Playing Naomi, page 13
“Who came up with the title?” he said. “Peggy? That girl is prophetic.”
The dim lights gave the room a sultry feeling. Gary was exuding the heat of excitement. “You lucky devil,” he said as soon as he saw the knifing. “You got yourself a slasher.” Shifting in his seat, he went into fist-bumping congratulations.
“What’s with the shades?” he said. “Why the hell did you let Naomi Baum wear dark shades?”
“She refused to take them off,” Ted said. He looked at the face hiding behind the sunglasses and felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach. Who was the woman playing Naomi to perfection?
“Well, not to worry about the shades,” Gary was saying. “There must be a bio-pic in the archive.”
He zoomed in on the knifing. “Now we are talking,” he said. The picture, turning grainy, showed a dark object descending on an arm, a moment arrested in time.
Ted remembered his surprise when he saw the exposed arm, evenly tanned. He had expected the freckled skin of a redhead, the pallor of a recluse. The incongruity had registered faintly on his mind, but there was no time to pursue the question.
Gary trolled through the afternoon session, Rebecca reading from Holocaust Memories, Miro silent, eyes glazed. “Jesus, that’s one boring piece of crap!” he said and looked at Ted accusingly.
He backtracked to the atonement scene, watched the destruction of the chairs again, and grunted with satisfaction. “We’ll use that for a special on Miro Bogdan. We’ll call it ‘A life on the Cutting Edge.’ How’s that for a catchy little title?”
“Evocative,” Ted said dryly. “And we cut the last segment, the bit about Holocaust Memories?”
“Eat it! Take the wide shot of the installation, the sledgehammer scene, the knifing, and kill the rest. Get the dyke – what’s her name, Rebecca Rifkin – get her to come back and reminisce about Naomi. They were ‘friends,’ right?”
“She may not go where you want her to go, Gary.”
“Don’t give me that shit. If you can’t push the right buttons, you have no fucking business to be in show business.”
“Back off, Gary. I know how to interview.”
Gary bully-wrinkled his brow. “You’re getting soft,” he said. He was poking around for a sore spot, something to feed his inner sadist and rile Ted. “You’ve entered the age of thinning hair,” he said. “The mental flab is spreading.” Ted stared him down, and he retreated. “Well, let’s make it work this time,” he said, his voice deflated. “Book a psychiatrist. Get him to talk about slashers with lesbian mothers. That’ll keep the popcorn-eaters glued to the couch, I guarantee you.”
“I’ll get in touch with James Thurlow. He has written a couple of books on self-mutilation.”
“Thurlow? Whatever. As long as he is pop. Just don’t set him up with a blackboard and pointer.”
“Fuck you, Gary.”
Gary grinned. He liked being sworn at. It meant he had made his point, the point being: Ted was on thin ice. He couldn’t afford another dud.
*
It was two hours to the taping of the Miro Bogdan special. Rebecca had come for a talk-down. She was sitting in Ted’s office, wedged into one of the molded Lucite chairs. Her rump appeared strangely compressed, flattened against the see-through sides, like clothes in the window of a Laundromat washer. Ted wondered how much she knew or suspected about Naomi’s death.
“Are you buying the official story about an unfortunate combination of drugs?” he asked her.
Rebecca balked at the question. “You mean: did Naomi kill herself? I refuse to answer speculative questions, Ted. That’s tabloid stuff. You are looking for dirt.”
Ordinarily, yes, but in this case, no. “I’m asking out of personal interest,” he said. “I admire Naomi’s work”. He tried not to sound like a windbag, but his voice didn’t cooperate. It was too smooth. It lacked the choppy waves of emotion. Why was it so hard to project personal involvement even when it was genuine? He knew the answer of course. His interest in Naomi, the author, had waned. By now he cared more for the woman who said, in the musky afterglow of sex, “Ted, I need to make a confession.” So what if she wasn’t Naomi. She knew the lines to the love scene. She matched the woman in his head, the fantasy version of Naomi. That was better than the real thing.
“Even if you have a legitimate reason for asking,” Rebecca said, “I don’t have an answer. And let’s be clear about it: I don’t want to talk about my relationship with Naomi on air.” She wiggled, uncomfortable because she was shoehorned into the chair? Or because her relationship with Naomi had left nettles in her mind?
“Off the record, then: when you saw Naomi at the Villa, was it easy for the two of you to pick up where you left off?”
“No, it wasn’t easy. It was a total disconnect. The image I had of Naomi, and the woman I met on the set simply didn’t match.” Rebecca paused. The translucent legs of the chair made her body appear suspended in midair, hovering over the conversation pit. “But I mean it, Ted. I don’t want to talk about Naomi. Her death is too recent. I feel raw inside. And whatever I say would be one-sided. If Naomi were alive, she could give you her side of the story.”
“There is a story?”
“The usual story.”
“A love affair that ended badly?”
Rebecca didn’t answer. She looked past Ted out the window, at the art deco building across the lot – a wide-angle look. Her silence was like a sigh. Ted liked Rebecca better the second time round. She was mellower. Naomi’s death had tarnished her body armour. The mottled spots in her composure were showing. She said she did not want to talk about Naomi, but she could not stop herself.
“She was remarkably successful sloughing off her old persona,” she said. “All that was left was the timbre of her voice and a few tics, a few little gestures. Death was the final stage in that transformation, in the process of stepping out of her skin. I realize now why Naomi pretended not to remember me. She was desperate to escape her life and everyone in it. She wanted to be someone else. That’s why she had cosmetic surgery, dyed her hair, wore coloured lenses – ”
“You mean Naomi’s eyes weren’t grey?” Ted remembered looking into the grey eyes of the woman at the Villa. He fell in love with them even though he found their cool clarity disconcerting. He had expected exotic darkness.
“Her eyes were brown,” Rebecca said impatiently, as if it was beside the point but she couldn’t refuse him the information. Teaching facts was her job. Analyzing them was her avocation. “I thought I understood Naomi because I loved her,” she said. “But that’s a misconception. Love doesn’t guarantee understanding. On the contrary, it almost certainly leads to misunderstanding because desire gets in the way of the truth.”
“I know,” Ted said. He was thinking of his ready acceptance of the mystery woman. He badly wanted to meet Naomi. Desire made him an easy mark for Naomi’s impersonator. The desire to be with Naomi blinded Rebecca as well. She sensed there was something unreal about the woman at the Villa, but she couldn’t put her finger on the problem.
“Erin Miller sent me an invite to Naomi’s Celebration of Life,” Ted said. “Are you involved?”
“I know nothing about it,” Rebecca said. “I haven’t been invited. Erin Miller is a jealous bitch – but enough said. I haven’t come here to gossip. You wanted a talk-down before we go on air.” She gave Ted a belligerent look. She had left the swampy terrain of memories and was back on solid ground. She was already thinking of the soundstage, reconfiguring her thought for the camera.
Jealous bitch? Ted didn’t insist on an explanation, but he thought of a scene in East West Connection, a gay bar on Halloween night.
The dim lights and the haze of smoke hanging over the tables were more reminiscent of boxing-night at Sharkey’s than Halloween, and B fit right in with her tough girl costume: black tee, black shorts, and hobnailed boots. She had shorn her head for the occasion and painted her pate with orange curls. The crowd on the dance floor was evenly divided between prancing exhibitionists and couples in love, pressing close and shuffling to the music. A green-haired girl in a baby-doll dress stood on the edge of the dance floor by herself, swaying to the music. She smiled shyly at Nora with the come-on of a flirtatious child and the sadness of an abandoned street kid. B got up. For a moment Nora thought she was going to ask the waif to dance. Then she saw the flash of anger in her eyes. “Turn off the smile,” B said to the green-haired child. She shoved her roughly, making her bump into the dancers. “I didn’t do anything,” the girl said, regaining her balance. Her voice was thin but surprisingly firm. Her eyes had gone from soft and moist to dry ice. Her mouth remained slightly parted, as if she was out of breath. She looked like an excited little Pekinese, and a yelp did come out of her mouth when B yanked her hair. The bartender came over, stood between them and threatened to call the bouncer. B stepped back and glared at her rival over the bartender’s shoulder.
Nora found her voice and said: “What was that all about?”
B didn’t explain. She put her arm around Nora and said: “Let’s go. Now.”
Rebecca was B. No doubt about that. Was the greenhaired Baby Doll Naomi’s secretary? Ted had no time to follow up. Peggy buzzed the office. “One hour to air. They are waiting for us at the studio.”
Rebecca clambered out of her chair. “You ought to get rid of this Plexiglas thing,” she said.
“The look is dated, I know.”
Rebecca put her fleshy hand on Ted’s arm, weighing him down. “Not because it’s dated, but because it’s bloody uncomfortable. I’m talking function, Ted, not style.” She was back on her academic horse.
19
Liz passed the FOR SALE sign at the gate and parked her car at the end of the drive. There was an air of change about Naomi’s house, the exclusive scent of Hilton & Hyland, agents to the elite. Perhaps this was the debriefing she needed. Coming home to the beach bungalow after her flight from the Villa, she had tried in vain to find the way back to herself. She walked up the front steps of the bungalow, passed her hand over the worn railing, searching for the well-known spots where the paint was blistering. She sat on the couch in her living room, feeling the familiar fabric of the fauxsuede throw. She went around the room, looking at the pictures on the wall, touching the knick-knacks and running her eye over the bookshelf, to learn again who she was. In her jeans and hoodie she looked like dog walker Liz, but her mind was still in costume. She was still waiting for the curtain call. The placard at the gate was a definite signal: her stage presence was no longer required.
In the house, the hallway presented the same gray picture of aging paint and drab wall sconces, but the transformation of the living room had begun. A new play was being rehearsed there. Liz heard the rapid-fire patter of the Spanish crew sent in by Hilton & Hyland to prettify the rooms. Through the open doors she saw the men uncrating rental furniture in preparation for an Open House. The French windows were flanked by floral arrangements. A beveled mirror framed in gold had replaced the lackluster still life over the console table.
Liz went into the study. Naomi’s absence was palpable here. The room looked dispossessed. Erin was emptying drawers and stacking manuscripts into a cardboard box. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and breathed hello, letting the greeting run to a sigh.
“It will take days to sort through this,” she said. She was dressed for action in a mixture of work and gym clothes: black leggings and an oversized plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Her thin arms turned stringy as she closed the flap of one carton, moved it off to the side and reached for another.
The scene looked like a burglary in progress. Open drawers, stacks of paper: Erin ransacking the room for literary gems. But she was only doing her job. She was the executor of the will. – It didn’t make sense to Liz. Wasn’t the executor supposed to be a lawyer or someone with personal connections to the deceased – a friend, a lover? Granted, Erin had always been more than a secretary, a buffer between Naomi and the outside world. Still, it was strange to see her in charge and acting with determination instead of the usual hangingback diffidence. Liz had thought of her as a puppet on Naomi’s string, but the string was cut, and the puppet had not collapsed. The image needed readjusting. Perhaps she should think of Erin as a woman emancipated. She had sprung into action and handled the lawyers, the press, the arrangements for Naomi’s Celebration of Life. She had listed the house with a realtor. It was as if a new compartment had sprung open in Erin’s mind, a space blasted free by the events and made manifest. Liz wondered whether there were other compartments she had missed, underground chambers, crucial connections between Naomi and Erin, the reason why she had been named executor. She went through the minor characters in East West Connection, fishing for clues in the muddy pool of Naomi’s life story. There was an Erin-like waif making a cameo appearance in a bar scene, but she wasn’t the secretary type. She was a girl in need of protection – unless there was, tucked away among the unpublished manuscripts in Naomi’s desk, a follow-up story developing the girl’s character, a story about a woman in black and a gamine with a knack for organizing things and a penchant for slavish devotion.
Naomi’s desk was covered with newspaper clippings: obituaries, tributes, a copy of the article in the LA Times.
Liz held up the clipping. “Did you feed them the medical information, the line about cardiomyopathy and mixing drugs?” she asked Erin.
“I supplied that bit, yes,” Erin said. She was working mechanically, packing another carton with files of correspondence. Her voice was steady. Liz wondered whether Erin’s poise was a natural consequence of the events. Liz had noticed it earlier on. Erin failed to develop the wide-eyed look when told of the knifing at the Villa. She did not put on the body-writhing act Naomi had elicited from her effortlessly every day. Naomi’s hold on Erin was gone, but it was hard to tell whether she was enjoying her newfound freedom.
“How does it feel being yourself again?” Erin said. There was a curiously hungry look in her eyes, as if she was searching for a trace of Naomi on Liz’ face and ready to lick it up. Was she missing the whip? Feeling lost without her idol? Or grieving for a lover? Erin’s lips remained parted. The bar scene from East West Connection flickered past Liz’ mind. The girl’s voice was thin but surprisingly firm. Her mouth was slightly parted, as if she was out of breath. Was Erin a character in Naomi’s saga after all?
“I haven’t managed the transition,” Liz said. She was a mythical creature herself, half woman, half ghost. Her skin felt like a plastic hide. She had flash-thoughts that weren’t hers. She wanted to go on playing Naomi. She wanted another chance to go on stage and strut the Naomi stuff. She had a hankering for applause.
Erin licked her lips as if she had found the morsel she was looking for – a lingering taste of Naomi. Did Erin’s Pavlovian response count as applause?
“You tricked everyone,” she said, exhaling admiration, willing to elevate Liz to idol status, to place her on the pedestal vacated by her goddess. “I expected the press to catch on to the caper, but no one raised any questions about the timing of Naomi’s death.”
Strange to think that Naomi had exited life while Liz was standing in for her at the Villa. She wondered about the implications of being a double. Impersonation was like kidnapping. The real person was spirited away for a while to make way for the look-alike. There was a whiff of criminal intent about impersonation. Perhaps Liz had pushed Naomi over the edge, making her feel dispensable, superfluous. Did playing Naomi amount to abetting suicide?
Through the window, Liz saw the terriers nosing around in the yard. Buffy came padding across the flagstones of the terrace. She twitched her muzzle and pressed her nose against the pane of the French doors. Buffy was the more sensitive of the two terriers, always sniffing the mood. She sat back on her haunches, mouth open, panting, as if waiting for an explanation.
“What’s going to happen with the dogs?” Liz said. It was a simpler question than “Was Naomi’s death suicide?”
“The dogs?” A shadow of reproach crept into Erin’s eyes. She did not approve of the conversation moving so quickly from Naomi to the dogs. “I know Naomi promised you the dogs – if that’s your question. I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Don’t worry.” There was a frosty edge to her voice. The fire of admiration had died out. “They are yours – plus a salary to look after them. I don’t exactly know what Naomi had in mind.” She hesitated. The desire was back in her eyes. “I suspect she wanted you to go on playing Naomi.”
“To the dogs?”
“Not just the dogs.”
To Erin? She was kneeling beside a stack of papers, in a supplicant pose, looking up at Liz. A packet of Naomi’s correspondence was in her hands. She held it like a bible to swear by.
“If Naomi were alive,” she said, “she’d probably make you answer the phone and pretend you are her. She always wanted someone to front for her so she could go and hide in the bedroom.” Her eyes misted over. “I mean –” she said uneasily and didn’t finish the sentence. She meant: Go on being Naomi!
Liz considered the offer. To go on, she needed a partner to feed her dialogue and manage the props. Was Erin volunteering? Perhaps that’s what was behind the invitation to come over and watch the Miro Bogdan special with her. It was a reminder. They were in this together. They had an obligation to carry on now that Naomi was dead.
“You taped the special?” Liz said.
Erin dropped the packet of correspondence into the box. “We’ll watch it on the screen in Naomi’s bedroom,” she said and got up. “I told the real estate agent to leave the bedroom alone. She wanted to revamp it, you know. She said the décor was old-fashioned. A turnoff for prospective buyers. The woman is obtuse, don’t you think? The room has atmosphere.”
A sacred aura. Naomi’s body had touched the sheets and pillowcases. They were blessed. It was sacrilege to move them from their ordained place.
