The Ravine (24 page)

Industry grinds on non-stop for several months in the television series business, so the daily window doesn’t generate much excitement. But when the schedule reaches the end, and freedom looms, the crew do get quite excited about the window, the shot that will send them off to various locations around the world where they can drink heavily. So the crew began to get jazzed and giddy when they were handed the script that was numbered “626,” representing the last of the hours, the twenty-sixth of the sixth season, that were owed to the network. It was a six-day shoot, as opposed to a seven, because overages (mostly caused by Jimmy Yu) had forced us to cut corners. Moreover, it was a bottle show, a drama contained within the flimsy walls of our standing sets, largely within the small ersatz church. I wrote this one myself, and I was not challenged by the limitations,
I was rather liberated by them. I had a feeling that I could write a little contained drama that would seem not unlike Playhouse 90 or any of those live television shows written by guys like Paddy Chayefsky and Gore Vidal. Or even by my hero, the great Rod Serling. Typically, I recycled material. So, as in
The Hawaiian
, I introduced into a quiet setting (the little church, in this case, as opposed to the hopeless barroom) a deranged lunatic who had just killed people.

I borrowed more than that. The lunatic’s name is Oscar, as it was in
The Hawaiian
, and the people he’s killed are likewise his own parents. I even cast the original actor’s son to play this newer version. The first Oscar, Michael Poole, had gone on to no great distinction (other than the fact he kept working, which is something) but his son, Nicholas, was emerging as one of the country’s great talents. He’d already been in two features. For the most part he disdained television work, but it was a pretty juicy role, his character being in virtually every shot, so young Nick signed on. The script was talky, as opposed to action-packed, and although this was not Jimmy Yu’s specialty, something sparked in him and he was brilliant. Yu moved the camera with sinister grace, pushing in on young Nicky’s face relentlessly, refusing to back away from the soul-tarring anguish. Watching the dailies, everyone got very excited; we would view all of the takes from every scene, eager to peel back layers and discover nuances.

And so the sixth day, the day of the window, found us filled with good spirits, and as there was no longer any writing to be done, and very few production wrinkles to be ironed out (in television land there are always some), most of the production staff crowded onto the set. Dirk Mayhew was there, and I know you don’t remember who he is, but he’s the Production Manager who had, for the past six years, done little other than complain bitterly about Jimmy Yu’s penchants and proclivities. On this day he was serene. “I have to admit,” Dirk marvelled as he watched Jimmy work, “the man is a
genius.”
The Supervising Producer, Stevie Medjuck, was likewise overbrimming with compliments. “That kid is just wonderful,” he said, nodding toward Nicky Poole. “And Milligan is doing the best work of his life.”

He was?

I hadn’t really noticed Milligan, or remarked upon his behaviour, which should have been a huge heads-up right there. Why wasn’t he industriously trying to steal young Poole’s thunder? Milligan was not a generous actor, by any stretch of the imagination. For example, he didn’t hang around to feed lines on the turnarounds. I’ll explain: let’s suppose that the scene being filmed involves Milligan and another actor, say, Paula Beecher, who was in my play
Low Man
and for that reason represented a bleached bone, albeit a smallish one, on my marriage’s cairn. First there would be what is called a master. The camera would be placed at a distance sufficient to film both Milligan and Paula as they had their exchange. Then there would be coverage. The camera would be moved closer so that the frame held Milligan’s face, the exchange repeated. Then they would turn the camera around and film Paula. Unless this shot was composed so that some portion of Milligan was evident, perhaps the crescent of his glorious profile, Milligan would hurry off to his trailer. Paula Beecher would be fed lines by the script supervisor, and she would have to react to, usually, a clenched fist held aloft by a crew member, representing where Milligan and his haunting eyes should have been.

But on this day, the day of the window, Milligan never left the set. He stayed for all the turnarounds; moreover, he delivered his offscreen lines with emotion, encouraging the actor being filmed to dig around inside and come up with a little extra heat. Milligan even stayed on-set after blocking. (Jimmy Yu would choreograph the actors’ movements during rehearsal; then the first team would be released and stand-ins brought in for the purposes of lighting and the
practice of camera moves.) During these intervals, which could be longish (lighting seems to proceed at a glacial pace), Milligan would drift around, nodding, smiling at people, sharing jokes with the gaffers—in short, all manner of little human stuff. But he was also radiating a kind of childish excitement, pent-up and powerful. When there was any sort of a noise, his head would snap around—as though he were waiting for something, as though he knew that at some point that day a parade was due, and he was ever on the alert for the clowns and baton twirlers.

This all struck me as a little odd. Then again, it was nothing that couldn’t be explained by a little miscalculation on the pharmaceutical front, even by too much coffee. (Indeed, the coroner’s list of drugs ingested was long and comprehensive. It included exotic fare like
árbol de los brujos
, but what really fucked Milligan up, I believe, was some twisted manifestation of the Holy Spirit.) I’ll admit that I wasn’t as focused on Milligan as it might seem, because it was impossible to keep one’s eyes off Nicky Poole. There are an awful lot of good actors, it seems to me, but only a handful of great ones. Marlon Brando, Sean Penn, Mickey Rooney … yes, I’m serious about the Mick. For one thing, think of the range. He can play young kids, he can play old, fat men. All right, that’s a joke, but you should endeavour to watch Rod Serling’s
The Comedian
, which was a Playhouse 90 starring Rooney as a comic who makes the lives of the people around him a living hell.

Well, I’ve progressed this far in my novel-writing, I no longer care or am apologetic when I make these tangential leaps. After all, life is like that, isn’t it, tangential. Often things connect, but not at first. So I will tell you that Bellamy stood off to one side, as though at attention, a clear plastic makeup bag nestled in her hands. She stood there awaiting the call “Final touches!” at which point she would dart onto the set, digging into the bag and producing brushes and powder puffs. She would minister to the talent, dulling the sheen of their beautiful
faces, until ushered off the set by the first AD. In watching her do this, I was reminded of the one time I had slept over at her house—reminded of it without remembering the circumstances; how did it happen that no one at my home missed me for an entire night?—when, in the morning, Bellamy applied her own makeup. In her tiny one-bedroom, the bathroom contained only the toilet and shower; the sink, surmounted by an improbably massive medicine cabinet, stood outside that door. Bellamy, having showered, emerged radiantly naked, and began to do her face. I was surprised, frankly, at the labour involved. She always seemed so natural, but now I saw that this effect was the result of many pains taken. She powdered and rouged (I’m at sea here with the technicalities) and I lay in her minuscule bed and stared at her bottom and marvelled at the way her breasts bobbed in accordance with her arm actions. And I guess it occurred to me that the whole affair had been undertaken to afford me this, whatever it was, perhaps a moment of luscious tranquility, perhaps a memory that might spark a toothless smile as I lay upon my deathbed. I’m not sure. I’m certain that the affair was not undertaken to accomplish the scuppering of my marriage, because even in that moment Bellamy’s beauty was not as profound to me as my wife’s, not as perfect or affecting.

There on the set, though, Bellamy returned from her work and took up her post outside of camera range. She caught my eyes, winked and smiled. Something inside me went clammy with realization, the wink indicating that we shared something deep, the smile hinting at real affection, maybe even what would pass for love in the mind of a twenty-eight-year-old woman.

“Hiya.”

I turned and saw my wife.

Ronnie’s hair was still wet, meaning she’d been to the gym, and on her face there was a broad smile, and something inside me went clammier still.

We’d done something that morning we hadn’t done in what seemed like years, that is, made love. Sometime pre-dawn, we’d both been startled into half-consciousness by a sound from the outdoors, a raccoon shoving the lid off a trash can or some such thing. I was possessed of what so often eluded me in more alert states, an erection, which pressed against my wife’s thigh, and she took hold of it and we were both muzzy enough not to overthink the situation and before long we were going at each other with enthusiasm. That is enough said about the physicalities. I will provide a little more detail about the workings of my heart, although you know by now that I have no real insight. Those feelings and thoughts that should have crystallized (I love my wife, I am not going to leave her for Bellamy, I should tell Bellamy this before she is too invested emotionally, etc.) remained vague and inchoate. But they existed, I swear to you they did.

All of that is a bit moot, because Ed Milligan came walking over with a strange look in his eyes as Ronnie and I were in the midst of the following exchange.

Well, it hardly matters at this point what crap I scripted for Milligan to say, because he never said any of it. What he did say was “Hey, Phil? You know what would be better? If I did like in that movie!”
Okay, here’s some of the stuff that came up at the coroner’s inquest. First of all, why was the gun loaded, even if with blanks? Well, the way I wrote the scene, the Padre’s speech is so persuasive that Oscar ultimately turns the gun against himself. (Anything is possible in teevee land.) Padre wrestles the gun away, but not before it discharges, because your typical Padre fan enjoys loud noises every now and again. Anyway, given the time constraints, Yu was attempting to shoot the whole scene as a oner—a continuous unbroken shot—instead of cutting and then loading the gun with blanks and then picking that up in coverage. This was stupid, reckless and irresponsible, and is the main reason I’ve been drummed out of the business. The fact that I didn’t know about it (it wasn’t discussed at any of the production meetings, Yu came up with the notion the morning of day six) was no excuse, because I should have. (The eleventh commandment: thou shalt pay fucking attention.) Next, Willy Props had to take the stand, and explain to the assembled what, exactly, “blanks” are. Willy told us how paper wadding is used to seal the gunpowder into the shell and that this wadding is propelled out of the barrel with considerable force. When asked if Mr. Milligan would have been aware of this, Willy shrugged and muttered, “I guess he forgot,” because, of course, Milligan was an expert in small arms. Then a procession of medical doctors explained how, when the wadding impacted against his temple, Milligan’s skull was shattered and a tiny piece of bone got driven into his brain. He lay in a coma for twenty-seven hours, until it was concluded there was no sign of brain activity, and then life-support was withdrawn.

Much of the inquiry was given over to ascertaining Milligan’s mental state when the “accident” happened. It came out that his mind had been imperfectly wired throughout his life. We were all astounded to hear of his extended stays in facilities, the first at the age of fourteen. We were further astounded to hear of suicide attempts,
earnest ones. Milligan seemed to us to be consumed by self-love, but that was mere flummery.