John Belushi Is Dead (26 page)

“Well, why wouldn't you just not build anything on that spot? They're onto their third town hall because they keep falling down. It doesn't make sense. Why not just pave it over and put a fence around it?”

“Are you actually asking me?”

“Yeah. Doesn't that seem crazy to you?”

“I don't know. Seems pretty indicative of people to me. They don't want nature telling them where they can and can't build. They'll build where they want, and damn the consequences.”

“Even if it means they could all die if the building fell on them?”

“That's people for you.”

I looked around. Jake's apartment was not what I'd been expecting at all, and if I hadn't known the same exact apartment was directly above our heads, I would have never believed Hank and Jake lived in the same building. Jake's apartment wasn't a dingy old dive with cracks in the plaster and stains on the carpet. It was painted a soft salmon color, and the walls were lined with framed original movie posters:
Chinatown
,
Shampoo
,
Blade Runner
. The carpet had been pulled up to expose gleaming floorboards beneath; a fluffy mohair rug cushioned a polished black leather sofa. In the corner, facing the window, was an antique wooden desk, Jake's laptop sitting patiently on its surface, waiting for his return. Next to the laptop was an unopened pack of Marlboro Lights, a lighter, and a clean ashtray.

“Wow,” I said, stepping forward and surveying the room. “This is nothing like your car.”

“My car's where I let the inner pig out,” he said, hanging his keys on a hook by the door. “Everyone needs a place where they can be chaotic, but your home should be a place of peace. Sanctuary. The chaos of the world must stay outside.”

“It's fantastic.”

I wandered over to a large bookshelf near the kitchen and started running my fingers along the spines. There were books
about screenwriting, of course, but also other unexpected treasures: Steinbeck, Salinger, Orwell. I pulled out a novel by Maya Angelou.

“Oprah's Book Club selection?” I shrieked, reading the cover. Jake rushed over and took the book from my hands, slotted it back into the shelf.

“Give me a break,” he said, fidgeting. “I don't really have people over. I'm not used to having my stuff touched.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, pulling a DVD from the same shelf. “Everything's just so shiny and sophisticated. I keep expecting you to flip a switch and have an Austin Powers–style bed spring out from the wall. Oh no.”

I picked up a photo from the shelf: Jake with his arms around a nice-looking old lady wearing a knitted sweater, smiling, her hair wild and untamed. “Is that your mom?”

“Okay, you've snooped enough,” he said, snatching the photo away. “Go and sit on the sofa, where you won't cause trouble.”

I did as I was told, sinking into the soft leather of the couch. Jake retrieved his laptop from the desk and sat beside me.

“I want to read you something,” he said. “It's something new I'm working on. I want to know what you think.”

“What is it, a screenplay?”

His dropped his head, looking shy. “I'm not sure what it is yet. I guess you'd call it prose at this stage.”

“Oh, prose! Okay, Shakespeare, lay it on me.”

“You're not going to laugh?”

“Is it meant to be funny?”

“Hilda, quit joking around. If you're just gonna joke, I'm not reading it.”

“I'm serious.” I composed myself, folded my hands in my lap. “Proceed.”

Jake appeared uncertain; he opened his mouth, then closed it again, then opened the laptop. I'd never seen him look so vulnerable. Jake cleared his throat and began to read.

“She doesn't know what it is that makes her who she is,” he said. “And he didn't know what it was about her that tore into him, capturing him like a fish on a hook. When she walked, she carried the darkness of the world on her shoulders, but all he saw was the light inside, the ceaseless, boundless light of life and all its possibilities. The possibilities he never imagined he would have for himself. He didn't know if she knew that's what he saw, what she gave to him. He didn't know how to tell her he'd waited all his life for her, missed her every day even though they'd never met. Ached for her when he didn't even know her name. Ached still. Hung on to that possibility like a life raft, because it was all he had keeping him afloat. Her, a life raft, bobbing toward him in a cold sea, a promise of rescue.”

He stopped reading and looked up.

“That's really impressive, Jake,” I said, embarrassed and scrambling for words. “The girls must go weak at the knees.”

“Hilda—”

“We should take this stuff up to Hank's,” I said, looking down at the groceries by the door. “That milk will be getting warm.”

Jake moved closer, then thought better of it. I could see his disappointment, but there were things I didn't know how to tell him, either. How I was scared to let him in, and that I didn't want to love him, because one day we would have to say good-bye, if not today then in weeks, or years, decades from now, when the clock
stopped and took one of us from the other. After losing my parents I couldn't bear it. I would rather be alone.

“I've gotta take a piss,” he said, dejected, and went to the bathroom. He closed the door and I opened his laptop and started surfing through the files on his desktop, wanting to see again what he had just read to me, that beautiful gesture I couldn't return. There were multiple versions of the same file, drafts of something called ICE MAIDEN SCENE that was probably a sex scene he was working on for a film. I opened it and scanned the page: I was right, just some terrible sex scene taking place on a research station in Antarctica of all places. I closed the document. Then another file caught my eye, shoved right down in the corner of the desktop where I might have missed it. The file was called THE_LIFE_UPSTAIRS. I looked toward the bathroom door, waited for the sound of the toilet flushing, but nothing came. I opened the file.

EXT
. NIGHT. RUN-DOWN APARTMENT BLOCK. DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES.

HENRY
, a crusty old man, answers the door to a young girl, LUCY, a middle-class goth slumming it far from home.

I heard the toilet flush, the sound of a tap running, Jake whistling. I skimmed the next line.

HENRY

What took you so long? I'm an old man, I ain't got all the time in the world.

LUCY
holds up a bag of videotapes, old movies.

LUCY

Yes we do.

The bathroom door opened and I slammed the laptop shut and slid it onto the sofa next to me. Jake walked out, pulling up his fly.

“You ready to go?” he asked. “Give the old bastard a visit?”

“Sure,” I said, and forced a smile. I didn't want to feel the way I was suddenly feeling. I grappled with my panic, pushed it all the way down to my feet where I hoped I could stamp it out. “Let's go.”

We left the apartment and I walked behind Jake, not letting him see my face, the confusion I could feel turning my cheeks scarlet. When we arrived outside the apartment, everything was deathly quiet. Immediately I knew something was wrong.

“The TV's not on,” I said as we approached the door.

“Maybe he's taking a nap,” Jake said. He knocked on the door and waited. When no one answered he took a spare key from under the mat and opened the door. All the curtains were drawn and the room was dark. As always there were empty beer bottles on the floor and dishes piled high in the sink. There was no sign of Hank.

“Hank!” I yelled, pushing in front of Jake. I dropped the groceries on the ground. “Where are you?”

“Hank!” Jake repeated, yelling louder. “Are you here?”

I opened the door to the bathroom. The window was open, the shower curtain rustling in the breeze. On the counter was a can of
shaving cream, but no sign of Hank. I was about to turn and investigate the bedroom when Jake let out a yell that made my blood run ice cold.

“Jesus!” he screamed.

I raced into the bedroom. Jake was standing in the corner staring at the bed, his hands covering his mouth. Hank was on the bed, naked except for a thin sheen of red that ran the length of both his arms. I followed the trail to a straight razor that lay beside his hand. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. I dropped to the bed beside him. Jake paced in the corner, moaning.

“Hank? Can you hear me?” I said, trying to stay calm. Hank let out a soft groan. I turned to Jake. “Call nine-one-one.”

“Oh shit. What's happening, Hilda?”

“For God's sake, Jake! Do it!”

I looked down at Hank's wrists as Jake fumbled with the telephone. The cuts looked deep, deliberate, the blood running down his sinewy arms. I ripped off a piece of bedsheet and tore it in half, then wrapped his wrists as tightly as I could. The fabric quickly became soaked. I could hear Jake talking to the 911 operator in the next room.

“He's in his eighties. I think he tried to commit suicide. Blood type? Um, I have no idea. Is that something I should know? Oh, God.”

I leaned in close to Hank's ear. “Hank,” I whispered. “You still with us?” He groaned again. I put my hand on his chest, felt his stomach rise and fall with each shallow breath. “Hank,” I whispered again. “What have you done?”

Jake burst back into the room. “He's still breathing,” he said into the phone. “We've wrapped sheets around his wrists.”

Hank's lips started to move. I put my ear up to his mouth, tried to catch his words, but they were too faint. In the distance I heard sirens, and Jake started to yell again, but all I could do was focus on Hank's breathing and the gentle beating of his heart beneath my hand.

W
E FOLLOWED THE AMBULANCE
in Jake's car. At the hospital a nurse with a tight, old-fashioned bun asked us questions.

“It says here Mr. Anderson has had some ‘falls' in the past,” she said, going over his chart. “Do you think in hindsight these may have actually been early suicide attempts?”

“How the hell should we know?” Jake snapped. “The dude's an alcoholic. Alcoholics fall over all the time.”

“So you're sure nothing like this has happened before?”

“What difference does it make? What exactly are you getting at?”

“It's important for us to confirm this was a suicide attempt. Past attempts can help us establish a pattern.”

“Of course it was a suicide attempt. He slashed his fucking wrists.”

“Sir—”

“You tell me this,” Jake fumed, “how many old men do you get
in here who have slashed their wrists? Huh? How fucking common is that?”

“He was in a concentration camp,” I said to the nurse. Jake threw up his hands.

“Great, Hilda—what a way to complicate the situation. Well done.”

“I'm just saying! He has a history of trauma; he's been depressed, paranoid. He hardly goes outside. It's like he's frightened of the world.”

“They don't need to know this, Hilda! That's his private business!”

“What do you care?” I yelled back. “Why are you even here? You don't give a shit about him. Or me. You just want him back at home so you can keep using him.”

“I think maybe you two should take this outside,” the nurse said, putting her hand lightly on Jake's shoulder. He shook her hand off, almost violently, and she stepped back with a hurt look on her face.

“Why are you saying that?” he said to me. “Why are you being so difficult all of a sudden?”

“Oh, I'm being difficult?”

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes hardening. “You're not being straight with me, and I don't appreciate it.”

“
I'm
not being straight with
you
? Oh, that's funny. That's
really
funny. You're a piece of work, Jake, you know that?”

“Okay,” the nurse said, trying to wrest control of the situation. “I really think you need to go outside.”

Jake ignored her. “What the hell's that supposed to mean? Hilda, how can you say I don't care? Just who do you think I am?”

“I guess I don't know.”

“I'm getting security,” the nurse said, tottering off.

“I think she's right, Jake,” I said. “I think you should just leave.”

Jake's face crumpled in a way I had never seen before, a way I had believed he was incapable of. Standing in front of me, his eyes downcast, it was as if for the first time I was actually seeing him. He looked stripped bare.

“Did I do something?” he said. “Because I don't understand what's going on.”

“I saw your script, Jake. On your laptop.
The Life Upstairs
?”

I watched as the realization dawned that he'd been found out, and his face crumpled. “Oh shit. Hilda, that's nothing. I'm not even working on it anymore.”

“Is that all we are to you? Is that all
I
am to you? A story?”

“Oh, man,” he spluttered, punching himself in the forehead with a closed fist. “I've fucked this up. I always fuck things up. Look, in the beginning, yeah, I thought it would make a cool story. I heard you guys on the balcony—”

“You were spying on us?” I couldn't believe it. All the pieces started to come together. “That's why you were his friend. That's why he said you were asking too many questions. How long have you been writing his story, Jake? Without him knowing?”

Jake took a step forward and I held up my hand.

“Don't come near me.”

“I don't understand why you're so angry! You're just as bad.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means where do you get off judging me? You feed off that old man like a vampire. You think you and I are so different? We're the same, Hilda: we take what we need from people. There's nothing wrong with that.”