Blood in the Water and Other Secrets Page 12

  “What’s to grow?” Eric asked. “She’s one of the few bankable women in Hollywood.”

  “For now,” Hugh said. He talked demographics, the changing audience, Vanessa’s age. “She’s completely realistic,” he said. “She wants to maintain the same control over her career she’s had so far. She wants to position herself the right way.”

  Eric heard this echo of Vanessa’s phrases with loathing. “But you have ambitions of your own, I think. Vanessa’s co-stars— well . . .” Eric let the phrase tail off, indicative of outer darkness and mere reflected light.

  “Oh, direction is definitely my goal. I’ve had some success,” modestly ducking his head and flopping his hair— the phoney— “on screen, but behind the camera is really where I belong.”

  Eric controlled his nausea and recollected Hugh’s background: film school, a well regarded documentary, some regional theater, including direction. Something might be done, but delicately; Hugh was brighter than the usual claimant, at least as ambitious, maybe personally involved.

  “There’s a project I’m interested in,” Eric said after a pause, “that needs a director. Moderate budget, you understand, but potential. A neat little thriller.” He mentioned names, possibilities, pitched the story. “I could get bigger marque interest— the script’s a gem— but what the hell? It would give you a start.”

  Hugh’s eyes were avid, but when Eric was finished, he shook his head. “I’ve promised Vanessa,” he said.

  “What have you promised Vanessa?”

  “Why to direct her, of course. We’ve been talking about The Whisperer. Surely she’s mentioned . . . Do you know the novel?”

  Eric did; he read everything. The Whisperer’s heroine was an impoverished Appalachian woman who migrates to Detroit with her five children. Within Vanessa’s range? Probably, but risky; the heroine was forty, at least.

  “Well, you know then. It’s quality product. And the rights are available. Listen, it would be a hell of a package.”

  “You and Vanessa.”

  “No, no, I like Baldwin or maybe Nolte for the male lead. I’d direct.”

  But now it was Eric’s turn to shake his head. “You can’t practice on Vanessa,” he said, laying aside his napkin. “But think over the other proposal. It could make your career.”

  So the offer was on the table, and Eric could only wait and see. As he drove home, he told himself that it would be all right. A fine property, a chance to direct, Eric’s backing— and he would be as good as his word and back the film 100%— what more did Greshwin want? What more could he want? No, Hugh would take the bait and busy himself with his film, and Vanessa would return to her senses.

  “Don’t rely on Hugh,” Eric told her that evening.

  She looked surprised. “I’m not relying on Hugh,” she said. “I’ve got my own plans. I’m taking classes. Starting next month.”

  “Classes?”

  “With Madame Skaskevich.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Eric said. Madame was straight from Leningrad, a Method guru with an impenetrable accent and a yen for hard currency.

  “I know exactly what I want to do,” Vanessa said and the set of her mouth told Eric that she wasn’t kidding. “I’m signing up at UCLA, too. No, no, not the film school. You know, literature and history and things. I’m sick of being ignorant. The business school is good, too. I want to grow as a person. You understand that, don’t you, Eric?”

  Of course, he told her. Indulge her, he thought. Encourage her, even. She’ll get bored with college work. It was a laugh. When had she even looked through the script pile? But Madame Skaskevich! There might be real dangers there. A gift like Vanessa’s, so intuitive, so natural— so vulnerable? Eric was beset by waves of anxiety which only increased when it became clear that Vanessa was thriving on her new regimen. He’d been afraid she’d take on some crazy project; now he began to fear she wouldn’t take on anything at all. Her classes were “so absorbing”; her new professors, “all marvelous,” and squat Madame Skaskevich with her glassy survivor’s eyes and croaking voice, “a genius.”

  All this Eric endured with remarkable patience. It was only when he learned Hugh Greshwin was also one of Madame Skaskevich’s regulars that he felt the decisive moment had come. Vanessa was set to betray, not him— not him, there was never anything personal involved— but herself, her career, her destiny. And the problem went far beyond Hugh Gershwin or even the toadish Madame Skaskevich. The problem was Vanessa. And if Eric wanted to remain within the greater world of her films, it was up to him to save her from herself. That was perfectly clear. Without any more hesitation, he dialed Hugh Greshwin’s number and invited him to dinner on the yacht.

  Later, Eric would deny to himself that anything definite had been planned. It was something much more subtle than a plan; it was a matter of situation, not of event. The way he arranged things, Vanessa had had every opportunity to come to her senses, and Hugh Greshwin had had a shot at a terrific project. That was all, absolutely, and Eric’s conscience was clear. Anything else that happened was beyond his control— although he had been at pains to create a certain situation and, beyond that, a certain atmosphere. Eric would go so far as to admit that— but only to himself.

  To Vanessa, he spoke of drama. She expected to see the Miranda moored in the usual spot amid the close packed ranks of the marina, and she was surprised when he pointed far down the bay.

  “I asked Sven to move her further out. I know, I know, you’re not fond of the dinghy— though you managed to get to the Teasdiles last week, didn’t you?— but think of Hugh. The drama of it. Walking out to a yacht along a floating sidewalk isn’t the same at all.”

  Eric stretched his arms before the great sweep of San Diego bay. The lighted restaurants and shops behind them, the shadowed hills to their right, and, far away across the intensely blue water, the dusty mountains of Mexico. He wished they could weigh anchor and sail around the green point and straight out into the Pacific, away from classes and Madame Skaskevich and ambitious young men with predatory eyes. But his darling did not like sailing, even though she’d bought Miranda for him. Vanessa could barely swim, got seasick in the lightest swells, and confessed to a kind of dread of open water.

  For that reason, Eric was sure that once out on the boat, she would be willing to stay there. No sudden sulks and tempers would tempt her into the small, uncomfortable dinghy. Nearer shore was another matter. How many times lately had she taken it into her head to visit the Teasdiles, that viper photographer and his poisonous model-wife?

  “I’ve given Sven the night off,” Eric said as he untied the dinghy from their usual slip. Sven knew Vanessa’s nervousness on the water, and he was all too obliging about running her here and there. “He needs some time to himself. We don’t want to lose him.”

  “Well, but how will Hugh . . .”

  “I’ll pick him up. You’ll have time to change and see that Jorge has everything ready.”

  Vanessa raised one eyebrow. She already looked smart and nautical in white slacks and a navy and white striped shirt.

  “The star treatment, darling. Heels, neckline, mega-glamour. Let’s show Hugh what the business is all about.”

  “Hugh’s not into glamour,” Vanessa said.

  “We’ll see,” Eric said. He’d learned very few people are truly immune to glamour— or even to its little cousin, major wealth. “Indulge me. I have something in mind for him. You’ll be pleased. It could launch a major career.”

  “I don’t know why you had to move the Miranda so far out,” Vanessa repeated as they left the marina.

  “I told you, darling,” Eric said. “It’s pure theater. Strictly for your friend Hugh.”

  And running out later, as they left the little shops and restaurants and the trees with their fairy lights behind and passed the white plank pontoons of the marina and the glistening yachts, Hugh Greshwin was impressed.

  “Beautiful night,” he said.

  “I love the bay,” Eric sai
d. “You feel you’re alone, don’t you? Alone on the sea, even here.” Beneath them, the indigo water was splashed by the reflected lights which thinned out and then disappeared, leaving them on the verge of a great darkness before the Miranda’s lights took over, bathing the water under her sides in gold.

  Vanessa was waiting at the top of the ladder. She was all in white, like the ship, in a long slim dress with a low neckline, a light shawl over her shoulders against the evening breeze. Eric brought the dinghy along side and threw up the line for her. “You remember the hitch?” he called. His darling was quite hopeless about knots.

  She fumbled, giggling, with the knot until the boat was fast, and Hugh and Eric could scramble up the ladder to the greetings and laughter of a determined conviviality. Vanessa called Jorge to bring out the cocktail tray, and they sat down with their drinks in the lee of the wind. They could see the white and yellow lights of San Diego, the winking eyes of arriving and departing planes, the faint and mysterious signals of distant ships.

  When Eric recalled the evening later, that’s what he remembered: light against darkness, points of gold, blue, and white brightness against the amorphous spread of sky and sea. They, that is, Vanessa and Hugh, talked of Madame Skaskevich and of Vanessa’s growth and Hugh’s plans. Eric listened until the paella was served, splendid like all Jorge’s creations, golden with saffron, redolent with garlic, and filled with mussels, lobster, and shrimp. Below, the dining room felt pleasantly warm after the cool breeze on deck. The room was aglow with light, and soft baroque music issued from the stereo system. Hugh admired, and Eric said, “The Whisperer wouldn’t pay for all this.” That was his opening gambit. He stuck to the financial details, to Vanessa’s possible losses. And then when she proved stubborn and Hugh Greshwin resourceful, Eric moved on to his other cards, his knowledge of their finances, his control over rights.

  It was all very civilized, although Vanessa was upset, he could see that, for on top of three very substantial cocktails, she’d added several glasses of good French Bordeaux. The fact was that tension and disagreements made her nervous. She was a simple and direct person, “transparent to the role” as one of her directors had said, a personality subtle on the screen but easily distressed by malice and maneuver in everyday life. Eric thought she did not appreciate what he’d done along those lines for her sake. She’d always left business to him— “You’ll have to talk to Eric,” she’d say with a graceful, dismissive gesture. “He worries about all that sort of thing.”

  That sort of thing being contracts, percentages, residuals: the mundane foundations of her art. He’d done the negotiating, the dealing, the hard bargaining with the shrewd and the ruthless. He’d managed the directors, the scriptwriters, the agents, the producers. Now she wanted to fly away into some artistic empyrean to “grow” as a second rate actress instead of a first rate star. A sense of grievance made Eric sharp, crueler than necessary, crueler than he ever wanted to be, and Vanessa jumped up, grabbed her shawl, and ran up the steps to the deck.

  Hugh started to follow, but Eric stopped him. “Vanessa hates business,” he said. “She knows it’s time for serious negotiations.”

  “You shouldn’t have said. . . .”

  “The film,” Eric said, cutting off his reproaches. What did Hugh know of Vanessa! Of him! “If you’re really committed to The Whisperer, we might do something— minus Vanessa, of course.”

  “She’s essential,” Hugh protested, but Eric could see he was interested.

  “A tad too young,” Eric said, “unless you just want a star turn. There are other actresses who’d be available— if you had my backing.” He reached over casually and turned up the music: Vivaldi’s violins launching repeated, descending chords. Later he would remember an odd perception of inevitability, both in the music and in events.

  “Who?” asked Hugh.

  Eric mentioned names, possible combinations, possible financing. He could see how Hugh was torn between future hopes and present loyalty. Yes, he was divided; Eric would give him that, but that was not enough. He, Eric, would never have wavered for a moment where Vanessa’s interests were concerned. It gave him a kind of bitter satisfaction to think of his own devotion, especially now when he was listening for any sound from the deck, for the sounds that might come, must come, must not come.

  “We should see where Vanessa’s gotten to,” Hugh said finally, tipping his wrist and consulting a large and fancy watch.

  “Not until we’ve decided,” Eric said. “She’ll expect it all to be settled.” He thought he heard a sound then, the sound he had been anticipating and dreading, and he reached over and turned up the volume again. “I love this section, don’t you? The start of winter, the hunt, the kill.”

  “I want to direct Vanessa,” Hugh said. “I know she’s interested in The Whisperer. I think she should be involved in the discussion.”

  He stood up, but things had gone too far, and Eric could feel events sliding in the descending sixteenths of the violins. “There is another possibility,” he said slowly. “We’d planned it as her next big project. It’s right for her, absolutely.”

  “And the director?”

  “Not set yet.” Eric mentioned the possibilities, a garland of impressive names. “But nothing’s decided. If Vanessa really wants you as director. . . .” He let the suggestion trail off and Hugh sat down. Though he was concerned, Eric could see, concerned but not concerned enough, and, in that moment Eric grieved for Vanessa. But somehow he talked on, percentages, arrangements, scheduling, scripts. How avidly Hugh devoured them! On the stereo, baroque violins cut into chords with big clean bites of sound. Eric heard all this as in a dream. Then with the suddenness of baroque dynamics, the violins dropped in volume, and in the relative quiet, there was a scraping sound.

  Hugh jumped up and turned off the system. There it was again, from outside, from the side of the hull. Eric ran up the steps to the cool, brightly lit deck. There were the chairs, as empty as they’d left them, and the rail was deserted. On the Pacific side there was nothing, nothing at all, not even the glimmer of a distant freighter. He ran to the bay side, searching without success for the thin white wake of the dinghy against the reflected glitter of the city. It was all clear to him. He could almost see her struggling with the knot and the rope, then, a little drunk and detached from her fear, descending the ladder in her high, delicate heels and stepping out over the water toward the unsteady gunwales of the dinghy.

  Beside him, Hugh gave a cry. A limp white triangle was rippling beneath the dark water, rippling and floating, then sliding deeper: Vanessa’s shawl. Near it, loose now and scraping against the hull, the dinghy.

  They called, shouted, woke Jorge, turned on every available light. Eric grabbed the boat hook and, scrambling down the ladder, secured the dinghy and clambered in. The shawl was only a dim, gray shadow when he caught it at last, his arm soaked to the elbow. He knew then, though he got the oars and rowed around the Miranda, shouting until his throat was raw, until the sleek Coast Guard launch arrived, until it was official.

  On deck, an officer took down details, organized the search. Eric stood clutching the still dripping shawl. He was shivering in the cold, but, in his imagination, he’d already left the yacht. In his imagination, he is standing at the door of a bare rehearsal hall with clear white light to the left, shadows to the right. A woman is seated at a concert Steinway, and as the camera starts to close, she bends gracefully over the keyboard and begins the first soft notes of “The Moonlight Sonata.” Eric feels himself drawn closer and closer, over the dusty plank floor, around the great black fin of the raised piano lid, circling with the camera, until he confronts Vanessa’s lovely and expressive face. It is, Eric thinks, perfection.

  The Blind Woman

  At the end of Seth’s corn field the forest began, thick and dark and mysterious with the occasional whisper of moccasined feet. Once in a long while if the wind was right, he and Abigail might see smoke from new farms far to the east and south. N
orth and west remained primeval, unbroken except for the fields that they themselves had wrenched out of the woods and the rocks with three years of unrelenting work. Seth could feel that effort in every muscle of his back and shoulders.

  Stumps from the trees they’d girdled and burned remained in the fields along with a few boulders too big for even the ox team to shift. But for acres around their cabin, the darkness of the forest had been replaced by the tender greens and pale, silky golds of wheat, oats, and maize. Sometimes when Seth went out to check his fields, he’d sit on a stump amid the smells of wood chips and humus and pollen and let the soft colors of cultivation expand in his imagination out to the horizon, erasing the woods with all their mysteries and dangers.

  He might not see it, but his sons and daughters would. His son. His child, his children. Then Seth would feel the pain of futility: what if there were no children, no child? What had they done all this for?

  Sometimes he lingered so long that Abigail had to call him in to eat. She would open the door of the cabin and step onto the stone stoop— a flat stone hauled in from the fields— and call, “Seth, Seth.” If he didn’t answer right away, she would call again, with a high, sad, frightened note in her voice. He could hear the change even from the far end of the corn field. Abigail hated the woods worse than he did and some days even the fields, open, pale, rich with life, distressed her. On those days she hid in her dark, square kitchen.

  At first, she used to say, “It will be different when we have children. When the babies come, I’ll feel different. I need a little life in the house. “But when the children didn’t come, when she lost one early and one late, late enough, so that their straw mattress was soaked with blood and her face turned pale as bleached linen, she stopped talking about company or about anything very much at all.

  Which had suited Seth, at first. He was a silent man inured to the quiet emptiness of the frontier. It was several months before he realized how silent his wife had become. He hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to what she’d said, but he’d been used to the sound, which was to him like a familiar brook plashing and burbling, or the wind in the trees, or their hive of bees. Then the sound stopped and he felt its absence.