“I’m sorry, Cela.”
“About what?”
“I’m sorry I had a… big movie star life.”
She hadn’t seen him angry since the injury — anger was probably a good thing. Still, it hurt to be the target.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“But I don’t anymore! So don’t worry!”
His face contorted with rage, then he broke into raucous laughter. Always with the practical jokes. She wanted to hug him, but he turned the tables again. “You’re using,” he said.
Cela poignantly winced. “Once in a while.”
She went back to her business at the grill. (Actor’s prop for a difficult scene.)
“You shouldn’t do it.”
“How about a urine test?” she said, stung. “But can we do it after dessert? Look: I’m well aware that I’m fucking up, OK? Does that make you feel better, Kit? I’m gonna start going to meetings again, I already decided that.” She shoveled the meat onto plates and sighed. “Shit.”
He grew quiet. The table was beautifully set with white cloth, white flowers, white candles.
They didn’t talk as they ate, but she watched him. The world had been upended though some things would never change. She was reminded of when they first went out and how she was nervous and always trying to please him.
After supper, they sat on a porch rocker, staring at the moon.
“Tula’s probably freaking out you’re here, huh.”
“I told him to… get a life. I told him — go guard some chicken tonight. At Koo Koo Roo.”
“Now that he’s a famous stunt driver, you better look out. Some headhunter’s gonna poach him.” She lit a cigarette. “So, what’s up with those Buddhists? They’re kind of a trip. I mean, they’re like full service, huh. They cook, they clean, they meditate…”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I think they’re great. You’ve been into that a long time, huh.”
“Yeah right. Buddhism has been berry, berry good to me.”
Cela laughed, not really catching the reference. “Kit,” she said, earnestly. “Do you remember anything about what happened? I mean, the night that guy hit you?”
“No.”
“Nothing about the hospital?” He shook his head. “What about when you visited with Burke a few weeks before? You came and looked at some things that belonged to your mom.” He shook his head again. “We went over to Grant, on your hog.”
“I don’t remember anything that happen. Happened. For about maybe a year or maybe three month—s before I hit my head.”
“Do you… do you remember Viv?”
“I do!” he said, stalwartly. “I do remember… Viv Wembley! But I am not assure… that Viv Wembley remembers me!”
Without warning, he groped her. He wetly kissed her mouth and squeezed a tit. She kissed him back, then said, “I don’t think this is such a great idea.”
“Dad won’t mind,” he said.
“That has nothing to do with it,” she said. She quickly decided it was absurd to be offended by his remark — everything was so ridiculous and heartbreaking.
“Could you at least… think about it?” he said.
She shook her head wryly and pulled out a joint. “I think,” she said, “I’m gonna become a Buddhist.”
A Tangled Web
“MOTHERFUCKER SNITCHED off my boy. Leaves Kit Lightfoot droolin in his soup, then goes and ruins a major QuestraWorld property! For sport! For fuckin sport!”
“He was up at the house, wasn’t he?” said Cassandra.
“That’s right — the look-alike wanna-be was swimmin in our motherfuckin pool. Man, how low can you go to be a look-alike wanna-be? No offense, Becca. Cause you and Rusty the real thing.”
“He was here,” said Cassandra as she fiddled with a two-carat diamond created from the ashes of their beloved little girl. “Sniffin round Rusty like a puppy dog. Talkin shit about how he was big in Tokyo doin Kit Lightfoot look-alike gigs. I don’t even think Elaine Jordache would hire him.”
“She wouldn’t get fuckin near his raggedy unlook-alike ass. And you got to be pretty low for Elaine not to try to squeeze some fuckin money out of you. That lady knows her shit.”
“He sure didn’t look like Kit Lightfoot.”
“He looked like Kit Lightfoot as much as I do.”
“Not unless he did his hair up a certain way.”
“He was a fuckin housepainter, Cass! Shit mother fucker.” He stomped around in front of the picture window. “And he snitched off my boy! We was about to lock Rusty up, wasn’t we, Cass?” He turned to Becca, who was struggling to remember whether or not the Kit look-alike was at the Chateau table-read. “We was about to give your old man major dollars and stamp ‘Property of QuestraWorld’ on his hairy butt. Wasn’t we, Cass?”
He made the sizzling sound of a cattle brand while his wife took a hit of pot.
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe we was.”
“That’s right, you better believe it. That was my call. Cause you might be CEO and COO but I’m the president and secretary-in-motherfucking-arms. So motherfuck that ‘maybe’ shit.” He mad-dogged Cassandra though both knew who’d win in a fight. Grady did a line, then handed the rolled bill to Becca. She shook her head but he wouldn’t have it. He watched like a scientist while she snorted up. “Man,” he said. “You gotta write something down about your killer boyfriend.” He got a neon brainstorm. “I know! We’ll get Dr. J to do a script. Cause Rusty’s gonna be hotter than shit — Access Hollywood, Dateline, Sixty Minutes—ev’rybody gonna line up. Old Larry King too. Rusty gonna be hotter than the dude who killed Versace.”
“Andrew Carnegie,” said Cass.
“Whatever.” He looked like he just goosed himself. “Oh shit. Oh shit. What’s Spike Jonze gonna do? Shit, man, this is good! The plot gets fuckin thickerer! I’ll tell you what Spike’s gonna do, he gonna love it, that’s what—”
“There ain’t no such thing as bad publicity.”
“—especially with the motherfucker who whacked Kit Lightfoot on the head bein a Kit Lightfoot look-alike hisself!”
“It’s tawdry, baby,” said Cassandra. “It’s real tawdry!”
Grady began to squeal. “Spike and his peeps gonna be happier than motherfuckers! All hot and bothered, cause now they got Russell and they got Rusty in the can—I don’t mean the penitentiary, neither. That’s somethin to Crowe about! Got the two of ‘em on film, man… it’s a motherfucking wrap!”