before it all went sour for him. He returns here, searching for answers—like Dana Andrews in the bomber junkyard scene in
The Best Years of Our Lives.
I always loved that scene.” He turned and looked at me. “You really grew up in a town like this?”

“I grew older. I wouldn’t say I grew up.”

He held a freckled hand out to Lulu. She quickly scampered up the steps to him and let him scratch her ears. Me she snubbed. I wasn’t a big-time director. Hell, I didn’t even do screenplays.

“And you?” I asked.

“It wasn’t at all like this.” He shook his semibald head. “Not my old neighborhood. I’ve never been back there, y’know. Not since the day we moved away. That was after Dad died. I’d started working at Panorama. Twenty years. That’s how long it’s been. Not too many good memories of that place. Not any, in fact.”

“Well, that settles that,” I said.

“Settles what, Meat?”

“What we’re doing tomorrow morning, first thing.”

“Do we have to?” he blurted out, like a scared, spoiled kid. “I mean, I’d really rather not.”

“All the more reason to do it.”

His eyes searched my face. “It’s important?”

“It is. Trust me.”

He hesitated, then sighed with resignation. “Okay, Meat. If you say so. We can drive out there. Sure.” He started tearing nervously at his forelock. Abruptly, he stopped himself. “Would you like to read my new script?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Great,” he said, pleased. “I’m curious to hear what you think.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll tell me the truth. Shelley, Sarge and the others—they just tell me what I want to hear. On account of they work for me.”

“So do I,” I pointed out.

“No, you don’t. Not like they do. They depend on me. They’d be lost without me.” He paused, groping for the right words. “It can be a real pain sometimes, having so much say over people’s lives. Nobody’s ever completely straight with me. Not ever.” He looked at me pleadingly. “Will you be, Meat? Please?”

“It will be a pleasure,” I assured him. I wondered if he really wanted the truth, or if he just wanted me to think he did. I didn’t know. I only knew that it would not be a pleasure.

A roar invaded Homewood now. The roar of a motorcycle—a big one, heading our way. It came hard around the corner of Elm, a shiny new Harley Fat Boy, hog of hogs, practically a house on two wheels. A kid with a wild mop of hair was on it. Matthew grinned and waved to him.

The kid grinned back, and pulled up before us with a screech. “Like it?” he called out, revving it.

Matthew gave him two thumbs up.

He revved it again, then shut it off. And then Johnny Forget, Matthew Wax’s troubled young star, climbed off and came over to us. Matthew got up and hugged him. He seemed genuinely glad to see him.

“How are you, Johnny?” he asked. He seemed genuinely concerned, too.

“I’m okay,” Johnny replied in his soft, little boy’s whisper of a voice. “I’m doing okay.”

Johnny Forget wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was twenty-four. But he still came off like one. He was small, about five feet six, and his body and features still seemed softened by baby fat. His angelic good looks remained. The big, soft brown eyes, the full red lips, the shy innocence that made teenaged girls positively melt. He was the same little Johnny, the Johnny who was, for a couple of years, the most photographed celebrity in America, eclipsing even Johnny Depp, Madonna, and Bart Simpson. Clearly, he didn’t want this to be so. He was doing his best to deface himself. His gleaming, matinee idol’s blue-black hair was now a wild mop of Rastafarian dreadlocks, dyed to a garish shade of canary yellow. He wore a nose stud in one nostril, an earring in one earlobe, and a two-day growth of beard. Also blue and purple bruises around his throat, as if someone had tried to throttle him. He had on a black leather motorcycle jacket with all sorts of zippers and buckles, no shirt, torn, faded jeans, and black biker boots. But he was still little Johnny, reeking of Patchouli, the old hippie cologne that smells like a cross between marijuana and spoiled pork.

I hadn’t realized it before—or cared, frankly—but he was also quite obviously a major league boy toy.

“What happened to your throat?” Matthew wondered, as he looked him over.

Johnny stared at him blankly. He seemed a little slow on the uptake, semiglazed, semi-not all there. That’ll happen if you go through a lot of drugs and don’t have a lot of extra brains to begin with. “My what?” he finally said, silently mouthing the words a split second before he said them, as if his voicebox were one beat late clicking in.