Private Screening (9 page)

Picking up the duffel bag, he took the fifth of tequila upstairs, to shower and work on his poem. The bottle was cool in his hand.

Curtis's girlfriend was in the shower, looking wasted. Drugged-out sexual apparatus, Carson thought—no muscle tone and dull bruises on her legs. It was easy to imagine her dead.

Dead as Capwell, twitching in his arms like a shot dog. Fourteen years ago, and the poem wasn't finished.

Duffel bag at his feet, Carson took hits of the tequila, waiting for the shower. The girl drifted out, picked up her clothes from a pile, and left.

The hot water felt like 'Nam on his skin.

Sometimes it's beautiful. The sun comes out of the delta like an enormous orange ball, and at the ocean a sea of rice flows into a sea of water. The flowers are so bright it almost hurts to look at them; there are pineapples, bananas almost dropping off the tree, monkeys lobbing coconuts for the hell of it. In the dry season he can whack the trunk of a bamboo tree with a machete, and cool water pours into his throat.

Leaning against the shower stall, Carson took a burning swallow of tequila.

A headless monkey, falling; water to their necks.

Carson stared at his hands.

It kept surprising him to see no blood. He couldn't remember landing in Oakland or what he'd done. Water and sweat ran down his face.

They were following—he had to lose them.

Stepping out of the shower, Carson's footprints smudged one of the girl's. Erasing them, he thought of Cathy.

When she was born, her skin and hair had smelled new. I'll take care of you, he'd thought.

Water flooded his open lungs.

Carson dropped the tequila.

The bottle shattered; Carson dove for cover, saw the half-footprints, broke his fall with both palms. They began stinging. There was blood on his hands.

He walked to the urinal and vomited.

Sticking his face in cold water, he remembered the telephone.

Slowly, he began to dress, keeping the blood off his T-shirt. His limbs felt poisoned.

He covered the Mauser with his wet towel, and took the catwalk to the stage, bag swinging in one hand.

Curtis sat on a box next to the telephone. “Seen Joan?” he asked Carson.

“Yeah—in the shower. I think she was naked.”

Behind them, Jesus laughed.

Carson remembered holding his daughter. Putting the bag between his feet, he said, “I need room.”

“What the fuck you do to your hands?”

“Your girl thought my thumb was your prick.” Carson reached for the telephone, snapped, “Take off, man,” and dialed.

Just let me find them, he thought. Jesus and Curtis left.

“Operator 270.”

It surprised him. “Uh—Columbia, South Carolina.”

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Harry Carson. Or maybe Beth Carson.”

“Any address, sir?”

“No—just Columbia.”

He imagined pages flipping. “I'm sorry, sir. Could that be a new listing?”

“Yeah—I forgot.”

Oakland, and he couldn't remember. The poem wouldn't come.

“I'm sorry, sir …”

“Winship,” he said. “Beth was called that before we got married.”

“How do you spell that, sir?”

“W-I-N-S-H-I-P.”

“I'm sorry, sir. There's nothing.”

Carson's voice rose. “You didn't have time to look.…”

“I'm
sorry
, sir.…”

Carson hung up and dialed again.

“Operator 270.…”

Putting down the telephone, he saw a red-orange palm print on the wall. His head pounded.

“No luck?”

“She's scared of me,” Carson said automatically, then realized Damone was behind him. As he turned, Damone reached into his bag.

“Cigarettes still here?”

Carson's throat was tight. “Yeah.”

Damone took out the pack, standing with a cigarette between his lips. “Stacy asked if you're all right.”

Carson shrugged.

“Want to go home?”

“Where's home?”

Damone stared past him at the palm print. “I cleaned up the glass,” he said softly.

Carson shifted his weight. “I'll take it easy, John. No sweat.”

Damone examined his face. Looking down, Carson saw the box he'd been carrying. “Want me to load the extra amps?” he asked.

Damone picked up the box. “I'll take care of it,” he answered, and walked slowly to the truck.

Carson waited until he was gone.

The stage was dark, empty, just him and the amps and the platform. Picking up the bag, Carson walked to where they would stand.

Suddenly it came to him, the second verse, fragments linking to fragments:

A soul in sunglasses

Hair golden, many plans

His life your stepping-stone

His blood upon my hands.…

Alone, Carson took out the revolver.

8

I
N
her next life, Stacy would outlaw air conditioning.

The limo taking her to the Parnells' was the temperature of Greenland. In the hotel suite, she hadn't been able to find lyrics for her song; it had made her so superstitious that she'd commandeered the limo as diversion, to detour through North Beach. But the whine of its air conditioner unnerved her; like a postcard, the restaurants and delis and people she saw had no sound or smell or feel.

“Could you roll down the windows?” she asked.

The driver stopped by Washington Square. As the electric windows slid down, it came to life.

On the grass, a dog chased a Frisbee, two couples drank wine, a panhandler bummed change and cigarettes. People on benches talked or read books; a saxophonist with his case open for donations played mellow jazz. Beyond them was the Church of St. Peter and Paul, a white mass of marble topped by spires. Though Stacy was not Catholic, she imagined generations of Italians passing in and out, drawn by its mystery and space. A light breeze rippled her hair.

The driver watched her in the rearview. “Know the neighborhood?” he asked.

“I used to come here—in college.”

On Sundays she would drive from Berkeley, sometimes with Damone. He had found North Beach before she did—Italian genes, he had explained—and knew where to find the best cheese or salami or Chianti classico, the coffeehouses and family restaurants. Once, heading into a bakery with a window full of fresh-baked bread, she had stopped to count the loaves. “Go ahead,” Damone had told her. “North Beach won't always be like this for you.”

She could see that now. The restaurants looked more glittery and pricy; there were fewer old men in sweaters or European hats. On a bench near the car, two women turned to stare at her.

“There was a bakery,” she told the driver. “On Green Street. I want to see if it's still there.”

This, at least, was the same. Stacy checked her watch. “I'll be right back.”

The bakery smelled like fresh dough, twisted into various shapes and sizes. From behind the counter, an old Italian woman peered at her in such obvious unrecognition that Stacy grinned. “You had something called panettone,” she said. “Sweet tasting, in kind of a round loaf.”

“Still.” The woman's accent was sibilant; she pointed in triumph to a shelf behind Stacy. “Over there.”

The yeasty loaf was filled with fruit. Placing it on the counter, Stacy fished in her purse. “I used to eat this all the time,” she explained. “It tasted too good to put anything on.”

The woman smiled. “Still,” she said, and slipped a cookie in the bag.

Leaving, Stacy waved. “It's the same, she told her driver.

He raised the windows and left North Beach.

Stacy checked her watch; it was less than three hours until she sang. For a moment, she wished that she could share the bread with Jamie, and not worry about keeping it down. She ate the cookie on the way to the Parnells'.

Overlooking the bay, their home on Broadway was three stories, with a circular drive and sculptured Mediterranean garden that stirred vague memories.

Colby Parnell had stood on his front grounds, she realized, answering reporters' questions. She and her parents had watched the news. His son had been kidnapped; Parnell had looked like he'd lost his power of movement, but not of speech. Silent, her mother had placed a hand on Stacy's shoulder. Her light remembered touch triggered a second association: the Parnells' son had disappeared the spring that Robert Kennedy was shot.

“Can you turn on the news?” she asked.

The driver found a soothing voice on an FM station.

“Following today's frightening incident in Chinatown, presidential contender James Kilcannon is returning from an enthusiastic rally on the steps of the Capitol to appear with rock star Stacy Tarrant.…”

“Thank you,” she told the driver. When he circled to let her out, she took the loaf of bread.

The door was answered by a bodyguard. As she stood there, feeling foolish, Colby Parnell emerged from behind him.

“Hello.” She felt as if she were extending her hand across an enormous gulf. “I'm Stacy Tarrant.”

Hesitant, Parnell took her hand. Stacy realized that meeting her must seem like encountering a Martian; he wasn't sure his manners still applied. “It's nice of you to do this,” she added. “I've looked forward to coming.”

His face relaxed; though he was a large man, the soft returning pressure of his hand gave the impression of a gentle mastiff. “We're delighted to have you,” he answered, and led her inside.

The alcove opened to a spacious first floor. From the dining room, Stacy heard the sound of caterers preparing for a party. But the quiet room they entered was sparely appointed with antiques and a hand-loomed Chinese rug, placed in perfect relation to one another. This symmetry reminded Stacy of a museum which had been cordoned off from trespassers; she had no sense of people moving through it, bringing the outdoors with them. At the end of the room, a slender woman turned from one of several windows which arched to a fifteen-foot ceiling. “Alexis,” Parnell said, “this is Stacy Tarrant.”

The woman stared; the quick smile that followed seemed to cover nervousness. “In my day,” Alexis told Stacy, “girls as beautiful as you were film stars.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it.” Parnell watched his wife protectively; Stacy sensed tension in her Katharine Hepburn voice. “Is Senator Kilcannon with you?”

“He's flying back from Sacramento.” Stacy held out the bag of panettone. “But I brought you something. From North Beach.”

“For me?” Alexis's smile brightened; Stacy saw her husband smiling next to them. “What do they call it?”

“Panettone. It's my favorite.”

“Are you from here?” Parnell asked.

“My dad used to teach at Berkeley, and that's where I went to school. On weekends, a friend and I would eat our way through North Beach.”

“Colby and I used to go there too, though not for years.” Alexis took the bread. “This is charming of you.”

“Wait till you taste it.”

The Parnells laughed. Alexis handed the bread to her husband, asking, “Can you hide this somewhere?” He gave her a quick look, as though afraid to leave, then excused himself.

As she took Stacy's arm, Alexis's touch was feathery and tentative. “You're our first guest this evening—we wanted to visit with the senator and you. May I show you our home?”

“I hoped you would.” Through the window, Stacy saw a formal garden surrounded by wings of the house, above a panorama of the bay. “This view—it's what I used to imagine if I could get my dad to work harder.”

“It still mesmerizes Colby.” They began walking along the windows. “It must be exciting—being part of this campaign.”

Stacy heard a note of wistfulness. “It is,” she answered, then saw that one side opened to a music room with a piano. “Do you play?”

“Since I was a girl.” At the threshold of the music room, Alexis seemed to speak more softly. “It's a wonderful interest, don't you think?”

“And a beautiful instrument.” Stacy walked to the piano, touching its smooth finish. “May I hear you?”

Alexis tossed her head back, the surprised, flattered gesture of a younger woman. “Are you certain?”

“You'd be doing me a favor—I'm a little edgy about the concert, I guess. It's relaxing just to listen.”

“Then of course.” Alexis sat at the piano, arranging her dress. “You must work quite hard at what you do.”

Stacy smiled. “Sometimes, on the road, I think that life is the search for a good night's sleep.”

“It's performing for an audience, with all that tension. Much more difficult than film.” Alexis set a piece of music in front of them. “I was at Fox, a million years ago. But I really never got past the stage of wanting.”

Stacy nodded. “I think that was the least complicated time for me, in a way. When I knew what I wanted, and didn't have it yet.”

“And look where you are now.” Alexis composed herself at the keyboard. “I forgot to ask if you'd like a chair.”

Sensing that this would please her, Stacy took a Chippendale chair from behind her, sitting where she could see Alexis's hands. “I'd like to hear your favorite,” she said.

Alexis studied the keys. “Do you know the Paganini Variations?”

“The third movement's beautiful.”

“As written,” Alexis said lightly, and began.

She played deftly and well. As moments passed, her eyes seemed to close, as if she were playing from memory. Yet she sat erect, conscious of being watched. Her silvery ash-blonde hair was cut above her shoulders, and the network of lines on her face was so fine that from a little distance she looked much younger than she was. She was not of the generation that exercised; her willowy slimness had come from dieting. Yet this pride in appearance accented Stacy's sense of her frailty, and something else she could not quite define—a kind of widowed sexuality.