CHAPTER TWELVE
A week after I started to spend all my free time with Alex Rivers, I began to dream about Connor at night. I had the same dream over and over. In it, Connor and I were both adults, but we were lying on our backs on one of the floating docks of Moosehead Lake. Connor kept pointing to the sky, outlining the patterns of the clouds. “What do you think?” he asked, several times, but to me every formation took the shape of Alex—his profile, his windblown hair, his sculpted jaw. I told this to Connor, going so far as to gesture, my palm pale against the bright summer blue. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not get Connor to see.
I had spent six days watching Alex acting as Rob, unearthing his skeleton and coming to a crisis of faith. He realizes that human evolution is following the same path as the evolution of this alien species he’s found: a meteoric rush toward extinction. He decides to bury what he knows, rather than rewriting history.
It surprised me that filming wasn’t done in order, although I could certainly see the monetary advantages to shooting all the scenes in a given location at once. “How do you do it?” I had asked him. “How can you build up to the emotion you need in that last scene, and then go back and pretend it never happened?” And Alex had just smiled, and told me it was what he was paid to do.
He did get emotionally involved; in spite of what he said he couldn’t help it. It leaked out at night when he was just being himself. One evening we’d sat at the edge of Olduvai Gorge and Alex told me about the time he was fourteen, when his father had coaxed him back and forth across the living room, swatting at his face and his side in an effort to make Alex land a punch. When Alex finally did, knocking out several of his father’s teeth, Andrew Riveaux had smiled through the blood.
Boy, he’d said, that’s the way a man fights.
After a long silence, Alex lifted his eyes to mine. “Sometimes I think that if I held a press conference tomorrow and told the world that Alex Rivers had a deadbeat drunk father and a mother who was off the wall, no one would bother to print it anyway. They’ve all got this image of me, and they’re not about to change it, and the funny thing is, I think the man they’ve made in their minds is going to outlive me.”
I reached for his hand, because I didn’t know what I should say, but he gently pushed me away. “That’s why I liked the script of this movie,”
he said. “It’s a moral dilemma: Do you tell the public something they’d find appalling? Or do you let them go on believing what they need to?”
He shook his head. “Makes you wonder about Darwin,” he said.
But no matter how much time I spent with Alex, Connor was the focus of my dreams at night. I had linked the two of them in my mind.
I would fall asleep thinking of Alex and wake with Connor’s name on my lips, as if Connor, jealous, had started threading his way into my subconscious. One night my dream was so vivid that when I woke up I could still feel Connor’s breath on my cheek, and this worried me.
Most of the time, Connor left me on my own. But when he thought I was in trouble, he was harder to shake than my own shadow.
WE WERE WALTZING AROUND THE PERIMETER OF THE SHALLOW POND behind the lodge, keeping time to the sounds of an African night. “I can’t keep up with you,” I said, breathless. “You’re going too fast.”
“You’re going too slow.” Alex whirled me around a curve, lifting me off the cool, dark ground. As he set me back on my bare feet, my ankle buckled, and I pulled him with me to roll down a gentle slope.
With every turn his body braced mine, or mine supported him, a sensuous volley of power. We landed with our fingertips inches from the muddy water, Alex tangled beneath me.
I tentatively rested my head on his chest. With the exception of that first goodnight kiss, this was the most bodily contact Alex and I had had. It was difficult to know what he wanted of me. Alex was friendly, open, but not physical. I wasn’t sure if he was taking it slow; if he was taking it anywhere. As for me, well, I was hoping for more. In fact, I had braced myself for a one-night stand, and during the past week I had almost convinced myself that this would be all right, but Alex made no moves of seduction. More often than not, I reached out for Alex under all kinds of pretenses, shamelessly trying to prevent him from keeping his distance.
I breathed in the scent of his soap and his sweat. “Sorry,” I murmured. “Ballroom dancing was never my forte.”
Alex laughed, a deep rumbling sound against my ear. “It’s an acquired talent,” he said. “My mother used to make me take classes twice a week. I hated it—those white gloves and overperfumed fat girls who stepped on my feet—but damned if I don’t still remember every step we ever learned.”
I smiled into his shirt. “You must have had an unconscious wish to escort a debutante. Or be Arthur Murray.”
Alex smirked. “Not likely.” He gently stroked my hair, and I curled into the contact. “I think my body just liked the exercise.”
He had told me several nights before about being born with a hole in his heart, about not being able to run and play until he was nearly eight. “Imagine that,” Alex had said dryly. “A romantic hero with a broken heart.”
I had heard the weariness in his voice, the pain of a little boy who saw himself as defective and did everything in his power to compensate for his weakness. I wondered why he had mentioned this to me. I let myself pretend it was because he thought I’d truly understand.
As I closed my eyes against his chest, remembering, Alex stiffened and sat up. I looked away, ashamed that I had made him uncomfortable by holding him. I shook my head, cataloguing the reasons Alex Rivers did not want—did not need—someone as inexperienced as I was.
Alex turned toward me. “There have been a lot of women,” he said carefully, “but I don’t let anyone get close. You need to understand that. The truth is, I don’t want to be disappointed again. Not by someone else’s shortcomings, and especially not by my own. So I act like it’s not that important.” He shook his head. “Cassie,” he said, “I’m so damn tired of acting.”
Moving on instinct, I leaned toward Alex and slipped my hand under his shirt. He was telling me what I had no right to expect, although I knew it was far too late. I had not been in many relationships, but I had had Connor, so I understood that this was how it all started. You fell in love with someone because of the tilt of his smile, or because he could make you laugh, or in this case, because he made you believe that you were the only one who could save him. When it finally came, it might be a one-night stand for Alex, but not for me. By then I would have given him too much.
I heard Alex’s quick draw of breath as my skin skimmed over his and settled, palm placed against his chest. I smiled into his eyes as I held his heart in my hand.
SUNDAY WAS THE DAY OFF FOR THE CAST AND CREW, ALTHOUGH leisure time in Tanzania left much to be desired. I was sitting on a swing in the shade, when Alex slid an arm around my waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And it really was beginning to feel like that. I had all but abandoned the UCLA site. After that night on the edge of the pond where Alex had set the terms for a relationship, we were inseparable. In fact, Alex and I had been together so frequently that when he was missing, people on the crew came up to ask me if I knew where he was. I had felt a little uncomfortable at first, the way he’d so easily drape his arm over my shoulder while I was demonstrating how to clean a fragment; or the way, in front of everyone, he’d tell me what time to meet him for dinner.
He reminded me of primate studies of territoriality I’d followed: males conspicuously leaving their mark to let others know where they weren’t welcome.
But on the other hand, no one had ever been so possessive of me that they’d tried to stake a claim, however temporary. And, well, it felt good.
I liked knowing that in the morning, I was the first person Alex would seek out. I liked kissing him goodnight and knowing a passerby in the hall had seen us. I was acting like a teenager for the first time in my life.
Alex drew me closer. “I have a surprise,” he said, whispering the words against my ear. “We’re going on safari.”
Immediately, I pulled away and stared at him. “We’re doing what?”
Alex smiled. “Safari,” he said. “You know, lions and tigers and bears, pith helmets and ivory poachers. Things like that.”
“No one poaches ivory anymore,” I said. “The only thing they’ll let you shoot with is a camera.”
Alex stood, pulling me to my feet. “Well, I for one am sick of cameras. I’m all for taking it in with the eyes.”
I followed him, already picturing the rolling Serengeti, the slowmoving herds stirring breezes. A single black jeep was waiting at the foot of the porch, and a slight native with a brilliant white smile offered his hand to help me climb in. “Cassie,” Alex said, “this is Juma.”
Juma drove us for over an hour into the heart of Tanzania, jostling us over brush and gullies that were never intended as roads. He stopped in the shadow of a small grove. “We wait here,” he announced, and he pulled a blue-checked blanket from the jeep and spread it over the grass for us to sit on.
The plains faded purple at the edge of the horizon, and the sky overhead was the color blue the word had been invented for. I stretched out on my back. Beside me, Alex lay propped up on one elbow so that he could watch me. That was another thing I’d had to get used to in his presence—the focused attention. He would stare at me as if he was taking in every movement, every subtle change. When I told him it made me uncomfortable, he had shrugged.
“Can you honestly tell me you don’t notice the way I look?” he had said, and of course, I’d laughed at the idea. “Well, I can’t keep from noticing you, either.”
His eyes started slowly at my hairline and traveled down the bridge of my nose, my cheeks, my neck, and my shoulders. He left a physical warmth in his wake, as if he’d actually touched me. “Do you ever miss Maine?” he asked.
I blinked into the sun. “Not so much. I’ve been at UCLA since I was seventeen.” I paused, thinking of how much of the explanation I had avoided. Although Alex had told me the truth about his family, I had yet to let him in on my own secrets. In the past weeks I had thought a hundred times about telling him, but two things had stopped me. First, the moment was never right. And second, I was still afraid I would scare him away.
The sun filtered through the penny-size leaves of the tree we were sitting beneath, casting a shadow of lace across Alex’s legs. If I told him and he ran in the other direction, so be it; I had been convincing myself all along that this fling couldn’t amount to anything. After all, what was he going to do when the filming ended? Fly back to L.A. with someone like me on his arm, and announce to his glittering friends that I was the woman of his dreams?
“Alex . . .” I said hesitantly. “Do you remember me telling you that my parents owned a bakery?”
It was all I had told him, really, when pressed for details about myself. It was the only safe thing I could say. Alex nodded, lifting his face to the sun. “You helped make meringues,” he said.
I swallowed. “I also helped pick my mother up off the floor every time she passed out.” I kept my eyes trained on Alex’s face so I’d know exactly when the impact of my words had hit. “She was a drunk,” I said. “A southern belle to the last, but a drunk.”
He was looking at me now, but I couldn’t read his expression. “What about your father?”
I shrugged. “He told me to take care of her.”
His hand came toward me very slowly and cupped my cheek, and his skin beside mine was hotter even than my shame. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.
“Why did you tell me?” I whispered.
Alex gathered me up in his arms and held me so tightly I couldn’t separate his heartbeat from my own. “Because we’re two of a kind,” he said. “You were made to take care of me, and I’m going to take care of you.”
I struggled at the thought of that, but then I sank into the comfort he was offering. It was nice not having to be the one in control, for a little while. It was nice to be the one who was protected, instead of the one who’d been protecting everyone else.
We both sat up quickly at the sound of thunder. But there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and suddenly Juma appeared at our sides with a pair of binoculars. “Over there,” he said, pointing, and what was a gray cloud on the horizon crystallized into flesh and blood.
Each elephant moved deliberately, one heavy footstep dragging into the next. Their skin seemed older than parchment, their tired eyes blinking in the dust. From time to time one would raise its trunk and trumpet, a high, heralding two-step scale.
Minutes later came a group of giraffes, their ears brushing softly against the low white clouds. I could hear Alex draw in his breath as one broke from the pack to step in our direction, its legs buckling gently at the knees and straightening, stiltlike, long yards away. The giraffe was the color of Caribbean sand, dotted with spots on its back and neck. It reached its face into the tree above us and began to taste the leaves.
Then the elephants began to trumpet fiercely and band together in a vaudeville shuffle; the giraffes marched knock-kneed across the plain.
When the only thing I could sense was the whistle of the tall grass, I heard the unmistakable roar of a lion.
He moved with the lazy grace of a victor, and his mane stood away from his face like a ring of fire. Several paces behind him was a lioness, thinner, sleeker, standing in his shadow. She lifted her eyes, a ghostly sea green, and bared her teeth without making a sound. Alex’s hand squeezed mine.
The lions stayed only long enough to sniff our scent on the air. They moved silently across the plain, now shoulder to shoulder. I wondered if these animals mated for life. The wind parted for them and they disappeared as quietly as they came. I stared for a moment at the spot where they had stood, trying to envision how a creature so beautiful could, in the space of a moment, draw blood.
“Let’s stay here,” Alex said quietly. “Let’s just build a hut on the edge of this plain and watch the lions cut across our backyard.”
I smiled at him. “Okay,” I said. “You can accept your Oscar via satellite.”
We picked up our blanket and crawled into the back of the jeep.
Alex’s leg pressed against mine from hip to ankle. Juma turned on the ignition and began to bump us over the pitted ground toward home.
AT THE SET, JOHN HAD LEFT US A JEEP AND A PICNIC BASKET WITH fried chicken and fresh bread. Alex and I sat in companionable silence for half an hour outside the tent with the setting sun melting into the edges of our collars and heating the ground between us. It was early September, and it was beastly hot. “You know what I miss?” I said.
“About Maine?” Alex shook his head. “I miss the seasons. I miss the snow.” I closed my eyes, trying, in this broiling heat, to imagine my fingertips blue with the cold, my eyelashes catching the first flakes of winter.
“One of my houses is in Colorado,” Alex said. “Near Aspen. We’ll go this winter. I’ll take you to see snow.”
I turned to him. I wondered if I would be with him this winter. My mind flickered back to that lion, striding silently through the bristling grass, his lioness following. “Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”
I knew he was thinking of the lions too, and of those other animals who had shaken the ground with their footsteps. As the sun dropped behind the edge of the distant hills, he leaned over and kissed me.
It was not the way he had kissed me before—not quiet, not gentle, not testing. He bruised my lips and ground his body against mine, wild and primitive, forbidden. His hand unbuttoned the front placket of my shirt and slipped inside. His palm skimmed over my bra, cupping my breast. “Is it all right?” he whispered.
I had known it was coming to this; I had known from the moment he’d left me at my door at the lodge that first night. And although I didn’t have the experience I knew he would expect, or the skill and finesse of other women, I could no more stop him than reverse the flow of my own blood.
I nodded and felt him pull my shirt over my head, but his hands were always on me, running down my back and unhooking my bra and pushing my hair away from my face. He picked me up and half carried, half dragged me inside the tent on the set, laying me down on the narrow cot. Kneeling on the rough wooden floor, he pulled off my sneakers and socks, then wriggled my shorts and my underwear over my hips.
My cheeks were burning, and I reached for the blanket to cover myself, but this was only a movie set and there wasn’t any. I tried to cross my hands in front of me, but Alex wrapped them around his neck and kissed me again. “You’re beautiful,” he said. He ran his fingertips gently over my body, the way a sightless person learns another’s face, and as I opened to his touch I started to think that maybe I was as beautiful as he believed.
I didn’t know how to touch him, or what exactly to do, but Alex didn’t seem to mind. He stood up to pull off his own clothes, and I stared at the lines of his body. I realized it was like looking into the sun—you shouldn’t do it, because you’d turn your face away and be blind to everything else.
When his mouth came over my breast, I heard the sound of my own voice, or maybe the rise of the wind. Darkness slipped inside the tent with us, covering our bodies by degrees until I could just see a sliver of Alex here and there, illuminated by moonlight, and feel his skin sticking to mine. His hand moved between my legs and his words fell at my temples and I closed my eyes.
I saw the Serengeti, filled with animals as it had been ages ago. They chirruped and whistled and cried in the night; they moved in a measured parade. Overhead was a banner of stars that slipped under my skin, swelling and shining and aching for freedom that came only when Alex sank deep inside.
When I finally stopped quivering, Alex began. He called out my name, collapsing on top of me. He looked at me with the eyes of a lion.
“Is that the first time you’ve ever—you know?” he whispered.
I turned away, mortified. “You can tell?”
Alex smiled. “It’s the way you’re staring at me. Like I just finished creating the heavens and the earth.”
I tried to push him off me, to put a little space between us. Now that it was over, I wasn’t sure it ever should have happened. “I’m sorry,”
I murmured. “I don’t do this with many men.”
Alex rolled us onto our sides. “I know,” he said. I flushed again, thinking of all the women he must have slept with; of how much more they instinctively knew how to do. He caught my chin, making me look up at him. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant that I like feeling you’re mine.” He kissed me softly. “So you won’t be doing this with many men, after all.”
He smiled as he said it, but he tightened his grip possessively, as if I might actually have plans of leaving. I hesitantly traced my finger around the muscles of his chest and felt him stir inside me. I pushed my hips closer to his and heard him groan. “Jesus,” he said. “What you do to me . . .”
I pretended to hold him back. “How do I know you’re not acting?”
I said.
Alex grinned. “Cassie,” he said, “when I’m acting, I’m never this good.”
IF SVEN, THE STUNT MAN, HADN’T COME DOWN WITH THE FLU, ALEX and I wouldn’t have had a fight. But that Monday morning—the morning after—I arrived at the set, trying to act as casual as possible, only to find out that the scene scheduled for filming had been changed.
Instead of Sven leaping from a low cliff with the infamous black rope, Alex and Janet Eggar would be filming the one love scene in the movie.
Janet Eggar was a young actress who, Alex had said, was doing her very first GLS—Gratuitous Love Scene. Bernie had as much as told me that Janet’s role was completely insubstantial; that it had been written into the script simply because if she showed her boobs, people would pay to see the movie. I watched her move jerkily from the costume designer to the makeup crew. She stood with her back to me and opened her robe so that base could be applied to her body.
I kept trying to catch Alex’s eye. He had arrived on the set long before I had that morning to catch up with the changes in schedule, so I hadn’t had the ride over to the set to see what he made of last night.
He had driven me back to the lodge and left me at the door of my room with a sweet goodnight kiss that made my insides hum. But thinking of gossip, he’d gone off to his own room and left me to lie awake all night, naked beneath the bedroom ceiling fan, touching myself in the places he had hours before.
As the sun came up, I told myself once again that I was not going to expect anything. For all I knew, he did this with some member of the cast or crew of every movie. I could think whatever I wanted to, but I realized that any promises I made myself were destined to be broken.
Alex was wearing a pair of jeans and no shirt, and he was in a foul mood. He barked orders to the prop people; he yelled at Charlie, the gaffer, for getting in his way. When Jennifer brought him a copy of his script, apologizing for the coffee stain across one page, I thought he would take her head off.
But when he looked at Janet, white-faced and shaking in front of the camera equipment, he seemed to soften. I watched his eyes travel the length of her robe and then return to her face. He walked over to Bernie and murmured something, and the director held up his hands for quiet. “This is going to be a closed set,” he announced. “Everyone not immediately involved with the filming of this scene can go back to the lodge and meet here after lunch.”
I watched Bernie lead Janet to the tent, to the cot where Alex and I had made love the night before. He spoke to her and gestured with his hands and she nodded and asked a couple of questions. In the distance I heard the last of the jeeps driving away, and I realized only a handful of people were left.
I wasn’t in any way connected with the filming of the scene—any technical expertise I could offer wasn’t going to help someone like Janet Eggar. But I saw her reclining on the narrow cot, and then her features changed into my own, and I knew that there was no way I was going to leave.
Bernie walked over to me. “You’re still here?” he said. “You didn’t hear what I said, maybe?”
Before I could open my mouth, Alex was standing beside me, his hand on my shoulder. “She stays,” he said simply.
Bernie took up his position beside the camera, and he walked Alex and Janet through a fully dressed rehearsal of the scene. If I hadn’t been so embarrassed about the location, I probably would have laughed: I couldn’t imagine taking direction about which side to turn to when you kissed, where you could and where you couldn’t put your hands, how to breathe. Janet and Alex each had a little spray of breath freshener under the pillow, and when Bernie had set up the scene to his satisfaction, they squirted some into their mouths and professionally turned to the cot.
Janet removed her robe under the white sheet with Alex chivalrously shielding her from the view of the cameramen. Then, as if he did it all the time, Alex shucked off his jeans and climbed completely naked onto the cot.
It was a horrible take. Janet’s voice cracked in the middle of her line;
she kissed Alex as if she were in bed with a corpse. When Alex went to pull the sheet down to her waist, per Bernie’s direction, Janet stiffened and sat upright, clutching her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry,”
she said coolly. “Can we try this again?”
But after two more disasters, Alex rubbed his hand over his face and stood up. He turned around, and everyone on the set could see how aroused he’d become. I looked into my lap and traced the hem of my shorts. He’d said he wasn’t acting with me. He should have been acting with her.
“Okay,” Alex announced. “Everyone, undress.”
Bernie started muttering in Yiddish, but Alex kept talking, drowning out the sound of the director’s voice. “It’s only fair that if Janet and I are down to skin, the very least you all could do is strip to your underwear.” He looked over his shoulder, to where Janet was starting to smile.
One of the cameramen was the first to do what Alex had asked, pulling off his T-shirt and pants to reveal a huge belly hanging over Jockey shorts. LeAnne, Janet’s assistant, shrugged off her clothes until she stood in her bra and panties. “It’s like a bikini,” she said to no one in particular.
Clothes flew into piles at the edges of the set, and by now Janet Eggar was laughing out loud. Alex sat on the cot, talking to her. With a sigh, Bernie unzipped his shorts to reveal purple silk boxers, and that left only me.
Everyone was staring, wondering why I deserved the special treatment, so without even thinking twice I reached for the bottom of my shirt. Alex caught my eye and shook his head very slightly, but I smiled at him. I pulled the shirt over my head and tugged off my shorts, knowing that the entire time, his eyes were on me.
When filming resumed, Janet seemed much better. I watched her fall back against the cot, her hair spread over the pillow. I watched Alex’s breath steal over her skin. I wondered how much of her he was touching; how many times he’d have to shoot this; whether the sheets still smelled like us.
After the sixth take, when Janet and Alex were laughing as if they’d been doing this forever, I saw how my nails had cut into the soft wooden armrests of my chair. In the stifling heat, the scene being played before me kept turning into the one I had lived the night before. My throat became so dry I could not swallow. I watched Alex with another woman, holding her the way he should have been holding me, and that’s when I realized I had fallen in love.
I knew he would come after me the moment he finished, but I didn’t want to see him. I never wanted to see him again. I had tried—I had really tried—but a casual liaison just wasn’t my style.
I had spent all last night preparing myself to face the truth, but that didn’t keep me from feeling its pain. Alex hadn’t felt a whole world open up at my touch. Alex hadn’t lain under the circles of a ceiling fan, praying for time to stop before it all went downhill again. To Alex, I had been nothing more than a rehearsal.
I was halfway to the remaining jeeps, planning to get into one and drive myself as far away from this production as possible, when Alex caught up with me and grabbed my arm. “Wait,” he said. “You’ve got to give me a chance.”
I whirled around and glared at him. “You’ve got one minute,” I said.
“I didn’t know we were going to film this today, Cassie. It’s terrible timing. If I had, I never would have brought you back here last night.
I didn’t want you to watch that, but I didn’t want you to think I was sending you away, either.”
“You enjoyed it,” I said. “I saw you.”
“I didn’t enjoy it,” he yelled. “It’s my job.”
“Well, what does it matter to you anyway?” I shouted back. “You’ve already had me. You’ve got Janet Eggar foaming at the mouth. Why don’t you just go on back and finish what you’ve started while everyone else goes to lunch?”
Alex took a step back. “Is that what you think of me?” he said tersely.
His fists were clenched at his sides, white with stress. His eyes flashed, and for a moment I thought he would lash out or push me aside as he stormed back to the set.
I did not say anything for a while, stunned silent by the strength of Alex’s checked rage. “I wish I knew what to think of you,” I whispered.
“I kept seeing us. The same tent, Alex. The same cot. The same everything, except this time it wasn’t me.” When his face started to swim in front of my eyes, I turned away. “Please don’t make me watch that again,” I said. I pushed past him, running until I couldn’t hear his voice over the hammer of my heart. And I told myself over and over I should have known that someone who could love so hard and so well could also hate, and hurt, as deeply.
HE WAS TWELVE, AND HE’D BEEN SHOPLIFTING FOR YEARS, SO IN theory he shouldn’t have been stupid enough to get caught. But lately girls had been looking awfully good to him, and the blonde at the checkout with breasts the size of mangoes was giving him the eye, so before he could get the can of Pepsi into his pocket a beefy fist clamped over his wrist and spun him around. Alex found himself staring into the pitted face of the security guard for the second time that week, and when he let his gaze slide sideways he realized that the checkout girl hadn’t been looking his way at all.
“Are you just plain stupid,” the guard said, “or is there some other reason you came back to this store?” Alex opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak he was tugged out the electronic door and marched to the police station.
The precinct was busy with pimps and dealers and felons, and the booking officer had little patience for a kid being brought up on shoplifting charges. The sergeant looked from Alex to the security guard.
“I’m not gonna waste a lockup,” he said. Compromising, he handcuffed Alex to a chair in front of the booking desk.
They fingerprinted him and took down his information, but even Alex knew it was all just to scare the shit out of him; he was a minor, and in New Orleans shoplifting only earned you a slap on the wrist.
The sergeant cuffed him to the chair again and Alex sat quietly, his knees drawn up to his chest and his free arm clasped around his ankles.
He closed his eyes and pretended he was on death row, at the eleventh hour.
Some time later, the sergeant noticed him. “Shit,” he said. “Didn’t someone come for you yet?”
Alex shook his head. The sergeant asked for his phone number and dialed it, leaning on the desk and staring into an arrest log. He glanced up at Alex. “Your mama and daddy work?” he asked.
Alex shrugged. “Someone should be home,” he said.
“Well,” the officer said, “someone’s not.”
An hour later the sergeant tried again. This time he got Andrew Riveaux; Alex knew by the way he held the phone several inches away from his ear, as if whatever ran through his father’s veins might be catching. After a minute the sergeant handed the phone to Alex.
The cord stretched to its limit. Alex put the receiver to his ear. He did not know what to say; “Hello” didn’t seem quite right. His father began shouting an orange stream of Cajun curses, and ended by saying he was going to beat Alex’s hide. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said, and severed the connection.
But Andrew Riveaux did not come in fifteen minutes, or even in an hour. From his position on the chair Alex watched the sun go down and the moon float into the sky like an old ghost’s white, wrinkled face.
He knew this was part of the punishment—the pity he’d get from the officers as they passed and the secretaries who pretended not to see him.
He shifted uncomfortably, needing to pee but unwilling to call attention to himself by asking to be unlocked. The sergeant noticed him on his way home at the end of the shift.
“Didn’t you call home?” he asked, puzzled.
Alex nodded. “My father’s coming,” he said.
The policeman offered to call again, but Alex shook his head. He did not want the sergeant, whom he’d begun to consider an ally, knowing the problem was not that his father could not come to pick him up, but simply that he did not want to.
He wondered if his father had deliberately decided to leave Alex hanging, or if he’d found something better to do—haul his crawfish traps, drink, be a fifth in a poker game. His mother might have come—
Alex tried to believe that—but if his mother had been sober enough to comprehend that Alex was at the station, she would have been kept in her place by her husband.
Alex put his head on the arm of the chair and closed his eyes.
After three in the morning, he was awakened by the strong smell of perfume. A whore was sitting on the chair beside his. She had cherry hair and skin the color of mahogany and eyelashes as long as his little finger. She wore a string of jet beads that looped over one of her breasts, as if to outline it. She was chewing gum—grape—and she held a fistful of money.
She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“Hi,” she said to Alex.
“Hi.”
“I’m picking up my friend,” she said, as if she needed to justify being in front of a booking table. “How come you’re locked onto the chair?”
“I went crazy and strangled my whole family,” Alex said, not batting an eye. “And they ran out of jail cells.”
The whore laughed. She had big, horsey white teeth. “You’re a cute one,” she said. “What are you? Ten? Eleven?”
“Fifteen,” Alex lied.
The woman grinned. “And I’m Pat Nixon,” she said. “What did you do?”
“Shoplift,” Alex murmured.
“And they’re keeping you overnight?” Her eyebrows shot up.
“No,” Alex admitted. “I’m waiting to get picked up.”
The whore smiled. “Story of my life, babe,” she said.
He had not told her anything, really; not about his family, or how long he’d been sitting there, or how he’d rather be cuffed to this chair for a year than have to own up to the fact that the man who would walk into the station the next day at noon to claim him was indeed his own father. He knew about whores; knew part of their appeal was the way they accepted any baggage that came with you and made you believe you were more than you actually were. He knew they made a career of pretending to feel things they did not feel. All the same, it seemed natural when she put her arm around Alex and pulled him closer, as if their individual chairs did not stand in the way.
Alex pillowed his cheek on the whore’s breasts, thinking of the blonde checkout girl and letting his cuffed arm twitch, handicapped in the dead space between them. It took only fifteen minutes before her friend was sprung from the cells below, hissing and spitting like a cat as she walked with the security matron. But during those minutes, Alex closed his eyes and took in the heavy smells of the whore’s hair spray and cheap perfume, letting her sing old Negro spirituals to him until the world fell away, until he could believe that affection was a birthright.
FILMING STOPPED UNEXPECTEDLY FOR THREE DAYS AND ALEX DISappeared. I was too embarrassed to show my face around the rest of the crew, and I hadn’t really spent much time with anyone other than Alex, so there was no one to talk to. I stayed in my room at the lodge, coming out only for meals and eating alone. I thought about breaking my contract, and flying home to L.A. before Alex had a chance to return to the set.
But instead I sat on my bed and read every romance novel I had brought, casting myself as the heroine and Alex as her lover. I heard the dialogue in the pitch and cadence of his voice. I pretended and pretended until I couldn’t remember what had really happened and what I had imagined while reading through the dark, cool corners of the night.
One night when the moon was settling, the doorknob to my room turned. There were no locks; the lodge was too old for that. I saw the door swing on its hinges and I got up from the windowsill, remarkably calm about facing a stranger.
Instinctively, I must have known it was Alex. I watched him step into my room and close the door behind him. It was dark, but my eyes had adjusted, so I could easily see the shadows under his eyes and the wrinkles in his clothes, the two-day growth of beard. My blood began to sing with the thought that maybe he had been as miserable as I had.
I didn’t notice the jar in his hand until he set it on the bureau across from the bed. “I brought this for you,” he said simply.
It was an ordinary jelly jar, the kind Connor’s mother had used every summer for canning the wild grape jam she boiled down. It was filled halfway with a clear liquid that looked like nothing more exotic than water.
Alex took a step forward and touched the jar. “It’s not cold anymore,”
he said. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I flew to New York and then got on a puddle jumper to Bangor, but there aren’t any mountains in Maine cold enough in September. And I couldn’t come back emptyhanded, so I took a plane to the only place I could be sure of finding it—I know people who’ve heli-skied in the Canadian Rockies in August.” He propped his elbows on his knees and rested his face in his hands.
“Alex,” I said quietly. “What exactly did you bring me?”
He looked up at me. “Snow,” he said. “I brought you your snow.”
I reached for the jar and turned it over in my hands, picturing him on the top of a glacial mountain, scooping a handful of snow into a jelly glass to bring back to me, thousands of miles away. I could feel myself smiling from the inside out. “You traveled halfway around the world to get me a jar of snow?”
“Sort of. I couldn’t think of anything else to make you understand the other day. I didn’t want—I didn’t—” He stopped and took a deep breath, thinking over his words. “I’ve never met anyone like you, but I didn’t have a chance to tell you that before I had to shoot that damn love scene. I wasn’t crazy about leaving the way I did, but you wouldn’t have listened to me anyway. So I figured, you know, actions speak louder than words.”
I sat down beside him on the edge of the bed, still holding the jar of water. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, wondering what I was supposed to do now. I folded my hands in my lap. “Thank you,” I said.
Alex turned to me and smiled. “That’s only half your present,” he said. “I also wanted to get you something that wouldn’t melt.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gift I could not quite see in the shifting light. But at that moment the sun broke over the horizon, and it caught in its soft pink glow the shine of a diamond solitaire.
Alex reached his hand around to brush the back of my neck. He pulled me forward until our foreheads were touching, bent over this brilliant ring that was even brighter than his eyes. I listened to his words, searching for a hint of my future, but when he spoke, he sounded for all the world like he was grasping at a lifeline. “God,” he said hoarsely. “Please say yes.”