Either, I say.
Molly stares at the sky behind me, shredding her cigarette.
I quit the play because it was a conflict. When we begin shooting the film, there won’t be space for anything else.
Are you sure you want to do this film? I say.
Yes, she says.
How old are you?
Twenty-seven. I know what I’m doing.
That’s not what I meant.
What did you mean?
I watch a guy across the street in yellow clown pants, juggling apples. I blow smoke.
Aren’t you afraid of dying? I say.
Of course. But not terribly so.
I have lost people, I say. And think of Henry. Eve. Moon. Their faces boil in my head. I tell her it rips a part of you away that you don’t get back.
Molly shrugs. I want to do this movie. And I don’t think I will be the victim.
No one thinks they will, I say. That’s the genius of this thing. Put three people in a lifeboat, tell them that a storm is coming and that one of them will be dead by nightfall, and they all think it will be one of the others.
Brief, complicated silence.
Then maybe we shouldn’t get attached to each other, she says.
I mash my cigarette out and stare at her. I remember the day I found her in the kitchen. Blue eyes dark with circles and thin lips moving, as if in prayer. I thought she was Franny Glass come to life and she’s right. If I am attached to nothing, then I have nothing to lose.
Too late, she says. Isn’t it?
Jude’s voice. John says you were quite taken with Molly.
Maybe. Why did you lie about the rehearsal?
John, she says. He wanted me to get you out of the house for a while.
I don’t like the sound of that. I look over my shoulder, then back at her.
Why? I say.
Molly hesitates.
The Velvet
, she says. It may not be exactly the film you think it is. It’s a little more complicated.
How so?
I haven’t read the whole script, she says. Only bits and pieces.
How? I say. How is it more complicated?
Molly never answers me. Her eyes roll away white. A vein jumps in her throat and her left arm twitches once, twice. Then clutches at nothing. For one regrettable moment I think she is playing around, fucking with me. Then she slips out of her chair and begins to jerk around on the sidewalk like a fish.
Okay. Molly is having a seizure.
I come out of my chair and fall to my knees beside her. I reach for her hand, my thoughts rattling. The cries of distant birds. Her face is so pale. The traffic noise dies and everyone on the sidewalk disappears. I’ve suffered a dozen seizures in the past five years, but I have no memory of them.
What the hell do you do when someone has a seizure?
I wish Jude were here. She knows about these things. I remember being on a ferry on the Panama Canal with her when a German tourist suffered a violent grand mal. Everyone got out of the way and eyed him with horror and disgust and someone screamed that he was swallowing his tongue, his tongue oh god but Jude said that was nonsense. She said that a seizure victim might bite his tongue, but he doesn’t swallow it. She pushed everyone out of the way and gently held the German tourist’s head until he stopped thrashing, to prevent him cracking his skull, she said.
Molly seizes beside me and I can’t do anything for her but put my hands under her head.
One minute, maybe two.
Then it’s over and she goes fetal. The baby, she says. What about the baby?
I pull my hand away from her as if she’s burning up. I tell myself that she doesn’t know what she’s saying, that a seizure is like fireworks on the brain.
You’re okay, I say. You’re okay.
But I have no idea. I have no idea what I’m talking about.
Molly comes around pretty quick. She sits up and her eyes dart this way and that. Bright blue, with pupils like needles. I hold up three fingers and she says three in a cold, faraway voice. Her voice is angry and I think I understand. I have had seizures, blackouts and whenever I come out of one I am angry and paranoid. I can’t remember anything and I don’t know who has been watching me. I carry her inside and the girl named Daphne brings over a glass of water. Molly says thank you and Daphne smiles and perhaps I’m imagining it, but a look seems to pass between them and I wonder if they know each other.
I called an ambulance, Daphne says.
No, says Molly. I don’t want to go to the hospital.
Daphne shrugs. I don’t care what you do. Just don’t die in here.
Milk, says Molly. Will you bring me a glass of milk.
Whole or nonfat? Says Daphne.
What the fuck kind of question is that? I say.
Daphne glares at me. This is a coffee shop.
Whole milk, says Molly.
Anything for you?
No, I say. Thank you.
I take Molly’s hand. Her skin is a little warm but not unusually
so. I find her pulse and glance at the clock on the wall. Thirty seconds crawl by. Her heart beats thirty-three times.
You sure you’re okay? I say.
I’m fine, she says. Fine.
Molly is slouched low in her chair, staring at me mournfully.
I don’t quite believe you.
I’m sorry.
What was the other thing you were going to tell me?
Molly smiles, a thin bright smile. That I have seizures, sometimes.
Molly drinks her milk slowly and the color returns to her face. It seems unwise for her to get back on the motorcycle anytime soon and she shrugs when I say so. But she doesn’t resist when I take her outside. Molly stands beside me, silent and docile and possibly embarrassed. I tell her not to worry but she just stares at me, forgotten helmet in hand. I hail a cab and help her into it. Molly recites the address and the driver shrugs, says it might be twenty bucks. I give him forty and tell him to make sure she gets there. The cab disappears into slow, maddening traffic. I get on the bike and just sit there a moment. Molly never answered my question. The film is more complicated than Miller gave us to believe. What the hell does that mean. I cruise around Berkley in low gear until I come to a sporting goods store. I go inside and purchase a set of compact, high-powered binoculars, then head for the hills.
I approach the house of Miller from above. I leave the bike on the road and walk until I come to a reasonable vantage point, creep into the neighbor’s yard and climb his tree. If trespassing is the only law I break today then it’s a good day. I am not directly above Miller’s house, but at such an angle that affords me a view of eleven windows.
I am less than a hundred yards away. I scan the windows for signs of life and nothing is doing. It occurs to me that Miller might very well be performing animal sacrifice in one of the rooms I can’t see, but I tell myself that that which I cannot see does not concern me. It doesn’t exist. I settle into the crooked arms of the tree and light a cigarette. I contemplate a nap. I don’t sleep, however. I don’t care to wake up with a broken neck. Twenty minutes pass, slowly. I am bored silly and my ass is sore. I would give my left arm for a pint of whiskey. I smoke cigarettes and watch the house.
The yellow cab rolls up and deposits Molly in the driveway and it does seem like she should have gotten home long before now. She carries a package wrapped in plain brown paper, entering through the kitchen doors. Miller appears and they talk for a minute. Their conversation is relatively subdued, their body language wary. They appear to disagree for a moment. Miller tries to kiss her, but she withdraws. Molly moves into a part of the house that I can’t see. Miller goes into the living room and flops down on the couch. He puts one foot up on the coffee table and does not move again.
A black Range Rover arrives with a U-Haul trailer in tow and I bring the binoculars up. The first to get out is Jude. She wears jeans and boots and a white leather jacket. Her hair is loose and she wears no sunglasses. Now the other doors are thrown open. Two men and a woman get out. One of the men is Jeremy. He wears black jeans and a black T-shirt under a black vest. The other man I have not seen before. He is large, slow and burly, with a red beard and a wild head of red hair. He wears brown coveralls and boots. The woman looks tiny beside him. She wears black sweats that hang loose from narrow hips and a red tank top. There is a camera bag slung over her left
shoulder. Now she turns slowly in my direction, as if regarding the sky. Daphne, from the café. She no longer wears the baseball cap and it hits me. I know where I’ve seen her before. Two nights ago, her name was Veronica. She gave me a grim blow job for ninety bucks. She stares in my direction for another minute, then bends to remove a video camera from her bag.
This is getting interesting.
Jeremy and his burly pal begin to unload equipment from the trailer. I watch them for a moment, glad I am not home. That shit looks heavy. I check the windows of the house and see that Miller has not moved, but now he is wearing a straw hat. He looks like a coke dealer. I find Molly in one of the bedrooms. She wears a black leotard and appears to be practicing yoga. One long white leg is perpendicular to the floor. This is very sexy but I don’t have time for casual peeping. I return to the scene out front. Jude is standing at the back of the truck. The hatch is open and I can’t see her face but I get the feeling she is talking to someone.
Jude leans into the truck and helps a small boy climb out.
He is five or six years old, with a shock of blond hair. He wears green pants and a green T-shirt with a big yellow Nike swoosh across the front. The boy is shivering and so am I. I’ve seen him before. His mouth is covered in duct tape and he is blindfolded but I recognize him straight away. He’s the kid from the videotape, the kid from the baseball game. He is the first-born son of MacDonald Cody.
Jude is gentle with the boy but he looks fucking terrified.
Legs cramped and bright with needles. I stumble, running for the bike.
F
ADE IN
.
Exterior, house of Miller. Day.
Wide angle of yard. Long shadows stretch across a gravel driveway. Two white men, fat and thin, struggle under the weight of a large, black metal case. The thin man is Jeremy, 22, recently employed as a doorman at the King James Hotel in downtown San Francisco. Jeremy is an aspiring filmmaker born in Mississippi. He has lived in San Francisco for seven years, surviving alternately as a bike messenger, meth dealer, male prostitute and busboy. The fat man is Huck, 29, originally from Los Angeles. Huck is a guitar player who supplements his income by running lights and sound for small-budget films, primarily in pornography.
Huck- Get your end up. Get the whore up.
Jeremy- Fuck you. I’ve got my end.
Huck- Just hang on to it. I’d hate to lose a toe.
Jeremy- Take it easy. This is the last one.
The roar of a motorcycle as a rider in black helmet comes down the hill, too fast. The bike spins out of control and the rider lays it down on its side. The rider yanks off his helmet and tosses it to the ground, where it twirls for a moment before coming to rest. The rider is Phineas Poe, white male, 39. Disgraced and severely disturbed ex-cop, with a history of drug and alcohol problems. He is prone to petit mal seizures accompanied by apocalyptic visions. He wears a brown leather coat, jeans, and black shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He approaches Jeremy and Huck, his face pale with anger. He stops just short of Jeremy and puts one hand on the metal case.
Poe- What the hell is going on, Jeremy?
Jeremy- You need to talk to your girl. She’s in charge.
Poe- Were you with her when she grabbed that kid?
Jeremy- I don’t know anything about the kid. He was in the truck when she picked me up.
Huck- Hey, man. This box is heavy. You mind getting the fuck out the way.
Poe- The box is heavy?
Poe shoves Jeremy and the box falls to the ground, spilling open.
Huck- Motherfucker. That is some expensive gear in there.
Poe- Do you think I give a shit?
Huck- Jeremy, who is this asshole?
Poe- I’m Joe Blow. Who the fuck are you?
Huck- The name is Huck. I’m running sound and lights on this picture.
Poe- I hope somebody is paying you well.
Huck- None of your business but yeah, they are.
Poe- You’re an accomplice to kidnapping already.
Jeremy- Listen, brother. We’re on the clock, okay. Why don’t you let us do our job and you can take this up with Jude directly.
Poe turns his head to the right and looks directly at the camera. Now he glances back at Jeremy.
Poe- If you call me brother again, I will eat your fucking heart.
Huck- Oh, man. This is gonna be fun.
Poe approaches the camera. In the background, Jeremy and Huck can be seen picking up the box and carrying it to the house. Poe comes closer now and his face fills the frame.
Poe- What’s your name? Daphne or Veronica.
He puts his hand over the lens. Dark, with slivers of light. The sound of breathing.
Poe- Put it down. Put the fucking camera down.
Daphne- Miller wants everything on tape. Everything.
Poe knocks the camera to the ground and there is a prolonged, blurry shot of dust and green leaves.
Poe- What is your name?
Daphne- My real name is Jennifer. But you can call me Daphne.
Poe- What about the other night?
Daphne- That was like…an audition.
Poe- Jesus…
The crunch of gravel as Poe walks away. The camera is picked up and now there is a shot of his back as he approaches the house. The camera follows him inside.
Interior, the house of Miller. Day.
The living room. The camera swings around Poe as he enters, then slowly pans room. The room is bright with sunlight. High ceilings and massive windows. The window frames splinter the room with shadows in the shape of crosses. The décor is gloomy, futuristic. Bright blue sofa, kidney shaped. Metallic chairs without arms. A chrome loveseat and a coffee table of bubbled volcanic glass. There are a number of kitchen appliances scattered about, broken or taken apart. There is a puddle of red paint on the hardwood floor beneath a bay window. The small, uneven footprints of a child lead away from the puddle and stop near the center of the room, where a number of broken toys lie.