Always (57 page)

“Damn,” Nina said.

“It’s a little like escaping a bad cult. You have to be active in your deprogramming. The first part of what I’d like you to do between now and next week is listen to your body. Learn what makes you angry. Big or small. Don’t judge, for now, whether your anger is reasonable or rational. Anger, for the simple fact that it’s an emotion, is never rational or reasonable. Understandable, yes, but not a rational process. Don’t worry about it. Just learn how you work inside. And then, when you get angry, admit it to yourself, and do something about it.”

“Like what?”

“Depends. The first thing must be to find a way to use the adrenaline created by anger. What do you usually do when you get angry? For example, I like to hit things—such as the punch bag. I also like to break wood for kindling.”

“I kick the soccer ball extra hard,” Suze said. “Or throw the softball.”

“Slam doors.” Christie.

“I walk extra fast.” Tonya. And then they were off: kneading bread, stabbing the dirt with a trowel extra hard, singing “real loud,” strangling a towel, punching a pillow, peeling a lot of vegetables, and, Kim’s, my favorite, “hitting the wall in the garage with an old tennis racket.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Better.” “Cleaner and calmer.” “More in control.”

I nodded. “Control comes from having choice, bleeding off the pressure on a regular basis, so you’re not seething all the time. Then, when something makes you angry, you can choose whether or not—and how—to respond. ”

Physically venting also meant they would get used to it, and be able to produce a response more quickly in an emergency. It was all a matter of use.

“It’s good for your breathing and coordination, too. And the next time you’re strangling a towel”—a nod for Sandra—“or punching that pillow”— Pauletta—“I want you to really feel the emotions, the physical sensations— the speeded-up heart, the breathing, the rising strength.”

Some nods.

“I want you to feel it, and remember it. Remember it so clearly that you can recall it in the middle of the night, if necessary, or while you’re brushing your teeth in the morning—and while you’re brushing your teeth one morning, recall very specifically three strikes or joint locks or throws that you think you do well.”

I held up three fingers.

“Three things. That’s all. A kick, a knuckle strike, and a pinkie wrench. Or an elbow strike and two kicks. Or two throws and a punch. It doesn’t matter. Three.”

I motioned Christie over to hold the bag.

“So I might pick a back fist”—I lunged and unfurled a whipping right fist into the right temple of my imaginary opponent—“then an elbow strike”—the back fist had brought me close enough for a flat, hard drive into the solar plexus—“and then a kick to the knee.”

Christie staggered at the last blow. I could feel the energy boiling in my bones.

“Rehearse the anger feelings, the adrenaline, and rehearse the strikes in your head. Rehearse them as you’re driving, as you’re preparing dinner, as you get dressed. Enjoy the sensation. Just three things. Over and over.”

I scanned the faces around me.

“Anger isn’t a bad thing. It’s just a feeling. Learn it. Understand it. Feel it—and then start matching that feeling to your three strikes—your punch, your kick, your hold release, whatever. Then start matching the strikes with possible attacks. Imagine someone pinning you to the wall, or jumping you from behind, or touching you on MARTA. Tie the imagination to the anger to the adrenaline to the strength to the strike. Over and over.”

More nods. Some of them, I could see—a shifting of the feet, an increased pulse at the neck—were imagining as I spoke.

“Yes. That trowel in the dirt is a sword-hand to the neck. The towel is your attacker’s throat. The soccer ball is a knee. The tennis racket is a sword-arm to the groin. Imagine the combination blows—the fist, the kick, the strangle. Or the throw, the kick, the knee. Imagine what you will shout as you strike out or throw. One word is best:
no,
or
blam,
or
die,
or
fuck.
It doesn’t matter. Pick one, practice it. If you can, practice it as loudly as you can. If you can’t, run through it in your heads. Play with it. Play with the scary thing. But play hard, play clearly, and play a lot. I want you ready by this time next week, because I have a treat for you.”

“Why does the word
treat
from you make me nervous?” Nina said. “What do we get next week?

I smiled. “A real live boy.”

WHILE THE EARLY-MORNING GYM PATRONS EBBED AND FLOWED AROUND ME, I
focused on the blue punch bag. Feet first: snap kick and roundhouse, back kick and crescent kick; heel, instep, side and ball of the foot. Then knees, both with the bag hanging free and pulling it to me as I thrust. Elbows next. Ram the nose into the brain, crush the top of the spine where it joins the skull, burst the kidneys, crush the larynx, break the ribs. Forwards, backwards, uppercut and side strike. Left and right. With elbows you have to be close, close enough to kiss.

I stripped off my outer shirt and wiped my face and hands.

Hands gave you a little more distance. Fists first. The whipping, snake strike of the back fist, the driving
gyaku zuki,
the snapping
oy zuki.
The palm strike. Sword-hand and knife-hand. Fingertips like sharpened pistons.

Then mixing it up. Heel, move in, elbow, knee, move out, back fist, in again for punch. Combinations and repetitions, whirling and standing, changing up and changing down, until I ran with sweat and the late-rising patrons exchanged sidelong looks.

I finished with a right back-fist, left punch, right elbow combination, and stepped back. Now I could eat breakfast.

I had been in the gym for an hour and twenty minutes. When I got back to my room, I had five messages. I put them on speakerphone and stripped my sweats as I listened.

The first was Bette. “I talked to the newspaper people yesterday. They agreed: no mention of you or your mother, no mention of Brian Finkel, Jr.” Then Rusen, “Boy, this is great! The energy sure is back. You wouldn’t think it would make such a difference. Finkel is beaming and rubbing his hands. Oh, and if you should see Kick, if she isn’t wearing shades and being famous, could you tell her, please, that we need to hear from her about that job?” Gary: “. . . reminder of our lunch appointment at twelve-fifteen.” Edward Thomas Hardy: “I see you smoked the snake out of the weeds. Do I want to know how you got her to talk? Thanks for keeping my name low profile. I owe you. I’ll see if I can’t help out with your future real estate and zoning needs, as far as the law allows, of course.” My mother: “I hope your friend is feeling better. I hope she’s pleased with the article.”

Leptke had promised me a heads-up.

I called down to the front desk and asked them to put a copy of today’s
Seattle Times
outside the door. The shower was hot and hard.

Don’t meddle. Don’t push me. I mean it.
Maybe they didn’t get the
Times
in Anacortes. Maybe she wouldn’t see it as pushing.

I toweled off, dressed, and took the still-folded paper down to the terrace restaurant, where I ordered breakfast. Tea, pan-fried trout, grapefruit.

It was the front page of the B section: a long, crisp publicity still of Kick, from
Drop,
in a fire-opal formfitting suit, falling through nothing, arms wide and eyes closed, smile beatific, hair streaming behind her like a war banner, skin peach with dawn.

The server who brought me tea looked at the picture as she poured more ice water.

“Oh,” she said. “Excuse me.” Then, unable to help herself, “It’s just such a beautiful picture. She looks like she’s worshipping. Your food will be right out.”

I read the opening paragraph, a breathless repeat of “the terrible night of May 14, when the unsuspecting crew on Seattle’s latest hope for indie glory,
Feral
(see page 4), found their worst nightmares coming true, and brave Victoria ‘Kick’ Kuiper, already pluckily reimagining her life after personal tragedy—
cont’d p. 3
. . .”

Worship. Yes.

I turned to page three.

Despite the first paragraph and heavy reliance on journalistic cliché, it did the job. It cataloged clearly Corning’s “ill-fated scheme” to bankrupt the production by finger-pointing to regulatory agencies, detailing how “pranks” had escalated to poisoning and the admission of seventeen people to Harborview with “life-threatening symptoms.” The consequences for the innocent caterer, trying so hard to drag herself back onto the film map, this time with food instead of falling. Then the real meat of the matter, as far as Leptke was concerned: the ease with which the zoning process could be manipulated if you had enough money. There were brief definitions of OSHA and EPA, and sidebars on the Seattle independent film industry, the committee structure of the City Council, and a B-article on the human face of ruthless business manipulation—complete with a black-and -white head shot of Steve Jursen, the carpenter. I was mentioned only in passing as “the concerned out-of-town landlord” and Corning and Bri Jr. not at all. Mackie was there, though, under his legal name, Jim Eddard, labeled a “person of interest.” Which meant the police did not yet have him. Johnson Bingley was named, too (“though unavailable for comment, due to being out of the country”), and there were quotes from Edward Thomas Hardy (“respected Seattle council member running for reelection”) and the local prosecutor who promised, as they always do, “a swift and thorough investigation.”

Bri’s family had money. Hardy had clout. Corning had struck a deal. Mackie, aka Jim Eddard, had been left holding the bag. Money isn’t justice.

I traced Kick’s smile. It was the exact size of my little fingertip.

THE DRIVE
to the set was as smooth as caramel; the sky was hidden by polished, nacreous cloud, and as I took the curve on the viaduct alongside Elliott Bay, I felt as though I were moving into the heart of a chambered nautilus.

The set hummed the way it had on Sîan Branwell’s last day of filming. Carpenters and painters swarmed around the scaffolding. The air rang with hammering and stank of paint. I heard the hiss and froth of the espresso machine as soon as I walked in, and my heart beat with dread and joy, but it was Dornan behind the counter. He saw me, and nodded, and focused his entire concentration on a quad grande latte and then a mocha spin for John and Andrea, the props people I had overheard that first day. They gave me sidelong glances (“the concerned, out-of-town landlord”) but said nothing until Dornan handed them their coffee with a flourish and they beetled off.

“Busy,” I said. I wonder what their—my—burn rate was now.

“Extra money means extra crew. And not only can we afford decent food, people know it’s safe to eat. Kick’s rehired her assistant, but she can’t make it in until the afternoon, she said. So for now it’s coffee and premade sandwiches, and I’m it.”

“Where’s Anacortes?”

“Ah,” he said. “That’s where she’s hiding?”

“She’s not hiding.”

“No? Well, if you say so. Now, I know you’re not drinking milk, but have you tried soy?”

“No.”

“Let’s try it now, then. A nice soy latte.”

I watched him fuss with spigots. “Why do you think she’s hiding?”

“I imagine many things frighten her at the moment. No doubt she’ll get over it. And in answer to your question, I believe Anacortes is somewhere north, on the sound. Lovely views. Her parents, by all accounts, are not poor.”

“They’re not?”

“Not even remotely.”

“She said her father was ‘in trucking.’ ”

“And so he is. He’s the COO of a giant truck-making corporation. Here you go.” He handed me a paper cup. “Sorry it’s paper. There’s been a run on coffee this morning, and no time to wash cups.”

Drawn in the foam on top was a lopsided flower. Imperfect. Vulnerable. Ephemeral. “What’s she hiding from?”

He poured himself coffee from the urn and added two shots of espresso. “How long have you known her?”

“You know exactly how long.”

“That’s right. You barely know her, and she barely knows you. And she’s just been diagnosed with an incurable disease. If I were her, I’d be thinking you might cut and run. Most people would.”

Over by the scaffolding, one of the carpenters dropped a hammer and began to swear. Someone else was laughing.

“You never met my wife,” he said.

Deirdre, who had died at twenty-two of leukemia. He never liked to use the names of the dead.

“Illness isn’t like the movies. It’s not like
Love Story.
It’s not all off-screen treatments, or pale faces filmed through a Vaselined lens. It’s not crisp white sheets and brave smiles and poignant, self-sacrificing farewells. It’s messy and hard. Physically and emotionally.” He paused. “We’d known each other eighteen months, been married for six. I don’t know if, I don’t know if I would have, if she’d found out when I first met her, if—It might have been too hard.”

His eyes were hazed with memory, the way I imagined the blue glass of a doll’s eyes might look if had been left too long on the floor of an abandoned nursery, light streaming pitilessly through bare windows until the cheap glass clouded and cracked. Had he seen Kick’s illness right from the beginning and decided it was too hard?

“Are you going to drink that?” he said at last.

I put the coffee down. “I have to go.”

“Of course you do.”

“I have an investment to protect. There are lot of things to sort out. That article, for example, will make things worse, if anything, with OSHA and EPA.” With the violations a matter of very public record, the case-workers’ superiors would start asking public questions. I should have been able to give them a heads-up before it appeared. I should have been able to give Kick a heads-up.
Don’t push me. I’m a cook.