As she emptied the bedpan, she thought about cleaning the Riverside toilets and how crazy she’d gotten. It was hard to believe — she would have laughed if it wasn’t so gut-wrenching. Lisanne thought about the claustrophobic Amtrak water closet too, then shuddered at her shaming and violation by that horrible man, now behind bars, reaping the karmic whirlwind. Burke Lightfoot had orchestrated and overseen the rape, not just of her, but of his own son, and Lisanne wondered if Kit would ever try to contact her to make amends. She hoped he wouldn’t, but if he did, she’d tell him that there was no one really to blame, that she had allowed it to happen, that she had been in a bad place but now was well. The pills that Dr. Calliope’s colleague prescribed had stabilized her, but mysterious forces were at work, forces that conspired to provide a healing, an occult glissade of grace and nonresistance, and love unperverted. Now her life was filled with the light of Siddhama and nonsectarian prayer, a humble dyad between Lisanne and her faith. Each day, she and God created a simple space, wherein hope and regret, splendor and sorrow — and love — could be born.
When Lisanne came from the bathroom, she lit a scented candle. She was drawn to a photo of George and his wife and son that hung upon a wall. He wore a gleaming smile and captain’s hat: suspended in time, like one of those fallen astronauts. He’d been a pilot for TWA in the fifties and sixties. She took the photo in hand.
It was time for her to shed the last of her fears, and fly.
With Rob Reiner in the Patio of the Ivy on Robertson
“HOW DO YOU memorize?”
“Jorgia taught me some tricks.”
“Jorgia Wilding.”
“Yeah. And I do some — neurolinguistic stuff. With therapists. I’m just a dog who jumps through hoops.”
“Well I think you’re being a little modest. I really did want to tell you that your performance in True West was… pretty damn seamless.”
“Thank you. I try to go with — the feelings. Behind the words.”
“There were so many levels there. Will you do more theater?”
“I want to do Beckett.”
“That’s funny.”
“Hopefully,” he said, smiling.
The director laughed. “Beckett can be very funny, it’s true. But it’s also funny because I’ve been talking to the Geffen about putting up Krapp’s Last Tape.”
“Whoa! That’s a trip. I love that play.”
A youngish man in a suit approached the table. “Gentlemen,” he said respectfully, “forgive me for interrupting.” He turned to Kit. “Sir, I just wanted to say that I am honored to even be sitting in the same restaurant.”
“Thank you,” said Kit.
“No — thank you,” he said, and left.
“Lou Petroff. Do you know him?”
“I don’t.”
“Sweet man,” said the director. “And a good agent.”
“Mr. Reiner — my managers said you had a script.”
The director leaned in, his hand cupping a bread roll like it was a healing stone. A peculiar but effectively intimate gesture.
“It’s all very weird. You know, originally — and I’m sure they told you this — Ed was going to be doing it. Ed Norton.”
“Ed’s great.”
“But there was a conflict.”
“Ah!” said Kit. “I love ‘conflict’! Creative differences.”
“Exactly. We had lots of those. And what happened was — your agents probably already told you this — what happened was, I literally woke up in the middle of the night — because I’d seen your play a few weeks before so you were already bouncing around my subconscious — and I’ll never forget. I sat bolt upright in bed and thought, BAM! Kit Lightfoot.”
“Eureka. I found it.”
“My Eureka moment. And I called Ellen — Ellen Chenoweth…”
“I know Ellen. You called her in the middle of the night?”
“I had the sense to wait until morning. And I said: Ellie, does he wanna do movies? Is everybody asking him? Or is nobody asking him?”
“That’s closer!”
“And I said that out of total respect. Because right now you’re like the pretty girl who everyone’s afraid to ask out — that’s what I was hoping, anyway. The bottom line is, this project is something I’ve been wanting to do for about five years.” He pivoted the bread roll, wheeling it this way and that. “It’s about a man who suffered an injury not dissimilar to yours. He was a law student when the accident happened—”
“True story?”
“Yes. A true story. In fact, I had lunch with him two weeks ago, in Boston.”
“What’s his name?”
“Stan Jiminy.”
“Jiminy Cricket!”
“Jiminy Cricket was his nickname,” intoned the director, as if all — especially Kit’s involvement — had been predestined. “A brilliant guy. The injuries he sustained left him damaged but with ‘a beautiful mind,’ if you will. And after years, many years of incredible discipline and hard work — something you’re certainly not unfamiliar with — Stan became an attorney. Now of course I’m making a very long story short, which is the challenge we’ll have with the film.”
“He became an attorney—”
“Right. And along the way, this amazing woman was his mentor and kind of guardian angel, who hired him to assist with pro bono work. She was a criminal lawyer. Rhoda — that was her name, Rhoda Horowitz — had a sister who the family kind of shunted off to a state home. The sister was retarded, and Rhoda always felt that was kind of the skeleton in the family closet. Which it was.”
“Like Michelle in I Am Sam.”
“I wouldn’t say Rhoda Horowitz was quite in the Michelle Pfeiffer mold,” he said, wryly.
“Who plays the mentor?”
“Susan Sarandon’s going to do that for us. And Dusty’s the dad — Stan’s father.”
“Ah—”
“Do you know Susan and Tim?”
“Yeah! I like them!”
“And of course, you’ve worked with Dusty.”
“She’s a real angel?”
(He had spaced on that part of the pitch. Nerves.)
“No, no. Not a real one — a guardian. Not that I’m above using the device of an angel, if I need to!” The wry smile again. “Anyway, one day in the middle of a very important trial, she dies.”
“Susan?”
The director nodded.
“How?”
“Embolism.”
“True?”
“All true.”
“Did you know Susan?”
“You mean, Rhoda?”
“Rhoda! Yes.”
“I didn’t have the pleasure.”
Kit sipped at his water. “Mr. Reiner, does it seem— I don’t want to knock your project! But—”
“No, please…”
“With me in the role, does it seem, maybe, a gimmick? You know — stunt casting?”
“No. No, I don’t think so, Kit, not if we do it right. I completely understand the question — and it’s a good question — but I don’t think so. By the way, I read the Aronofsky script. Very intriguing — as Darren always is. And I think Darren is absolutely brilliant, a visionary. But it was a bit ‘postmodern’ for me. I guess it’s all about sensibilities but I found it hard to get under the characters’ skin, emotionally. And there was another thing. I really strongly feel that for these kinds of movies — if one can say we’re doing a ‘kind’ of movie without instantly losing integrity! — that you really need to be in the courtroom.”