“It’s just so insane,” said one of the traumatized managers, staring into space. “It’s just… so wrong. Everything is wrong.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said the lawyer, in high dudgeon. “When I am through, Kit Lightfoot is going to own this fucking hospital and the ground it sits on.”
“Did someone finally call Viv?” asked the other manager.
Alf nodded, snapping gum long bled of flavor. “A few hours ago, after we got here. She’s on her way back.”
“That couldn’t have been an easy call to make,” said the agent. She touched Alf’s arm as a mother would.
“I hope you didn’t tell her right before she went on Letterman,” said the publicist.
“He said a few hours ago,” said a manager, testily. “Jesus!”
“After,” said Alf, by rote.
“My poor attempt at black humor,” said the publicist, contritely.
“She’s flying back with Sherry on the Paramount jet,” said Alf.
“What are we doing about crowd control?” said the lawyer to the publicist. “It’s Day of the Locust out there.”
Just then, Darren Aronofsky was led in by a hospital guard.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“He’s still in surgery,” said the agent.
“Jesus.” He turned to Alf. “Was it a fight?”
“No. This guy just… blindsided him. He was hassling us before at the bar. He was pissed because Kit wouldn’t sign his girlfriend’s left tit or whatever.”
“Jesus. Jesus.” Darren shook his head, sucking in air. “Are you OK?”
“Under the circumstances,” nodded Alf. “Yeah. I’m cool.”
“Where’s Viv?” said Darren, turning to the others.
“On her way back from New York,” said the publicist.
“Have they said anything?” asked Darren. “I mean, the doctors?”
The agent began to cry. A manager put his arm around her.
“Oh my God,” she said. “What if he’s really, really hurt and can’t get better? This is so horrible! The world is such a horrible place!”
“There’s a lot of people who love him, Kiki,” said the other manager, forlornly. “A lot of people who care.”
The comanager said hollowly, “We’ll see him through.”
“He’s a stubborn motherfucker,” said Alf, cocking his head — smiling, as they say, through the tears.
“That’s for damn sure,” said Darren. “He’s a survivor.”
“Plus it’d kill him not to do your movie,” said Alf, wryly.
“Oh, he’ll do the movie,” said Darren, with that unsinkable old-fashioned brio only a film director can muster. The agent found his remarks vastly comforting.
“I have never seen him more passionate about a project,” she said. “I mean, it’s amazing.”
“And he’ll be amazing in it,” said Darren. “We’ll push the start date, that’s all.”
“It’s a wonderful thing,” said a manager, “for him to know — even if he doesn’t know today—that the project’s waiting for him.”
An uncomfortable pause in the wake of those absurd, well-meaning sentiments; the agent began to cry again.
“It’s just so… weird. Darren! — your film — I mean, that’s what it’s about—in a sense. No? Special Needs? I mean, has anyone even thought about how weird that is? That the story line mirrors—”
“That’s where the press is going to go,” said the publicist. “Just a heads-up: that’s straight where they’re going to go. You know, ‘Life imitates art.’”
“All we can focus on now,” said Darren, keeping it real, “is Kit getting on his feet, ASAP.”
“I know. I know. I know,” said the agent, centering up. Regrouping. Steeling herself. Blotting her eyes.
“He’ll kick ass,” said Alf, rallying the troops.
“Oh, absolutely,” said a manager.
“It’s going to be a battle,” said the attorney re the epic, looming litigations. “But let me tell you something. There will be serious casualties on the other side.”
“Jesus,” said a manager, with sudden emotion. “Has anything like this even ever happened before? Has a major film star ever been attacked?”
“Sharon Tate,” said the publicist.
“I’m sorry, but Sharon Tate was not a major star!”
Vigil
LISANNE WAS AT the Coffee Bean when she heard. The washroom was occupied, so she dashed to the parking lot and threw up. She got in her car and went to the hospital.
Barricades held a crowd of fans and bystanders at bay. Media vans sprouted tall white antennae. Nasty policemen banished drive-through traffic. She valet-parked at Jerry’s Deli and crossed the street.
She scanned the upper floors of the building, wondering if he was out of surgery. Her eyes wandered back to Beverly Boulevard, in vague lookout for Tiff Loewenstein’s Bentley. Too soon, she thought. A visit from Tiff would come later in the week, if at all.
She felt like she might faint. She called the office to say she had the flu. She was talking to one of the girls when Reggie jumped on. He asked if she’d heard what happened, and Lisanne pretended that she was too sick to talk.
On impulse, she drove to the Loewensteins’.
• • •
WITH GREAT KINDNESS, the housekeeper led the ravaged woman in. She knew why Lisanne was crying.
Tiff was talking loudly on the phone, in a faraway room. Roslynn appeared on the stairs in her robe, looking so frail and everyday that suddenly Lisanne thought she’d made a grievous error by coming and burst into tears.
“Roslynn, I’m so sorry!” she said, face distorted. “I went to the hospital — I thought you might be there…”
They embraced and Roslynn asked the housekeeper to please bring them some tea. She led Lisanne to the living room and sat her on the divan.
“Darling, you look awful!”
“It’s just so terrible—”
“I know.” She put her arms around her, gently rocking as Lisanne wept. “We’ve been watching CNN all morning. We know a muck-a-muck at Cedars, Mo Biring. Mo says Kit’s still being operated on — could be hours. Our spies are working on it. We know lots of people at Cedars.”
Tea was served. Tiff came in, completely dressed, and regarded Lisanne oddly — again, she felt a trespasser’s twinge. When he tenderly touched her head, Lisanne sobbed anew, throwing herself on the mercy of the cruel cosmos.
“He’s out,” said Tiff. Lisanne didn’t know what he meant. “Of surgery.”
“Is that what Mo said?” asked Roslynn.
“I just talked to him.”
“Is he all right?”
“They don’t know— won’t know — not for a while. They think there may be some damage.” He hesitated to say it but thought he’d better. “Brain damage.”