The Lost Expert, page 11
His phone bleeped. Alison, Chris thought eagerly. Too late, he realized he still had it — the Samsung. The latest texts jumped up on the screen, pressing forward like desperate fans seeking an autograph.
Today. 2:04 a.m.
Then: blurred photos capturing the torrid conclusion to his night out with Reed. The photos had been taken from too far or too close. Their grain and tone felt like they were from some other time, the Jazz Age, an air of mysterious impropriety hanging over the improbable riot of quotidian post-war life.
Chris felt his mouth fill with the taste of flat wine: alcohol and rotting fruit. The bald paparazzo with the expression of mournful, muscular disgust plastered on his face as he aimed the camera at Chris’s bull’s-eye forehead. Chris tried to swallow. But his mouth was dry, empty of anything but that horrible, bilious flavour. Daphne’s tongue, Reed’s champagne. What video? What agreement?
“Hey, man, got some change for a coffee?” Homeless dude gesturing at the McCafé. Chris jammed the phone in his pocket. Bloor and Ossington at two in the morning. He shook his head and picked up his pace.
AT LAURIE’S PLACE, HE fumbled with the lock, dropped his keys, swore, picked them up, and finally let himself into the familiarly gloomy front foyer. Chris knelt down to take off his shoes. Laurie did not allow shoes in the apartment. He froze when he realized the kitchen light was on. There was someone sitting there, at the small second-hand Formica table. Him, Chris thought. Paparazzi man. Another dizzy spell rushed over him, followed by a surge of nausea. Chris staggered to the sink.
“Chris? What the hell! Are you okay?”
He heaved a few times, but didn’t throw up.
“Here, drink this.”
Laurie with a glass of water.
He took a tentative sip, then chugged the rest. He closed his eyes and ran a dirty palm over his face as the water settled into his tight, empty stomach.
“Chris? What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Feeling like he might fall over, Chris summoned the will to drop into one of the three kitchen chairs set around the chipped table.
“No, yeah, I’m fine. I just …”
He smiled up at her weakly. Her expression had set into a frown.
“What have you been doing? I’ve been calling you! You said you were coming home tonight. For dinner!”
Laurie wasn’t quite yelling. She was pale, her face slacker than Chris remembered.
“Yeah, I —”
“You what? You what, Chris?”
How could he explain it to her? It was all so stupid. Their tiny kitchen. The tap dripping, something the landlord had promised to deal with more than a month ago.
“Chris! What is going on?” Now she was yelling. Her cheeks had gone blotchy, and she looked like she was going to cry.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t explain it to her.
“Laurie, god, I’m such an idiot! This new job has been crazy! I just keep losing track of time! I’m so, so sorry.”
“What are you wearing?”
A Thomson Holmes outfit involving a slinky black button-down short-sleeved shirt and strange orangey-white pants with elaborate pockets.
“They lent me some clothes. Since I’ve been sleeping on the set.”
Laurie wrinkled up her nose as if Chris had brought with him some terrible new smell that she couldn’t identify. Chris went on, unable or unwilling to stop himself.
He couldn’t meet her for dinner after all. Tomorrow they were heading up north. He had to help pack everything up. He would have called, but his phone was dead. It was an all-nighter type situation. An entire movie shoot heading into the woods. It was an enormous undertaking. All hands on deck. He couldn’t say no, they were counting on him. When he got back, he promised, things would settle down, go back to normal. That was the movie biz, apparently. He shrugged and flashed her a gee-whiz smile.
“So you’re going with them?”
“Yeah. Just for a few days.”
“Days?”
“It’s just a week. I know it’s last-minute. It’s really good money, Laurie. As soon as I’m home, I’m going to make it up to you.”
At this point, Chris was in the bedroom. He’d grabbed a tote bag and was randomly stuffing socks and underwear into it. Laurie’s expression had set into something he hadn’t seen before — a kind of bewildered desperation.
“Chris. Hold on. Are you …?”
“They’re expecting me. I’ll call tomorrow.”
He pecked her on the check and hurried out of the apartment.
DURING KRUNK’S 9/11 OBSESSION, they’d watched all the related dramas, documentaries, and dark web conspiracy videos. But mostly he had forced them to watch the amply available cell phone footage. The disaster happening in real time. Krunk went on and on about jet fuel capacity, U.S. air defence protocols, and the melting point of high-rise-grade steel. Meanwhile, Chris watched the people — specks picking up size and speed as they fell.
What would he have done?
Several streets away, Chris stopped in front of a dumpster occupying the small front lawn of a half-demolished row house. One hundred, fifty, even twenty years ago, these were undesirable dwellings stuffed to the gills by waves of poor immigrants — Jewish, Portuguese, Chinese, Italian. Now, one by one, the houses were being bought at a premium and redone in accordance with the needs of childless professional couples whose priorities were eight-burner stovetops and airy, light-infused, Peloton-equipped workout rooms. Things can change without evolving or improving. They can be the same, only totally different. If they’d known, maybe they wouldn’t have done it, wouldn’t have sold low in the early nineties, abandoning their once tightknit communities for the spacious anonymity of the suburbs. If they’d known. In a single motion, Chris sailed his randomly stuffed tote of saggy underwear and faded T-shirts into the dumpster. Briskly, he set off through the city, darkness punctuated by streetlamp coronas and the blur of flickering shapes keeping company with the last of the late-night Netflix insomniacs.
Script 6
INT. STREETCAR — MORNING RUSH HOUR
The bulb in the front of the streetcar flickers, creating an eerie, strobe-like sense of displaced motion. THE LOST EXPERT stands in the middle of the crowded car amongst the other passengers who can’t find a seat, holding on to a strap, his long arm extended, his body swaying back and forth with the erratic motions of the train. A MAN comes through the car with a sign: Looking for work. Hard worker, underlined in red. Someone guffaws. The car jerks to the right as it takes a bend just a touch too fast. The man with the sign loses his balance, jostles another man.
OTHER MAN
Hey! Get offa me.
HARD WORKER
Take it easy there, bud.
OTHER MAN
I’m not your bud!
HARD WORKER
(shouting now)
You think you’re better than me?
The Lost Expert looks up at the sound of the yelling. He catches sight of the tall, faceless TRENCH-COAT-WEARING MAN he first saw in the Jewish quarter. Trench Coat Man walks through the disturbance and on toward the back doors of the car.
THE LOST EXPERT
(trying to get through the crowd in the car)
Excuse me! Out of the way, please!
OTHER RIDER
(pushing at Hard Worker)
Step outta my face!
THE LOST EXPERT
Let me through!
Hard Worker pushes hard and swings his fists at everyone around him.
HARD WORKER
Don’t put your hands on me! Don’t you ever put your hands on me!
The car lurches to a stop. The lights flicker on and off. The two men collide again, then start yelling and punching. The Lost Expert, behind them, is knocked backwards into a crowd of people. The lights go off, bathing the crowd in the shadowy gloom. There is a collective groan. The Lost Expert scrambles back to his feet. Trench Coat Man is gone.
EXT. LEAFY NEIGHBOURHOOD NORTH OF THE CITY — LATE MORNING
Houses overlook a steep gorge tightly filled with vegetation. Down in the gorge, THE LOST EXPERT slips through bare trees hung with brown vines. He follows a muddy trickle of water through waist-high brambles, thorn bushes snapping and tearing at his thick pants. He pushes through, then stops in a small clearing and comes upon an ELDERLY WOMAN in a nightgown. She is crouching in a murky pond. The woman’s white hair is tangled, her pink robe smeared with mud, her bare feet blackened. The woman sways unsteadily as she peers at the ripples on the brackish surface of the water. The Lost Expert watches her eyes trail past, skimming clusters of water bugs with interest and almost delight. Although she is elderly and gaunt, there is a glow to her. She is in the liminal space between life and death, swaying between the two, momentum carrying her farther and farther into the place from which no one comes back. The Lost Expert continues to watch her, almost in a trance.
EXT. POND — AFTERNOON (FLASHBACK — 1903)
BOY LOST EXPERT crouches by the bank of a swamp. There is smeared mud and matted long grass. Dazedly, he stares at the spot where his mother was dragged into the water.
EXT. GORGE — MORNING (1928)
THE LOST EXPERT kneels by the small swamp, next to MARTHA, the lost elderly woman.
THE LOST EXPERT
Martha?
MARTHA
Albert? Is that you, Albert?
THE LOST EXPERT
(reassuringly)
Yes, Martha. It’s me. It’s Albert.
The old woman smiles lovingly and collapses in the Lost Expert’s arms.
INT. LIVING ROOM OF SUBURBAN HOUSE
MARTHA’S DAUGHTER
Thank god, you found her.
HUSBAND
I should never have left her.
MARTHA’S DAUGHTER
Honey, you can’t blame yourself. It was just for a minute.
HUSBAND
I thought she was resting.
THE LOST EXPERT
Who is Albert?
HUSBAND
Albert?
DAUGHTER
Albert is her brother. He died in the war. Why?
THE LOST EXPERT
She called me Albert. When I found her. She told me she’d been waiting for me.
The daughter puts her hands over her face and starts crying.
THE LOST EXPERT
It’s almost her time.
Daughter sobs.
HUSBAND
(holding out a wad of crumpled bills)
Here, please. For your trouble.
DAUGHTER
Thank you, thank you so much.
THE LOST EXPERT
(accepting the money)
Take care of her. Take care of your mother.
INT. APARTMENT — EVENING
THE LOST EXPERT sits at the kitchen table across from Sarah. He watches expressionlessly as she slowly and deliberately counts out the crumpled bills in front of him. There are seven one-dollar bills.
SARAH
(expressionless)
Seven dollars.
THE LOST EXPERT
It’s something.
She gets up and goes to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. The Lost Expert sits there for a long time, just staring at the bills. Outside, there is the sound of yelling, then a scuffle, and the familiar sound of a bottle breaking.
INT. APARTMENT KITCHEN — MORNING
THE LOST EXPERT, still his pajamas, enters the kitchen, pauses, and looks around. The apartment is dark and quiet.
THE LOST EXPERT
Sarah?
The Lost Expert switches on the light, illuminating the kitchen. There is a note on the empty kitchen table next to the still crumpled bills. The Lost Expert reads it: I’ve taken the baby to my mother’s.
He stares at the note. Eventually, the noise of horses’ hooves, a car’s trilling horn, and angry shouting breaks him out of his thoughts. He grabs up the small pile of crumpled bills in his fist and runs to the window. He leans outside and throws the crumpled bills out.
THE LOST EXPERT
(yelling)
Shut up! Shut the hell up!
There are enraged responses from the street, which the Lost Expert muffles by abruptly yanking the window closed. He sits back down at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Finally, he gets up and goes to the side table by the front door. On the table is a crumpled business card, which he picks up: Joel McCann, Senior Advisor, Allan for President.
PART TWO
Section 7
THEY TOOK OVER A summer camp closed for the season. The crew spread out to the different cabins, occupied creaky bottom bunks, watched the butts of their flicked cigarettes trail red into the dark, encroaching forest. It was late afternoon. A gloomy chill, spread by the wind off the lake, swept through the camp, a harbinger of coming winter.
Chris, feeling as if he were under some strange spell of shape-shifting, quietly toured the campsite with Alison. She had reluctantly acceded to his request that they stay with the crew in the camp rather than in the luxury country inn an hour or so up a small country highway, which was instead left entirely to Darlia and her entourage.
They climbed a steep path to reach the camp director’s cabin, newly outfitted with two space heaters and heavy flannel sheets. The shack sat on the flat of a small hill with its back to dense woods. It overlooked the camp and the open expanse of the lake. Inside there was a cot, a scarred wooden desk, and a rack of splintering plywood shelves.
“Is it okay?” Alison said worryingly.
“It’s fine,” Chris said. He turned back to the lake. “It’s got a great view.”
“It is pretty,” Alison said.
He looked at her and smiled. Alison wore sky-blue corduroy trousers and a fashion designer’s take on a lumberjack jacket. Her milky cheeks were tinged pink from the cold air.
“What about you? Are you going to be all right?”
“Sure,” she said brightly.
“It’s not exactly your element.”
“And what exactly do you know about my element?” Alison teased. She shifted toward him. Or else he wished she did. A gust sent a kaleidoscope of furled leaves swelling. Chris took a deep breath, relishing the rich air.
“Well, well, well,” boomed Bryant Reed, stomping up the hill, huffing and puffing and swinging his mud-spattered hiking boots. “How are my two lovelies today!” He hooked an arm around each of them, pulling them into his burly chest in a bear hug. Reed smelled of tobacco, clover, and swamp. Chris had a sudden memory: kissing his grandfather on the cheek a week or so before he died. The white stubble bristling against his lips. And the sadness: a terrible feeling rushing through him that had no outlet, nowhere to go. Sour breath hissed from his grandpop’s lips as he tried to speak before finally leaving off in favour of resting his paper-thin fingers on Chris’s open palm.
Chris shivered.
Reed released them. “What is it, Holmes? What’s up?” The director’s voice, suddenly intimate and low.
“What? No. Nothing. Just …”
Reed and Alison looked at him expectantly.
“It’s just — I was thinking — We don’t really process things when they’re happening. We don’t get it. Only after.”
He felt free in the dilapidated camp. He was someone, somewhere, else. He could say anything.
“That’s why we need movies. They’re as close as we can get to it. To going back to what happened.”
“What happened?” Reed blinked owlishly at him.
“Everything. Nothing. We’re never sure.”
“We’re just animals,” Reed said.
“Animals who keep wanting to remember.”
“Animals with history,” Reed said, liking the idea.
“Animals trying to understand how we became human. Where we came from, where we’ve been.”
“Stories,” Reed said.
Chris nodded. The sky settled low on the horizon.
“I have no idea what you guys are going on about,” Alison said primly.
“Sure ya do, sweetheart,” Reed boomed.
They wandered over to the dining hall for dinner. Chris was aware of his breathing, the deep, unruly air in his lungs. Around them, the camp was descending into shrouded darkness, a self-contained universe swinging the gates closed. Falling leaves, still supple, blanketed the pathways. Reed whistled. The tune was melancholy, but he seemed relaxed in a way that Chris hadn’t encountered before.
“You know what the best thing is about this place?” Reed said, stopping at the foot of the stairs heading up to the ramshackle dining hall. Dramatically, he pulled out his cell phone. It gleamed in the settling dark. “No signal,” he said. He had the phone by the tops of his fingers like it was something with a disease. “Dead as a doorknob,” he said happily.
According to Krunk, Reed had made his best films in the late eighties. Before cellphones, Chris thought. Before the internet. The Lost Expert was before all that too.
“Dead,” Chris repeated approvingly.
Inside the dining hall, the crew was already settling into heaping piles of food and loud conversations punctuated by obscenities and laughs degenerating into smoker’s hacks. There was a hint of a lull when they walked in. Eyes turned — fearfully, Chris thought — to Reed, ballcap pushed halfway up his forehead, his usual half-grin half-grimace on his face.
Alison offered to get him a plate, but Chris insisted on helping himself. He lined up with the others and heaped on beef stew and mashed potatoes. His mouth watered. Honestly, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten an actual meal. He sat down on a bench between two grips and stuffed his face.
