There’s too many memories here though. That’s the whole damn problem with this godforsaken wrinkle in the state. It was hard enough to keep Oscar at bay and out of my head when he was somewhere unknown. But now he’s lurking back at Atlantis, waiting to assume whatever role in the Savage comedy he plans on playing. If there was ever a good reason for me to ditch this whole project and drive in the opposite direction until I can’t drive anymore, this is it. Gary couldn’t physically force me to return. Whatever kind of power Vogel Productions has, they still might run into some legal trouble if they try to drag me back to Atlantis by my hair.
My fingernails are digging into my palms. No, I won’t do it. I won’t run. There must be some feisty blood left in me somewhere. Maybe I can call on the spirit of Margaret O’Leary to spare some of what made her so hot-tempered and indomitable. If I’m weak enough to be chased away by a ghost of old heartbreak, then I’ll never really make much out of myself. I’ll be another sad drifter, perhaps like Aunt Mina, always confusedly searching and always coming up short.
Let Oscar Savage do his worst. Whatever scripted part he means to play can’t be any more painful than what we’ve already done to each other.
No. Lie. What I did to him.
Oscar walked away from me because I told him to. And as I watched him disappear, a boy alone cast out like garbage, I silently pleaded for the world to be kind to him. I begged him to forgive me, to forgive all of us for being too flawed and cowardly to stand up for anything. My own father had stood by with vague confusion and didn’t say a word because he was too drained to notice anyone else. And then Oscar was gone.
It’s too late now. I don’t even know who he is anymore. I don’t know what kind of revenge he has in mind. I just know that I’ll be taking at least a few cans of that six-pack to bed tonight. I need the edges to be numbed just a little. Hopefully it will be enough. I need it to be enough so that when I close my eyes I don’t dream of him, that I don’t dream at all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
OZ
I’ve been here for a week now. A week in this surreal landscape of cameras and crew members and a cast who play-act their daily lives for a fucking paycheck. Ren avoids me and so far I’ve allowed her to. I’ve kind of been skirting around the whole damn lot of them since I arrived, eating alone and refusing to set foot in the big house.
Yesterday I helped Spencer out, fixing some of the sunscreens that had been knocked loose by a dust storm the other night. Spence seems to regard my presence as nothing out of the ordinary. At least he doesn’t walk around with his head up his hostile ass, like Monty does. But Spence hasn’t asked me what I’m doing here and I haven’t volunteered to tell him. I offered him a hand with some work, which he stoically accepted, and that was that.
Gary Vogel himself has yet to put in an appearance, although he’s got that insufferable disciple, Cate Camp, following me around. She lurks around corners and coughs up nervous suggestions about what I should say and what I should do and where I might want to think about saying and doing it. I don’t tell her openly to fuck off. I figure silence is enough.
I watch Ren when she doesn’t realize I’m around. She never really relaxes. She wanders warily around Atlantis looking for something to do and escapes to the nearby town several hours a day to uselessly roam around there.
Something’s been lost to her these last five years. There used to be an innocent kind of confidence in the way she carried herself. The kind that said even in the midst of her crazy family she at least knew exactly who she was. I’m still furious with her. I still want her like hell, maybe now more than ever.
Last night I found myself wondering what she would do if I stood outside her window and whistled, just like I used to.
The temps are still pretty cool early in the morning so I take a hike toward the Harquehala’s to watch the sunrise. One of the bumbling Camera Creeps tries to follow me but I don’t have much trouble leaving him behind. About halfway up a vague trail I search for a flat rock bench that I know is there, close to a cave opening that I also know is there. A few turkey vultures circle overhead for a while and then move on. As the sun climbs to reach its rightful place in the sky I decide I’m done tiptoeing around this Born Savages bullshit.
The heat is starting to turn fierce. I jog down the rugged trail and nearly topple the huffing and puffing Camera Creep, the skinny one who’s smoking behind the brothel every time he gets a break. I smile to myself as he curses and does an about face, trying to keep up with me. Let him try all he wants. I’m not waiting around for an audience.
The front door of the big house is unlocked so I stroll casually inside. That pretentious little snot, Brigitte, is sitting in the front room on an ugly chair adorned with grisly animal tusks. She looks up from her tablet where she’s probably scouring the internet for news of herself.
“Oz!” she exclaims with round-eyed surprise.
“Where’s your sister?” I answer shortly.
She gives me an empty-headed look and points down the hall. “She’s in there.”
I barrel through a swinging set of doors that I vaguely remember lead to the kitchen. Ava is in there, setting a bowl of applesauce on the table in front of her kid. The hand that holds the bowl freezes midair and she stares at me.
“Imma bat!” squeals the kid.
Ava sets the bowl down and rests her hand on the boy’s blonde head. “Yes, honey, I know.”
Brigitte has collided with my back, making an ‘oof’ noise. I swivel around to glare at her.
“I meant your other sister.”
“Oh, you mean Loren?” Brigitte says in a stupidly loud voice like she’s got a bucket full of sisters and is easily confused. The years have not made her any less annoying.
“Ren’s in the barn,” Ava interrupts, watching me curiously as her little boy jumps from one ceramic floor tile to the next. “At least that’s where she said she was going.”
I mutter a terse ‘Thanks” under my breath and head straight through the side door. I hope Ren’s bratty sister doesn’t follow me. I’ll have to forget how to be polite for a few minutes.
Ava’s apparently doing the work for me though. I hear her say, “Don’t,” in a warning voice and as Brigitte starts sputtering I let the door close at my back.
Once I’m outside I nearly collide with Monty. He smells like an ashtray and has his shirt off so all the female world can admire his chest.
“Where’s the fucking fire?” he growls and I brace for trouble. But he just shakes his head and sidesteps me.
Suddenly Cate Camp’s blonde head peeks around the side of the house. She looks from side to side like she’s a secret agent and then her raspy voice hisses some orders into her mouthpiece.
The barn is new and smells of paint. Ren is standing in the middle of it, holding a giant hose. It takes approximately two microseconds for her face to change from surprise to alarm when she sees it’s me. I’m done biding my time with her though.
“I think it’s time we talked,” I say with supreme coolness.
She blinks. She looks at her feet and swallows hard. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”
You. Me. Heartbreak. Your fucked-up family. This ridiculous show. Five years of silence. Take your pick, sweetheart.
But none of that comes out of my mouth. Instead I laugh at her. “I don’t know Ren, why don’t we talk about major league baseball standings?”