The Lost Expert, page 28
THE LOST EXPERT
Beaoman.
JOEL MCCANN
Keep listening.
HAROLD ALLAN (V.O.)
It’s time for Allan’s Army to rise up! They are taking our jobs. They are taking our dignity. They don’t belong here! It’s time! Allan’s Army is here. We are rising up! We are rising up! There will be a new dawn in America! America first! America always! (wild cheering) Thank you, thank you. (crowd quiets) But we are a compassionate country! We are a God-loving country! Recently, my wife and I, we adopted a baby. A poor baby orphaned in the Jewish quarter. We love this baby! We will raise him as our own! We will raise him to be a great American!
The Lost Expert reaches over and turns off the radio.
JOEL MCCANN
I’m not saying it’s right. I’m not saying that.
The Lost Expert stares through McCann.
JOEL MCCANN (CONT’D)
(sighing)
Jesus, what’s this world coming to?
INT. THE LOST EXPERT’S APARTMENT — LATE AFTERNOON
THE LOST EXPERT walks through the destroyed kitchen.
THE LOST EXPERT
Sarah? Sarah?
The Lost Expert walks down the hall into the baby’s room.
THE LOST EXPERT
Sarah?
He stands in the overturned baby’s room. The rocking chair is empty.
THE LOST EXPERT
(unsure now)
Sarah?
The Lost Expert walks over to the small window in the baby’s room and looks out. The garbage-strewn street is empty, eerily silent. In the quiet apartment, he picks up, now, on the faint sound of running water. The Lost Expert hurries down the hall to the bathroom. The sound of running water gets louder. He tries the door. It is locked.
THE LOST EXPERT
Sarah, it’s me! Open up! Please, Sarah. I know where he is. He’s okay.
Please, Sarah! Sarah!
Water begins to flow out from under the locked door. It swirls around the Lost Expert’s boots. Surprised, the Lost Expert looks down. The water is streaked with pink.
THE LOST EXPERT
Sarah! No! Please, no! Sarah!
Section 24
FIVE LANES OF HIGHWAY in either direction. The occasional bleat of a horn. Through the tinted windows, the desert hills in the distance rose like a dream. Up ahead, a red mountain shimmered, burned bright, then hazed out. Everything loomed — far in the distance or way off in the past. It had been ten days since he’d come to L.A., and six days since Alison’s text: We need to talk.
This time she’d called him. She’d asked how he was in the cautious, caring voice used around someone who’s probably dying. Preliminaries over, she got quickly to the point. A breakfast meeting had been scheduled. He had to show up. If he did, they could talk after. But first, he had to show up. “Thomson,” she’d said earnestly. “It’s really important.”
Suiting up for the outing, he considered himself in the full-length bathroom mirror. Ten days on his own. He’d already lost weight and body mass. Even his newly ordered one-size-down Thomson Holmes outfits were loose. He looked like a character from the eighties, a boyish Tom Cruise dressing up for Risky Business. This boy in a man’s clothing — he didn’t recognize him. His gaze was shrouded and secretive. He brushed his teeth, smoothed his hair with water from the tap. The man in the mirror. The man in the high castle. He tried out a confident, Holmesian smile. It didn’t look right. It just didn’t. Alison. When he saw her, he would tell her. He had to. What other choice did he have?
The traffic was endless. Chris tapped his foot, waggled his right leg, cracked his knuckles. He had no idea when they might arrive, because he had no idea where they were or where they were going. Was helplessness always the default setting for celebrity? He got into cars. He went where they took him.
His phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number; it wasn’t one of the usual roster of callers. He answered it anyway. What if it was Alison?
“Son! Finally! I’ve been trying you for days!”
Son? The word circled around his brain, a tiny spark looking to ignite.
“Oh, uh.”
“Don’t worry about it! Look, Thomson, it doesn’t matter to me. What they’re saying. I know it’s not true. People will believe anything these days! I just want to know: What can I do? How can I help?”
“Oh — thanks. Thanks — Dad. I’m okay. Really.”
“You’re okay?” The old man, Thomson Holmes’s father, apparently, sounded disappointed.
“No, I mean, not okay.”
“So what can I do?”
They entered a short tunnel, overpass darkening the already tinted windows. Traffic at a standstill. A bang on Chris’s window. He panicked, ducked.
The car lurched forward.
“Sorry about that, Mr. Holmes.” His driver from the front seat. “Some homeless guy looking for a handout.”
“Son, you still there?”
“Yeah, Dad. I’m here. But I’m — I’m on my way to a meeting. Maybe I can call you later?”
“Sure, sure, no problem.”
“Okay, I’ll call you back.”
“Son. Before you go. I was thinking you might come for a visit? Lunch, maybe? We could spend a little time together? Would that be okay?”
“A visit?”
“Sure. It’s not far, right?”
“I have to go. Let me call you back.”
Chris tossed the phone onto the seat beside him. Unusually, it was hot in the car. He was sweating. He reached for his water. Weirdly, it wasn’t in its usual spot. The phone slid back to him, bumped into his hip. They were winding down an exit ramp. He had forgotten that Thomson Holmes had a father. A father who, apparently, cared about him. Chris saw a speck high in the sky. A bird of prey. He watched the hawk seem to trail the progress of the interminable traffic, then abruptly set course for the hills.
THE MEETING WAS IN the downtown Los Angeles offices of Berinstain, Elfy & Wolfowitz. Alphabetical order, Chris thought as he was ushered into the wood-panelled boardroom.
Two more people arrived. The first was his publicist, Maddy. She was large, tanned, resplendent in an orange muumuu. Kissing both his cheeks, she stepped back to take him in. “Look at you!” she yelped in an overdone New York accent. “Oh, my gawd. You’re practically a scarecrow. Who’s taking care of this boychik?”
Reed showed up, unshaven and grizzled. He wrapped Chris in a hug that smelled like wet, dirty sweater.
“What are you doing here?” Chris asked. “Where’s Alison?”
“Alison,” Reed scoffed, avoiding Chris’s eyes. He surveyed the table, picked up a Danish, and bit into it, sending flakes and crumbs spewing.
Berinstain cleared his throat, and everyone became sombre. They sat. The three of them proceeded to discuss the situation, only occasionally pausing to acknowledge that the subject of their conversation was there in the room with them.
“Nothing to worry about,” Maddy said, as much to herself as to him, it seemed to Chris.
They discussed various ways to ameliorate the allegations.
Chris sat quietly as they agreed on a plan. A Lost Expert wrap party — surprise guests in attendance to show support for their good friend and colleague. And a major announcement to the press: He would be starring in Darlia’s movie, the gay Big Chill.
“Seriously?” Reed moaned, sounding like a recalcitrant adolescent denied video games until he cleaned up his room. Berinstain turned his sunken, watery eyes on him. Reed scowled, then became deeply entranced by the need to scrape at the cuticle of his left thumb.
“It’s a fantastic role,” Maddy trilled.
“With Reed on board as executive producer and Thomson in a starring role, they should have no problem securing financing and distribution,” Berinstain said mildly.
“Great,” Reed said petulantly.
“You’ll be fabulous!” Maddy purred.
“And she’ll make the statement?” Berinstain asked.
Maddy nodded and puckered her face, as if she was sucking on a sugar cube soaked in bitter lemon. “She’s agreed to say that the rumours are completely unfounded. Thomson never pressured her for any kind of favours. He’s always been a perfect gentleman. And the video is a fake. Which,” she said emphatically, turning to Chris, “is true, of couwse!”
“Fine,” Berinstain said evenly.
Darlia’s movie. A party stocked with lady celebrities demonstrating their love. It was all so transparent and pathetic. It was exactly how Krunk said it was.
“Just one more thing,” Berinstain said. “Darlia proposed that perhaps Thomson receive some ongoing assistance in processing the situation. From a mental perspective.”
“A shrink,” Reed said glumly.
“It’s a good idea,” Maddy announced.
“It will be completely confidential, of course.”
“I know just the person,” Maddy said. “He’s worked with David and Chawlee.”
“That sounds like the right direction to move in,” Berinstain said evenly. “Thomson, are you in agreement?”
“Of couwse he is,” Maddy announced, clapping a bejewelled, tanned hand on Chris’s forearm.
Berinstain’s dead blue eyes, like a mounted buck head’s doleful, glittering browns. The way time passed in loops and repetitions, the same things happening over and over again. Where was Alison? What about our agreement? Chris wondered.
TO BREAK THE TENSE silence, Chris asked Alison if she’d ever heard of the Florida study. She hadn’t. A friend had told him about it, Chris said. In fact, it had come from Krunk — a neat encapsulation of how, as he put it, the world of manufactured images helped create a whole new era of zombies with credit cards. During the study, a group of undergraduates were shown a series of images. For some in the group, the pictures included ones that suggested aging and retirement. Like a beachfront sunset, a tuxedo-clad lounge singer, a sepia photo of small-town main street, a kindly doctor. After watching the images, the students were moved to another room for lunch. The group of students shown the Florida pictures took longer to get there.
Alison thought about it. “So, it’s like subliminal advertising?”
“Yeah. Only everything can be advertising.”
“Not everything,” Alison said. “Just pictures. Images.”
“Yeah,” Chris said. “Not everything. Just almost everything.”
“Then it’s pointless? Don’t resist?”
“I don’t know,” Chris said. He’d brought it up because he’d wanted to tell her something, something clever. “I think it’s more like — just keep asking, you know?”
“Asking what?”
“Why you’re walking so slow.”
Alison crinkled her cheeks, gave him a quizzical stare, then tinkled a laugh. Chris laughed, too, nervously at first, then more freely. He thought to ask her if she was close to her parents. He was sure she was. But he feared what the question would reveal. He needed to tell her. He would tell her.
He’d been surprised when she’d agreed to come with him on the two-hour drive. Her presence made it feel less like a march to certain death and more like a leisurely pleasure cruise through Southern California. It was both — wasn’t it? — this road trip to visit his dad.
Silently they cruised smoothly along a busy highway. Occasionally, they caught tantalizing glimpses of the Pacific as they headed to the oceanside town where his father lived.
“Alison?”
“Yes, Thomson?”
He took her hand.
“Thanks for coming. You really didn’t have to. I appreciate it. And before we get there. I wanted to tell you. I need to tell you …”
She was looking at him, but her big brown eyes displayed no discernable emotion.
“I …”
“Thomson,” she said firmly, reclaiming her hand. “You’re going through a lot right now. You should just focus on that. You’re visiting your dad. That’s great. We can talk later.”
“WE’RE ALMOST THERE,” ALISON said, nudging him lightly. He’d been dozing, his mind amazingly blank. Then he remembered: the trip to visit the stranger who was his father. Suicide mission, he thought with sudden clarity.
When they’d crossed through customs at Pearson Airport in Toronto, he’d gone into a sweat, realizing what he was doing — presenting his false passport, incriminating himself as an international imposter. But he’d made it across without a problem. Alison had been at his side, handing over paperwork and passports emblazoned with the golden eagle of the United States. There was a brief consultation that didn’t seem to involve Chris, who shifted from foot to foot, silk socks pressing against the pads of his impossibly thin leather loafers. The customs official grimaced, looked from Chris to the documents in front of him and then back at Chris. He didn’t speak. This is it, Chris had thought feverishly, almost eagerly. Then the official said, “Have a nice flight,” stamping at the documents with a vengeance. Chris had felt let down. You’re a masochist, Chrissy. A masochist for mediocrity. The king of let’s just see what happens. Whatever, Krunk. The plane had taken off, its velocity pushing him back against cool first-class leather.
And now, a new border, a final crossing. He should have been freaking out, but he wasn’t. Thomson Holmes and his father were estranged, apparently. They hadn’t seen each other in years. So
now he had two fathers whom he hardly ever saw, who didn’t particularly care about him. Two fathers. Two absent girlfriends. Two ideologically driven filmmaker best friends. Strange how everything had a parallel, everything had its equivalent. What about the men at the centre? Weren’t they both the same too? Both missing.
“Thomson? Did you hear me?”
“Yeah, cool, cool, I’m awake.”
THEY STOPPED AT THE gatehouse. Security appraised them and quickly opened the barrier. They rolled into a small neighbourhood of bungalows with white stucco exteriors and rust-coloured tiled roofs meant to evoke the New Mexican pueblo. Each house had a neatly groomed patch of lawn sporting a coconut or palm tree — Chris wasn’t sure if there was a difference — and a flowering bush or two.
They proceeded at a stately pace down an empty street adorned with signs warning drivers to yield to golf cart traffic. Chis drummed his hands on his thighs until Alison flashed him a look. Fathers and sons. What would they do all afternoon together? What would they talk about?
They glided to a gentle stop in a driveway. They were in a cul-de-sac harbouring five of the indistinguishable faux-pueblo houses.
The driver got out to open the door for them.
“Well, I’ll see you in a few hours,” Alison said.
“Wait. You’re not coming in?”
“Me? No. This is your thing.”
“But you should meet him!” Chris said, trying to cover his sudden desperation with enthusiasm.
Alison patted his knee soothingly. “I will sometime, Thomson.”
Chris turned away from the concerned, compassionate expression on her face.
The driver opened the door. Slowly, Chris stepped out. The Florida study. He breathed deeply. The air was fragrant and heavy, not exactly fresh, tinged, Chris imagined, with the chemicals that were no doubt heavily deployed on the abundantly perfect foliage in perpetual bloom. The town car circled the dead end and rolled back up the bucolic street.
THOMSON AND HIS FATHER took their lunch on the terrace beside the small pool. The lunch was simple, a chicken salad obviously prepared by someone else and left for them to help themselves. Thomson Holmes’s Dad made no apologies as he served things directly from heavy-lidded plastic containers.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Dig in.”
Though not particularly hungry, Chris did what he was told. They ate, not speaking, Chris sneaking furtive glances at his newly acquired father. Jack Holmes was tall, taller than Chris, with a lean frame and tanned arms revealing biceps that still hinted at a life of some labour. His brown, weathered face was centred by a red, cratered nose that, along with a slight tremble of the fork and serving spoon, suggested he was or had been a fairly heavy drinker, though there was no alcohol in evidence. Thomson Holmes’s Dad had a healthy looking, if greasy and unruly, sweep of white hair and overall seemed sharp enough.
“It’s good,” Chris eventually said as he finished his last bite.
“Yeah, thanks, made it myself.” Jack grinned impishly.
“Someone brings you your meals?”
“Monday to Friday! God forbid you don’t eat up! Then you hear about it.”
Chris chuckled along. “Good,” he said vaguely. “Good. And …” He looked at the pool.
“Yup, still swimming. Every day. Keeps me nice and lean.” Thomson Holmes’s Dad laughed again, patting what Chris now saw was a pronounced belly made more evident by the man’s otherwise slim frame.
“So, uh … son?” The word son again, this time as a question. “How are things? How’s the movie coming?”
“Good.”
“They treating you well?”
“Oh, sure, they’re treating me great.”
“I’ve seen a few things about it. On the computer. It’s a different kind of movie than you normally make, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Chris toyed with the water beading on his glass of iced tea. “I guess it is.”
“And how is that?” Thomson Holmes’s Dad leaned in, expectantly, hopefully. There was something in the way he spoke that appealed to Chris, that made him want to open up. He was reminded of his grandfather when he was still relatively healthy. He used to like to ply Chris with questions about school and friends and even what he thought about a popular TV show or song on the radio.
