Adin awoke to a fury of rain and hail pelting her bedroom window, then recalled with a start the antique oriental cushioned chair—a gift from Lillian Gish—that she’d left at the pool side. The rare Pacific storm slapped her full in the face as she dashed, cursing, through the dark rose garden in her silk robe and slippers.
She wouldn’t have noticed her husband at all save for the bottle of bootleg rum bobbing on the pool’s surface that reflected back her Ray-O-Vac flashlight beam. Beneath it, Horatio’s body blackened the pool’s floor like a discarded rug. She thought for a moment the body moved but then realized it was something else, some dark flurry of motion next to it, an illusion no doubt cast by flashlight, ripple and shadow, amplified by her own shock.
A dozen police arrived forty minutes later, at dawn, with soggy overcoats and heavy cameras and tracked mud through her new Tudor home with no apologies. Adin led them through the rose garden without speaking and pointed to her husband’s bloated body. The rain had diminished its rage but a strong wind still lashed the trees.
Grim-faced men photographed the scene from various angles, igniting their magnesium powder flashes in bursts that lit the estate with artificial lightning. Two lean divers recovered the body and laid it face up on the pool’s edge where it smiled wickedly in the grey dawn. Adin told them all the truth: she’d never heard Horatio enter the house that night and she wasn’t surprised because he often came in very late or not at all when he was directing a moving picture. She had no idea why he’d decided to go swimming before dawn in his two-tone shoes and director’s jacket. When Detective Sergeant Sweeney asked if he’d had a booze problem, she said, “Yes. Don’t you?”
He was a tall man with a furrowed brow and protruding cheekbones and he called her aside to the pool’s edge, away from the others.
“When was the last time you saw your husband alive, Mrs. Hall?“ he asked, pulling out a pocket leather notebook.
“Four days ago. We had an argument. I wouldn’t let him into the house drunk. He drove off in his Oldsmobile.”
“The one parked in the drive?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“Not exactly. His studio, perhaps. Horatio Hall Pictures, on Gower Street. He often slept there. I don’t know for sure. He didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask.”
“Before today, had he ever tried to take his life?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“Had he ever talked of suicide?”
“No,” she said. “But he was careless and stupid and drank like a fish. I’m not surprised it ended like this.”
“Did he leave a letter? A note?”
“If I find one, I’ll let you know.”
“Did he suffer from depression or mental illness?”
“I’m not a psychiatrist, Sergeant. He was a difficult man. He had his demons.” She paused. “There were times I wanted to kill him,” she confessed, “but I figured that would only complicate my life.” Their eyes locked but she held steady; she wanted him to know she had nothing to hide.
“I’ll need to put that in the report,” he said. “About wanting to kill him, I mean.”
“It was always in self-defense. Still, I’m sure there were a lot of people who felt that way.”
“And why was that, Mrs. Hall?”
She told the sergeant how Horatio had been a big-shot tobacco-spitting heavy-drinking bully who’d buffaloed a lot of people into risking their lives for what he wanted. How he'd do anything for a great scene, like the time he collapsed a set on purpose to simulate an earthquake and sent seven stunt fellas to the hospital. How last week he'd let a bull loose in a dummy saloon without warning and one poor devil was gored in the groin; another broke his leg. Horatio had been incapable of empathy or apology, she said; she believed he'd sold his soul to the devil some years back in exchange for a director’s megaphone. Besides that, he’d threatened to kill her twice.
A sudden wind snatched the detective’s notebook out of his hand, but he seized it in mid-air and thrust it deep into his overcoat pocket.
“Thank you Mrs. Hall,” he said. “That will be all for now.”
The cops scoured the grounds as if searching for buried treasure. Someone discovered an empty vial of morphine floating in a corner of the pool; a full vial was recovered from Horatio’s pants pocket, which led to more interrogation. Yes, Adin said, she’d suspected he was using narcotics but had never witnessed it. No, she didn’t use the filthy stuff herself—never had and never would. The sergeant asked if he could search the house and she said no, not without a warrant, and he said he would get one. “I have nothing to hide,” she said. “I just don’t want strange men in my bedroom right now.”
The coroner arrived, felt the drowned man’s pulse, declared the obvious, scrawled some notes of his own, and hauled the body away in a rattling black Ford that slid in the mucky road and backfired twice. The cops and investigators lingered until noon, talking quietly amongst themselves. A tabloid reporter and photographer arrived, disappointed to have missed Horatio. They tried to interview Adin but she turned her back on them and refused to respond, and a brawny cop threatened to pinch them for trespassing if they didn’t beat it. Adin knew they’d return, and twenty more besides. Eventually the police shuffled back through the house, tracking more mud across the varnished wood floor, and bid farewell to Adin with silent nods.
She shut the door behind them and appreciated the finality of the latch’s click. She took a few steps toward the kitchen but then stopped and closed her eyes. She could think of nothing; a vast emptiness engulfed her.
Eventually she became aware of the sound of the wind blowing through the giant elms, then the rain once more against the windows. Then she found herself upstairs, turning on the tap in the white marble tub, but couldn’t recall walking up there. She poured bubble bath under the warm stream and a few minutes later lowered herself into the foam, the water so hot she perspired. She kept her hands dry so she could light a Chesterfield, then leaned against the cool rim of the tub and closed her eyes again.
It came back to her: the half moon reflected in the smooth Pacific, the party yacht loud with intoxicated voices singing and arguing and laughing in idiotic giggles. She hadn't been able to find Horatio. Earlier he’d boasted to Lon Chaney that he could walk on water with more flair than Jesus and he'd been drunk enough to try it. She couldn’t locate him on either of the two decks. She saw seven men pissing off the lower back deck while singing April Showers in unison as a group of women roared in laughter, but he was not among them.
She descended to the lower cabins where she heard scratchy ragtime music playing from a Victrola. She encountered a well-soused couple emerging from one of the rooms, not bothering to straighten their clothes, and she recognized the man as a film editor for Warner Brothers, some distant cousin of King Vidor’s. He winked at Adin as he passed. “I wouldn’t go in there if I was you,” he slurred, gesturing toward the cabin door not quite shut tight. A recording of Lil Jackson played from behind that door and she heard Horatio’s guttural laugh. She pushed open the door a crack and saw a flicker of candlelight in which a couple slow danced.
Adin froze, not sure of her perception. The two shuffled on, oblivious to her presence. The woman looked too young to be on board a party boat. She was blonde and pretty and topless; her unstrapped silk chemise hung loosely at her hips, and the man’s arms clung to her perspiring back. Then the woman looked up with vacant, intoxicated eyes, and Adin recognized her as Pearl Talbot, the young starlet from New Orleans who was starring in Horatio’s latest two-reeler “Flirting Quakers.”
“Who the hell are you?” Pearl snarled with the voice of a drunken teenager, and then Horatio cast a sidelong glance at Adin but either couldn’t recognize her in the dim room or was too plastered to show anything but sloppy indifference. Pearl pulled his mouth tightly to hers. Adin could think of nothing to say, and as she backed out of the room the two had burst into laughter.
She’d clambered to the top deck, leaned over the rail and stared into the churning wake. She might have jumped had not some fool come alongside her and vomited down into the blackness, and the revulsion it stirred in her revived her. Then Bessie Love called her name and invited her to the salon for a game of bridge, and Adin went and faked laughter with the drunks and absorbed the illusion of belonging. She eventually fell asleep in a lounge chair on the aft deck, where a warm Pacific breeze brushed against her face until dawn.
As soon as she was able she disembarked without saying goodbye to anyone and caught a taxi home, where she began stuffing her clothes into a large red suitcase. Around noon she heard the front door slam and hard footsteps on the stairs. She stiffened as the bedroom door flew open.
“Where the hell are you going?” said Horatio. She could smell the stink of alcohol on his breath from across the room.
“Back to Denver.”
“Over my dead body.”
“So be it.” Something animal-like welled up inside her chest, lifting her up to face him. “I saw you with her,” she said. “Or don’t you recall.”
“With who?”
“You know damn well who. That little cuss from New Orleans.”
“You’re delusional. I was in the casino winning money from Eddie Figaro.”
“Liar.”
He slapped her hard enough to loosen a tooth. She fell back, striking her head against her open suitcase. For a moment she looked dazed.
“I looked everywhere for you,” he shouted. “You could’ve told me you were leaving. You made me a laughing stock.”
“You didn’t need my help for that.”
He swore and came at her again with his fist clenched around an empty liquor bottle, but she flew at him first, thrusting him hard in the nose with the heel of her right hand. He stumbled backward across her dressing table, fracturing the mirror with his skull.
She hurled everything she could at him as fast as she could manage: suitcase, chair, Tiffany lamp, bed side drawer full of makeup, photo frames. A sharp-heeled shoe bloodied his lip.
“Stop,” he ordered but she wouldn’t. She drove him downstairs, slinging paperweights, ceramic sculptures, oil paintings yanked from the walls. If she stopped he would come at her, so she kept finding things to throw. Hurting him was important. He turned to face her and got struck full in the face with a heavy embroidered footstool; the banister saved him from collapsing backward.
“You crazy witch!” he screamed, but she backed him into the front entranceway and hailed him with glass-blown marbles, thick as eggs, that she kept in a vase by the window. Head bleeding, he groped for the doorknob, found it, and rushed out to the yard.
“I’ll have you instituted,” he cried, but a projectile garden gnome knocked the wind out of his belly and he stumbled, gasping, into his Oldsmobile and sped away.
She had too much dynamite in her to flee then. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it. She spent the rest of that day cleaning up, throwing away what was busted. She filled the garbage bin and piled a mountain of debris beside it.
Horatio returned later that night, repentant and wanting to make up. She confronted him in the gravel drive. Six stitches darkened his brow above his left eye and his lip swelled like a boxer’s. His left hand offered a bottle of bourbon, glittering in the moonlight; his right, a bouquet of roses. Her right hand clenched a fireplace poker .
She reminded him how any success he’d achieved in his pathetic little life was due to her sacrifice; how she’d saved his studio from collapse after taking charge of the books. It was she who’d covered for him whenever alcohol clouded his judgment and he acted stupidly, which was a dozen times too often. He would come back on her terms, not his.
“This is a dry house now,” she'd told him. “If you want to come in here you’ll have to throw that away.”
He'd laughed. “The booze or the flowers?”
She pointed to a pile of broken bottles next to the other debris. “You can toss it there,” she said.
“You have no right. That was precious cargo.”
“Smash it or go.”
He dropped the roses and left.
He returned the following evening, sober, and didn’t drink anymore in her presence, but they stopped talking except to discuss the company’s financial affairs, which only she understood. She stopped working at the studio and did all of the accounting at home, where she was less likely to stumble upon fornicators behind closed doors.
Five dreary months had past until the final blowup, when he’d arrived at 2:00 a.m. shouting and threatening her with an axe, of all things. She kept a pocket gun under her pillow but had to shoot it into the floor to prove to him it was loaded. He’d backed off, finally, and then had driven off. That was the last she’d seen of him until the drowning.
While toweling off, she saw through the window broken clouds racing across the sky like chariots from Ben Hur, while below, the wind blew furrows on the pool’s green surface. What a shame, she thought; polluted water atop such beautiful Italian tile. She would have it drained, disinfected, and refilled with pure spring water. As soon as possible.
When the tabloid reporters called later that afternoon she told them Horatio had suffered a heart attack while swimming, which coincided with the coroner’s report. She didn’t tell them he’d died in his suit, and the cops hadn’t leaked that information, which she appreciated. Neither did she mention the sealed envelope she’d found in the back of his sock drawer fifteen minutes earlier, on which was written “Thanks again” and initialed P.T. Inside the envelope, three vials of morphine glimmered like French perfume. No one needed to know about those, not even Detective Sweeney. She didn’t need scandal. She just wanted to move on.
A large crowd assembled five days later at the Memorial Park Cemetery to watch Horatio’s coffin descend. It was supposed to have been a private graveside service for a few close friends and family, but due to a surprise tabloid announcement, over three-hundred people showed up, mostly dressed-up celebrity hounds who jostled for position and kept mistaking each other for stars.
Shiny motorcars jammed the narrow cemetery road. A group of sullen men unfamiliar to Adin stood a distance away, smoking and spitting tobacco in wool jackets and tilby hats. A stray dog sniffed at the coffin before someone frightened it away with a stomp.
A young woman trying too hard to look like Clara Bow approached Adin as the crowd assembled and asked, “Excuse me, madam, but do you know who is being buried?”
Adin looked at her and blinked. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”
Anthony Sayers, Horatio’s lead stunt man, took Adin by the arm then and ushered her to a chair in front of the closed casket.
“I’m sorry that had to happen,” he said. “People can be such fools.”
“It’s all right, Anthony. This is Hollywood. If I’d known so many would be watching me, I would have worn black.”
She motioned him to sit in the empty chair beside her. A bald and aging minister provided by the funeral home stood, nodded to Adin with a false expression of sympathy and opened his large black leather Bible. “We gather today to bid a sad farewell to Horatio Hall, beloved husband of Adin, and dear friend to many of you here. In the book of Psalms we read, ‘As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone.’”
At that moment, an ironic gust of wind destabilized four rose funeral wreaths; women held their skirts down as men scrambled for flying hats. Cloud shadows raced over the field of gravestones. Dust flew into Adin’s eye; she blinked it out with a white hanky. Anthony placed his hand on her shoulder.
He thinks I’m crying, she thought. She caught his eye and nodded; his face responded with a compassionate half-smile, half-grimace. He was perhaps the only man alive who’d actually admired Horatio. You could even call it love of a sort.
The reverend led everyone in reciting the Twenty-Third Psalm, followed by a final prayer. A flock of pelicans swooped overhead. “You are now invited to approach the casket for any last rememberances,” he said. “Please be respectful of Horatio’s family at this time.” Adin took this to mean herself as there were no other family present. She stepped forward and laid a rose atop the cherry wood casket. Several photographers stepped out of the crowd and documented the moment with their boxy Graflex cameras and flashes.
Strangers approached her, squeezed her hands, told her how deeply sorry they were.
“Your husband was a great man...”
“If there’s anything we can do...”
Horatio’s lead costume designer, Buzzie Larkin, wearing a huge feathered hairpin, stepped up and embraced her with fat, lacy arms and perfume so poignant it made Adin sneeze. “God has his ways,” Buzzie said.
“I’m sure he does.”
“Farther along we’ll know all about it.”
“You mean once the tabloids get wind of it,” Adin said, and turned toward her waiting cab.
She spotted Pearl Talbot in a parked Studebaker Yellow Cab some twenty yards away, staring from the back seat window with mascara-darkened eyes, her hair freshly bleached and bobbed. Their eyes met; Pearl darted her face out of site and the cab sped off.
Anthony Sayers had arrived in Hollywood three years previous, penniless and ready to work in any role for any price. Adin had met him at a casting interview and was struck by his sense of infallibility, as if nothing – not even rejection – could injure him. He was exactly the kind of exploitable actor Horatio watched for: young, eager, father-hungry. And broke.
It was late summer, blistering and dusty on the back lot, and four casting directors, with Horatio between them, sat in folding chairs beneath a large shade umbrella.
“You got life insurance?” Horatio had asked.
Anthony shrugged.
“You’ll need it.”
“I’ve got it. I was three years with Ringling Brothers.”
“Doing what?”
“Tightrope. Trapeze. Bareback riding.”
"Why'd you leave?"
"I wanted to be in moving pictures."
Horatio sniffed. “Ever get shot from a cannon?”
“No sir.”
“Why not?”
Anthony grinned. “Too easy. All you do is fly into a net.”
“Ever dive from a ship?”
“I jumped off the Titanic, sir.”
“The Titanic? Good Lord. How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“How the hell did you survive?”
“I don’t know, sir. I blacked out and woke up in a lifeboat.”
“Well, that makes a good story.”
“My parents did not survive.”
“I’m hiring you, not them.”
Anthony hesitated a moment, as if not certain he’d heard correctly. “True enough, sir,” he said quietly.
“I need you to fall for me.”
“Fall?”
“Yeah, from that ladder. I need actors who can fall without getting hurt, then get up and fall again, ten times over.”
Anthony eyed the splintered seven-foot ladder spread before them in the dirt.
“How high?”
“You decide,” said Horatio.
In seconds Anthony stood at the pinnacle, back toward them all, then with barely a pause somersaulted high and backward, landing on two feet. All applauded except for Horatio.
“I said fall,” blasted Horatio. “That wasn’t a fall. That was a hell of a jump, but it wasn’t a fall.”
The second time Anthony dived headlong as if into a lake, then broke his fall with a perfect tuck and roll, ending on his back, legs spread.
Once again all applauded.
“Again,” ordered Horatio. “And wipe that idiot grin off your face.”
After the seventh perfect fall, Horatio said, “Report here at 7:00 a.m. Monday morning.”
Anthony, caked in dust, brushed his pants, strode over and shook Horatio’s hand. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret this.”
“No, but you will,” muttered Horatio. “And wipe that idiot grin off your face.”
“I’m sorry, sir. That’s the one thing I can’t do. Not at this moment.”
Later, while attending a shoot of “Chicago Chicadees,” Adin had shared sardines and crackers with Anthony on a roofless back lot saloon set. They sat at a splintered table built the night before by studio carpenters in a rush of last-minute construction. He was hungry after a long morning of mock bar fights that left him with a bruised cheek and swollen lip.
“Is it true what you said that first day – that you survived the Titanic?” Adin asked.
“I wouldn’t lie about that.”
“And you lost your parents?”
“Yeah. And my kid sister. She was only four.”
“That’s so tragic,” Adin said. “I’m very sorry.”
“Not a night goes by I don’t think about them. I'd give both my legs to talk with them again. ”
They ate for several minutes in silence. Adin poured Anthony a tin cup of pineapple juice.
“Your lip is fat as a cherry,” Adin said finally. “Does it hurt?”
“Naw. I’m used to it.”
“It’s not right,” Adin said. “Horatio makes it too dangerous.”
“That’s show biz, I guess,” Anthony chuckled. “Tomorrow I get to jump from a burning barn.”
“You could get killed.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Maybe you should be.”
Entrenched sadness creased his brow.
“I'll let you in on a secret, Adin. Every morning I pray to Fate. I say, ‘Okay, Fate. If you want me, here I am. You’re the boss. All I ask is that you take me quickly when it’s my time.”
“And does Fate answer you?”
“Yep. With silence. That’s Fate’s way.”
“How do you know that?”
“On the Titanic, Fate let everyone else do the talking and screaming and hollering and wailing. But as soon as they all went under, Fate spoke with a ghastly silence I will never, ever forget.”
Adin felt her chest tighten. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
Then a whistle had blown close by and hurried footsteps, shouts, and puffs of dust filled the grounds. Anthony leaped to his feet as if summoned to battle.
“Thank you so very much for your kindness,” Anthony said. “You and your husband mean the world to me.” He had then squeezed her shoulder in an innocent, tender way, much as he was touching her now in front of Horatio’s flower-draped casket.
The next day, Adin called an emergency staff meeting at the studio she now owned and placed Anthony in interim charge of all unfinished film projects. She announced that no major changes in staff would be made for at least three weeks while she evaluated all studio commitments, but that everyone should prepare for transitions to come. She put an immediate halt to unsafe stunt practices and demanded that she be informed of any risky scenes prior to shooting, which she would approve only with her signature. “If any crew are injured in the making of a film at this studio, I want to know about it immediately, no matter how minor,” she said. When an assistant director scoffed out loud, she fired him on the spot.
Afterward, she asked Anthony to walk her to her car.
“That girl Pearl Talbot – is she under contract?”
“According to her, Horatio made promises, but nothing was ever signed.”
“Good. I don’t want her on the studio property. I don’t want her face appearing in any more films or her name on any credits from this day forward.”
Anthony looked concerned. “May I ask why?”
“No.”
“I see. Of course you know that she was very popular in Flirting Quakers. Some other studio will make a good deal of profit from her.”
“They can have her.”
Anthony pursed his lips together for a moment, then said, “You’re the boss.”
The Hall estate was comprised of ten acres of sage scrub, live oak, and cottonwood through which a small stream meandered; half-an-acre of terraced gardens and palm trees; a small bronze Greek fountain, from which water trickled down three stone clams; a tennis court which neither Horato nor Adin had never used; and the large swimming pool inlaid with Italian mosaic tile, in which Horatio had perished, surrounded by a labyrinthian rose garden.
Adin considered the estate excessive and untamed, but she loved the pool, secluded as it was by thick cypress trees and garden foliage. She began to swim in it every morning; it left her feeling purified—baptized, in a sense, into a new life.
Two weeks after the funeral, Adin strolled out to the pool at dawn as was her routine to discover a dark creature swimming about in the clear water. She at first supposed it a fox or possum from the hills, but saw that it moved far too swiftly. It cruised like an otter, fully submerged as it whirled along the blue wall of the oval pool. It seemed to transform depending on its position. In sunlight it resembled a grey sand shark, while in the shaded areas it looked like the blurred shadow of a circling hawk, perhaps, or a piece of wood caught in a fast current. Had some practical joker planted a seal in her pool? She scanned the yard for clues; when she glanced back the pool was empty.
She circled the circumference, examining every square inch. How could it have escaped without her noticing? Once, after dark, she'd chased a raccoon out of the pool with a net pole, but this creature seemed very different. Did coyotes swim? She found it difficult to let the matter go. Clothed in her lavender pool robe, she inspected the surrounding garden paths but saw no animal prints in the sprinkler mud or any other clues. Resigned, she hosed off her feet, dropped her robe, and dived.
She touched the smooth tiles at the bottom of the pool, then swam back up and floated on her back a while, eyes closed. Light sparkled across the inside of her lids in complex patterns. What were those things, anyway? Rods and cones, a teacher once told her. Funny, she thought, how impossible it was to see nothing, even with eyes shut.
Something swam past her. She spooked, spun around, and saw the thing underwater, moving away from her in a blur. It raced quickly around the pool, then returned and darted between her legs, cold fur brushing her skin. She shrieked and scrambled for the pool’s edge, scraping her thigh as she pulled herself out.
The thing leaped into the air like a dolphin, then splashed down. Adin sprinted for the back door and slammed it behind her. Safe behind the french door windows, she saw that the pool again appeared empty. A hawk hovered overhead, that was all. But something had brushed against her to make her blood gallop.
She dressed quickly and boiled water for coffee. Perhaps she should lay a trap. It might have been a beaver, but she’d never heard of a beaver leaping into the air like that. She burned the oatmeal but ate it anyway with toast and coffee, glued to the window. She imagined it lurking out there, waiting for her. Her Browning pocket pistol lay upstairs beneath her pillow; she retrieved it and returned to the kitchen window where she sat for several more hours, watching for movement.
Adin avoided the pool for three weeks. When the weather grew hotter she cooled herself in her tub. She asked her gardener to watch for animal activity but he reported nothing, and the pool cleaner who came once a week cleared out only leaves, insects, and one drowned rat.
At the studio, Anthony wrapped up two comedies that Horatio had left unfinished, and Adin was so pleased with the results that she gave him permission to begin production of “Lonesome Sailor,” a drama about a boatswain who must fend for himself after his steamship is torpedoed by a German U-Boat off the coast of France. It would be the first major drama for Horatio Hall Pictures, an ambitious gamble to be sure, but several financiers were already interested in backing it, and Adin was certain Anthony could pull it off. He’d written the screenplay himself, and it packed a wallop, more than any script Horatio had ever considered. Johnny Martin, a dashing young Olympic swimmer from New York, was first choice to play the lead. He’d never acted before, but he had a name and face the public—especially young movie fans—would recognize.
Adin drove to the studio earlier than usual one morning to meet with two more potential investors, a banker and a property tycoon, in the “Retreat”, a spacious timber-beamed cabin Horatio had built on the studio property for business meetings. Simulating a European hunting lodge, it’s log walls brandished dozens of exotic trophy heads, and a red velvet sofa and several cushioned rockers faced a great stone fireplace.
The banker, a large and fidgety man, was clearly uneasy talking business with Adin, and the tight-lipped real estate magnate with the clumsy toupee simply nodded. Adin quickly introduced them to Anthony, who offered them expensive French cigars and champagne in crystal glasses and pitched the film concept with the confidence of a tent preacher. Soon the men were laughing in their rockers, blowing smoke rings into the air and swapping war stories—both men had served in France—and in the end, they signed checks big enough to finance half the budget. They lingered another hour after that, rambling on about studio gossip, sex in the movies, and Rudolph Valentino.
“I dined with him once,” said Toolsby, the tycoon. “He was a true gentleman, but definitely swishy. He couldn’t disguise it. I’m not sure he wanted to.”
“But if anyone should do a talkie, it’s Valentino,” said Mr. Rawley, the banker. “I’d finance it in an instant. His voice is extraordinary. Who cares if he’s pansy. He sings like Caruso. ”
Adin, who had discreetly stepped out once the conversation began to bore her, slipped back in, took a seat on the fireplace hearth, and signaled to Anthony to wrap up the meeting. The others all but ignored Adin, glancing now and then her way but making no effort to include her in their rapport.
“Say, Anthony,” said Toolsby. “I liked that young woman in ‘Flirting Quakers’. What was her name – Belle?”
“Pearl Talbot.”
“Yes, that’s it. Gorgeous doll. Great bubs, I’m telling you.”
“I’ll say,” agreed Rawley. "Terrific wiggle. A real baby vamp. When are you using her again?”
Anthony, swiping glances with Adin, hesitated. “Well – she’s not with the studio anymore.”
“That’s too bad,” said Toolsby. “A tasty gal like her could go places, and take Horatio Hall pictures with her. ”
Adin stood up. “Well, gentlemen,” she said crisply, clasping her hands with a sharp clap, “I know you both have busy schedules, as do we. Thank you so much for coming and supporting our new project. We so appreciate your patronage.”
“You should woo her back,” Toolsby persisted. “She’d be a draw for ‘Lonesome Sailor.’ In fact, I’ll commit to five thousand more if you sign her on.”
“Make that ten,” said Rawley.
Anthony opened his mouth to speak but Adin put up her hand.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but Miss Talbot has accepted a contract with Paramount and she can’t break it at this time.”
Toolsby frowned. “That’s good for Paramount, I suppose. You didn’t have a contract with her?”
“My husband thought better of it.”
“How disappointing,” said Toolsby, shaking his head. “And I’m truly sorry about your husband, Mrs. Hall,” he said as an afterthought. “That’s very sad too. I admired him very much.”
“Yes,” said Rawley. “He had good business sense.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Adin said, smiling slightly.
A round of handshakes and thank you’s ensued, and the men, hats in hand and not a little tipsy, shuffled out the door.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Adin let out a long, deep breath. “I’m glad that’s over. I have to say, you’re very good at this,” she said to Anthony. “I couldn’t have done it.”
“I tried,” he said, but his face didn’t reflect the triumph she'd expected.
“I need to talk with you about Pearl,” he said. “I meant to tell you before the meeting, but then thought it best to wait until after.”
Adin felt weary of hearing that name again, which sounded to her like fire igniting a curtain. “What is it?”
“Last night, at around nine-thirty, she phoned me. She told me she needed to talk with you, in person. She said it was urgent.”
Adin’s face darkened. “What can she possibly have to say to me.”
“She said it had something to do with Horatio.”
“Good Lord. Was she drunk? On the phone, I mean?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t sound like it.”
Adin puffed her cheeks, blew out a sigh, and said, “Why didn’t she just call me directly?”
“She lost her nerve. Said she was afraid you’d hang up on her before she could get a word out.”
“I would have.”
“Well, there you go,” Anthony said. He pushed his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “Is it true what you said? That she has a contract with Paramount?”
“No,” Adin said. “I just wanted them to leave.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have lied. That could come back to haunt us. You need them to trust you.”
Adin grimaced and pulled out a cigarette. “Did she give a time?”
“This afternoon if possible.”
“Call her back. Tell her she can come to my house around four. I want you there too.”
“She doesn’t drive,” Anthony said. “I’ll have to pick her up. She lives clear out in Santa Monica.”
“Don’t let her seduce you.”
Anthony’s eyes smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not her type.”
“Any guy is her type,” Adin said, “so long as he’s got influence.”
Adin had two hours to prepare for her meeting with Pearl. She drove directly home, faster than usual, along the winding road that meandered through the canyon. She wondered what Pearl would have to say to her. Since Horatio’s death, her anger toward the girl had compounded like daily interest. Not that Adin blamed her for Horatio’s death. Not really. No, she loathed Pearl for simply being sexy and stupid.
A doe stepped into the road; Adin swerved sharply to miss it and weaved crazily across the highway. Then – she couldn’t remember what happened next.
She came to consciousness and the start pedal wouldn’t work. A white cloud of steam escaped from beneath the crushed hood; the windshield was a mess of fractured glass and smeared blood. Whose blood? Her forehead burned; she touched it and winced at the sensation of torn flesh. Confused, she looked around and saw that she wasn’t in her driveway at all, but was surrounded by scrub oak and brush, the car slanted steeply down into a small ravine. With some effort she shoved open the driver’s side door with her leg and stumbled out.
The car was ploughed into a pine, ruined, fifteen yards off the road, wheels bent and blown, engine absurdly crumpled. Too bad; she’d loved that car. She wasn’t far from the house, she gauged, a quarter mile or less. She could walk it if her legs were fit. She shuffled slowly to the roadside, checking her body for broken pieces. She couldn’t have been unconscious for long or someone would’ve come upon her by now.
It was impossible to see clearly, her eyes watered so. She supposed she looked a mess. From her hair she brushed splintered glass that sparkled as it fell. The sun-baked asphalt radiated heat like a skillet. She needed water but it wouldn’t be far to the house.
She needed to lie down as soon as possible. She scolded herself for having left the car. How foolish of her, to be walking alone like this in the heat of the afternoon, weak and vulnerable.
Once, early in their marriage, she and Horatio had walked along this road by starlight. She remembered how she’d mistaken the Milky Way for clouds. They’d held hands and walked a half hour without speaking; speech seemed inappropriate beneath such a canopy of stars. Their marriage had held so much promise then, at least to her and at that moment. She wished their world could have stayed the way it had been that night, glorious and without malice.
She made it home safely and groaned when she saw her face and hair, sticky with blood, in the mirror. She splashed water into her burning eyes and watched an abundance of red water swirl down the drain. She examined her contused forehead and figured she’d got off lucky. She’d hit the windshield with the hardest part of her skull. Small glass fragments punctured her scalp; she plucked them out with her fingers and washed them down the sink too. She was still bleeding some but the wounds weren’t deep.
She shuffled into the kitchen, chipped ice into a dish cloth, then collapsed onto the sofa holding the wrap to her injury. The room spun. She felt heavy and old, a sack of potatoes. What was she doing in Los Angeles? She’d had an accident. Everything in L.A. happened by accident. You succeeded by accident, you failed by accident. She closed her eyes and drifted, by accident, into a place of comfort. She liked it there and didn’t wish to be disturbed. “Beside the still waters,” the minister at the funeral had quoted. That’s where she was and she liked it there and didn’t wish to be disturbed.
But someone was calling her name. She resisted at first, but the insistent voice roused her. Opening her eyes, she saw Anthony’s boyish face studying her anxiously.
“Adin—can you hear me?”
He was kneeling on the floor beside her, gently slapping her hand. She closed her eyes again but nodded. She felt as though she were a child emerging from a deep nap, blissfully dormant.
“Talk to me, Adin.”
What a stupid thing to request, she thought.
“I need you to talk to me, Adin. Please.”
“What do you want?”
“She’s responsive. That’s a good sign,” she heard him tell someone, then, “I want you to talk to me, Adin. I want you to tell me what day of the week this is.”
She opened her eyes and saw him inches from her face, breath smelling of Juicy Fruit. She shook her head as if resisting a kiss. “Go away,” she said.
“You were in an accident. You’re hurt.”
“You don’t say.”
“How do you feel?”
“Like hell.”
“Your head got a good knocking,” he said. “I need to look into your eyes.”
She sighed and followed his instructions, turning her pupils from side to side and cringing as he shined a flashlight into them.
“I don’t think she needs to go to the hospital,” he said to a woman silhouetted nearby. “Her pupils are behaving themselves, and the rest of her head looks unhurt.”
“You sure about that?” said the woman. “She looks half dead.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“Pearl Talbot. I picked her up, remember?”
“Oh yes, that’s right. She wanted to talk to me. I could use some coffee."
“In a minute. Jeepers, you’re going to have one whopper of a welt tomorrow morning. People will think you got mugged.”
“I did get mugged. By a pine tree.”
She noticed Pearl standing a few feet behind Anthony, dressed prettily in a blue striped jumper over a white blouse, her cheeks lightly rouged under a straw hat. Adin hoisted herself up against the round sofa arm.
“Don’t get up,” Pearl said in a pronounced New Orleans accent. “You need to keep your head down.”
“We saw your car by the side of the road and stopped to look for you,” Anthony said. “I was scared to death you’d been thrown out.”
“I swerved around a deer. I guess I swerved too far.”
“Where I come from, deer come out at dusk,” Pearl said.
“I wasn’t drinking, if that’s what you think. It was a doe. I didn’t want to hit her.”
“You wrecked a thousand-dollar car to miss a deer? You’re a real sweetheart,” Pearl said. “I would’ve kept going.”
Adin felt her head spin. So this was Pearl, Horatio’s femme fatale.
“I want to sit up,” Adin said. “If I need to lie back down I will.” She swung her feet to the floor and made room on the sofa. “Sit, Pearl,” she said, patting the cushion.
“You’ve got blood in your hair,” Pearl said. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Go make me some coffee, Anthony,” Adin said. “There’s a grinder on the spice shelf. And no,” she said, turning back to Pearl, “I don’t mind. I’ll have one myself.”
She set a crystal ashtray between them on the sofa cushion, then offered a book of matches to Pearl with one hand while holding the ice pack to her head. Pearl lit Adin’s Chesterfield, then her own, and puffed it nervously, filling the room with swirling smoke.
“I saw you quite a lot at the studio,” Pearl said, “but from a distance. I thought you were some sort of secretary or casting assistant or something.”
“Horatio didn’t tell you I was his wife?”
“No ma’am. Not once.”
“Not even on the yacht?”
Pearl sniffed. “Oh, the yacht. Were you there? I don’t remember much about that night. A bit ossified, I’m afraid. I hope I didn’t do anything too shameful.”
Adin snuffed her twice-puffed cigarette into the ashtray. “Why the hell are you here, Pearl? What is so urgent that I should give up my afternoon for you?”
Pearl glowered, then tipped her head back, exhaled a long, slow stream of smoke from her mouth, and meditated upon the cloud she’d created. “I can help you, Mrs. Hall,” she said finally. “I can help you speak with your dead husband.”
Adin’s head drew back. “You can what?”
“I have the ability to mediate between the material and spiritual realms,” she said matter-of-factly. “I can help you communicate with Horatio.”
“This is what you came here to tell me?”
“I come from a long line of gifted women,” Pearl continued. “My mother is a highly regarded spiritualist in New Orleans and has brought comfort to many. Her mother possessed the gift of healing and once restored a child who’d died of a burst appendix. During the Civil War, my great-grandmother Lizzy helped widows converse with their husbands and sons who’d been killed in the battle of Forts Jackson and St. Philip. I share their psychic gifts, Mrs. Hall. The Divine Energy flows through me; I claim no credit for it.”
“I see,” Adin said. “And what makes you think I would want to communicate with Horatio?”
“I make no such assumption. I can assure you, however, that he wants to speak to you.”
“My husband is dead, Miss Talbot. He’s lying in a coffin six feet beneath the Memorial Park Cemetery. He rarely spoke to me while he lived, and he certainly won’t have much to say now that he’s dead.”
“Please don’t be sharp with me,” Pearl said. “I’m only the messenger.”
Adin glared at Pearl. From the kitchen, Anthony called out, “The coffee is almost ready.”
“What do you mean that you’re the messenger?”
“I mean that Horatio’s spirit contacted me. You may choose to believe me or not, Mrs. Hall. I’m not here for my own benefit, but as a favor to your husband.”
Adin laughed. “Why doesn’t anyone ever contact me directly? Am I that intimidating?”
“It’s a matter of faith, Mrs. Hall. Horatio can’t speak with you directly if you abide in skepticism. He can only speak through an intermediary.”
“You mean yourself.”
“I’m a willing servant. Few are sensitive enough to the spirit realm to enable synchronicity with the souls of the dead. As I said, I come from a long line of spiritists. My own grandmother claimed to have entered the heavenly realm and conversed with the angel Gabriel himself, a claim I’ve never disputed.”
“That must have been a thrill. Did he give her trumpet lessons too?”
Anthony emerged from the kitchen bearing a tray of cups, saucers, a steaming coffee pot, and a bag of ice. “More ice for you, Adin.”
“I’ve known a lot of Southern gentlemen, but none that ever served me coffee,” Pearl said in a girlish tone. “You put them all to shame, Anthony.”
“Thank you, Miss Talbot. Would you like sugar or cream?”
“Seven cubes of sugar please, and lots of cream. In New Orleans we call that ‘regulah coffee.’ Now coffee without sugar – we call that shoe polish.”
“I prefer mine black and strong,” Anthony said, easing into a brown satin chair. “I call that roof tar. How are you feeling, Adin?”
“Like a ninth-round boxer. But maybe Pearl can lay her healing hands on me.”
“Oh, I don’t have the touch,” Pearl said. “I couldn’t heal my own cat of the distemper. I wish to God I could’ve.”
“But she can talk with phantom spirits,” Adin explained to Anthony. “She’s a medium.”
“Honestly? How fascinating. I’ve long been interested in Spiritualism.”
“Do you believe in the hereafter, Anthony?” asked Pearl.
“I attended a séance once, in New York, with my aunt and uncle,” Anthony said. “After the Titanic sank. It frightened me. I remember sitting at a table in a darkened room. The medium went into a trance and attempted to contact my family. She said she could see them a far distance away and that they seemed happy, walking arm in arm. But they ignored her pleas.”
“Not all departed souls wish to commune with the living,” Pearl said. “Some need to adapt to their new plane of existence. Not Horatio, however. I didn’t initiate the engagement. He did.”
A flush of skepticism passed over her Adin's face. “Explain please,” she said tersely.
"It was three days after he passed. I was preparing for bed when I felt suddenly chilled to the bone. It was a humid evening– remember that warm spell that followed the freak storm? Yet I began to shiver so violently, I thought I’d caught yellow fever. The flame from the oil lamp suddenly went out, all on its own, and from across the room I spied a pale turquoise light, barely perceptible at first, but then it grew bright as an engineer’s lantern.”
“A turquoise light,” Anthony said. “Is that common?”
“It’s interesting that you should ask. Turquoise is the color of angelic aura energy. Yes, it often accompanies the manifestation of spirit entities.”
“After the Titanic sank--I saw it on the sea. That turquoise light.”
Pearl smiled, pleased with his affirmations. “Yes, that would make sense. And in my room, in the midst of that exquisite light, Horatio himself appeared, glowing in a pure radiance of celestial luminosity.”
Adin caught herself biting her nails, grimaced, and tucked her hands in her lap. “You’re sure it was Horatio.”
“It was,” exclaimed Pearl. “I have no doubt. And then he spoke – softly at first, without moving his lips, for that is the way of spirits.
“What did he say?” asked Anthony, who had stopped drinking his coffee. “If you don’t mind my asking. I’m mesmerized.”
“He said he wished to communicate with Adin, via my own hand.”
“I’ve heard of such occurrences,” Anthony said with quiet intensity. “It’s called automatic writing.”
“Some call it that. Your husband said he wished to compose you a letter,” she said, facing Adin. “In your very presence, so there would be no doubt it was from him.”
"But you’ll be doing the writing. Why on earth should I put my trust in you, of all people, who seduced my husband?" As soon as she’d released the words, Adin wanted them back. She had no idea who seduced whom.
Pearl froze. “Oh, is that what you're assuming? I was wondering why you were so nervy with me.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know how you conceived that idea, Mrs. Hall. We shared a most profound connection of souls, but we did not engage in carnal intimacy. And I’m not ashamed to say that I grieved deeply when Horatio passed.”
“I'll bet you did," Adin said, thinking of the unsigned agreement.
“I’m sad for you,” Pearl said. “Exceedingly sad. Please drive me home, Anthony,” she said, turning toward the door. “It was a mistake for me to come here. There’s negative energy in this house. Besides, Mrs. Hall must tend her injured self.”
“So be it. But since I am so injured, as you put it,” Adin said, “please excuse me that I don’t see you to the door.”
“Ladies, wait,” intervened Anthony. “Let’s not snip. Adin, can’t you give Pearl a few minutes to prove herself? Either she can do as she claims or not, but why would she come all this way to only humiliate herself?”
Adin could think of several reasons, obvious as day, but checked herself from replying. She didn’t want to explode--not now, in her fevered and dizzy state. And how useless to get defensive, surrounded as she was by numbskulls.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she demurred. “I would like to know what Horatio has to say to me.” She felt demeaned by her lie, but it would buy her time and perhaps expose Pearl for the charlatan she was. “I apologize,” she said to Pearl. “I’m not myself today. Please, if you’re willing, I’d like you to proceed.”
Pearl’s face eased ever so slightly. She pursed her lips in consideration, then said, “Very well. But I’ll have no more asperity. One word of ridicule and I’ll go.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll need a table, paper and pen, and a darkened room, if possible.”
“Could we do it right here?” Adin asked. “I’m not in much shape to move around. Besides, this room is where Horatio did most of his writing. If he’s going to communicate with me, this would be the most fitting place.”
“It’s not very dark in here. But perhaps we can try.”
“Why on earth do spirits prefer to speak to us in dark, stuffy rooms if they abide in eternal light?” Adin asked.
Pearl shook her head. “Don’t ask me, Mrs. Hall. It’s how it’s always been done.”
Anthony set up a small folding card table next to the sofa and fetched paper and ink from a desk. He closed what shutters he could and, by Pearl’s request, lit an unused white candle and set it in a crystal candleholder on the table.
Pearl sat down, smoothed her skirt, and adjusted the paper, pen, and ink bottle just so. “I will need silence,” she said. “No interruptions, please. I will go into a trance, which may take several minutes. To you, I will appear awake and alert, but for me, it will be like falling asleep on the operating table. As I enter my trance I will surrender my body and my will to the Divine Spirit Energy that fills the universe, and I will invoke the spirit of Horatio to communicate through me, if he pleases. I can’t guarantee that he will cooperate; the spirits have their own ways, shrouded in mysteries we can’t comprehend. But because of his previous initiative, I’m confident that Horatio will make his will known.”
“Fascinating,” Anthony said. "Simply fascinating."
“Stand close,” Pearl said, “and observe my hand.”
She closed her eyes and bowed her head as if in prayer. Several minutes of silence ensued. Abruptly she gasped as if stabbed by a hat pin, then stiffened into a straight, rigid posture, eyes wide in an expression of utter astonishment. She held this position for several seconds, then launched into a frenzy of scribbling, fingers clenched so tightly about the pen it seemed it might snap. She groaned loudly, veins swelling and throbbing in her perspiring temples.
“It’s his handwriting,” exclaimed Anthony in a hoarse whisper. “I recognize it.”
Adin watched silently, feeling as though the world had gone mad.
“It’s his words!” gasped Anthony excitedly. “Do you see? Do you see?”
What Adin saw was Pearl’s face grimacing toward the ceiling and her eyes, white as bone, rolled frightfully behind her lids, yet her pen never missed the ink bottle or blotched the stationery. Finally, after filling two sheets of paper, she consummated the message with a final flourishing signature, laid down the pen, and collapsed onto the table, panting.
Adin glanced furtively at Anthony, whose face was that of a child at the circus, flushed with fascination and awe.
“Are you all right, Pearl?” he asked.
“Something happened,” gasped Pearl hoarsely. “Something very powerful. I’ve rarely felt such a vivid spirit presence.”
“I’m frightened out of my wits,” Anthony said. “What did that feel like to you?”
“His spirit seized me, then entered me like a waterfall. I was his conduit.”
“Astonishing.”
Adin snatched the letter from under Pearl’s elbow and studied it. She had to admit, the resemblance to Horatio’s writing was remarkable.
“Nice job,” she said. “Looks just like something Horatio would write.”
“It wasn’t me,” Pearl said. “I’m just the messenger.”
Adin thrust the letter into Anthony’s hands. “Read it aloud. Would you mind? My eyes hurt.”
He hesitated. “It’s a private letter to you, Adin. It’s no business of mine.”
“For heavens sake, don’t be such a pietist,” Adin said. “I’m in no shape to read it.”
He read it with care and formality, enunciating each syllable as though it were a direct revelation from God. It was just as Adin expected, an overly long, verbose assurance of Horatio’s abiding affection for her. He was in a better place now, it said, a higher plane in the spiritual sphere. He asked her forgiveness for general wrongs he’d committed, and then, as Adin had anticipated, pleaded with her to accept Pearl back into the studio, for she had done nothing amiss and was utterly trustworthy, a woman of pure spirit and grace. He also recommended a five-year-contract and no less than a twenty-percent share in box office profits. Finally, he declared that Adin had always been his first and only intimate love in the mortal world and promised he would wait steadfastly for her until that glorious day when they would meet again surrounded by angelic choirs.
When Anthony finished, his eyes glossed with tears. “This is one of the most glorious days of my life,” he said, stammering with emotion. “It gives me hope. You must be the luckiest woman alive, Adin. To hear from your loved one from beyond the grave – not very many have that privilege.” He reached over and gently embraced her.
Pearl nodded her head. “He must love you very much. Few departed spirits make such effort to communicate with their loved ones.”
“And why do you think that is?” Adin asked. “Do they have to fill out a lot of forms? Or maybe they’re just too busy with their harp lessons to bother.”
“You’re not taking this very seriously, Mrs. Hall,” Adin said coldly.
“You misread me, Pearl. I’m taking this extremely seriously. I’m just wondering why Horatio said nothing about the morphine.”
“The morphine?”
“Yes. The morphine that was in his bloodstream the night he drowned.”
Pearl’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you don’t know,” Adin said. “What matters is what Horatio knows, and why he didn’t mention it. Now that he’s in eternal light, I’m surprised he was silent about this. Perhaps he still needs another thousand years or so before he can drum up the courage to be honest.”
“His personal vices are none of my concern,” Pearl said.
“I’m not surprised by that.”
“He never told me about morphine.”
“I see.”
“I’ve never used dope, Mrs. Hall.”
“Congratulations, Pearl. Don’t ever start.” She sighed and looked out the window. “Ah, the world and its pitfalls.”
“Are you sure you have your facts straight?”
“Oh, yes. Two vials of highly illegal Chinese liquid morphine floated out of his pockets the morning he drowned. The police were quite interested.”
Pearl’s face darkened. “Perhaps he needed it. For an injury or back pain.”
“I found some hidden in his bedroom as well. The vials were a gift from someone. There was a note, signed with initials.”
Pearl turned away and began unshuttering the windows.
“Initials?” exclaimed Anthony. “What were they?”
“That’s confidential.”
“Have you told the police?”
“Not yet.”
“You should.”
Adin sneezed, pulled out a handkerchief, and sneezed again. “Oh, that hurts,” she said, wincing. “I must have bruised some ribs. Could someone blow out that stinky scented candle? I think I’m allergic to lilac.”
Pearl walked over and pinched out the flame with jittery fingers. “There,” she said. “That’s that.” She collapsed onto the sofa against a cushion. “I’m exhausted. I could use a drink.”
“I have lemonade in the Frigidaire,” Adin said.
“Lemonade,” Pearl sighed. “That will do, I suppose. I’m parched, truly I am. Could you fetch some for me, Anthony?”
“Get some for us all,” Adin said. “You know where to find the tall glasses and ice. We can sit around the pool. It’s an hour until dusk and probably cooler outside than it is in here.”
No one replied. A palpable discomfort filled the room. “Is there something wrong?” Adin asked, looking at the both of them. “Did I say something amiss?”
“You mean the pool where Horatio drowned?” Pearl said.
“Yes. It’s the only pool I have.”
“And you still use it?”
“Of course. I love that pool. I had it drained and cleaned, of course.”
Pearl’s face reddened. “It’s just that – well, he died in that pool. I’d feel funny being next to it.”
“Yes, me too,” Anthony said. “I’d prefer to stay inside.”
“It troubled me at first,” Adin said, “but I don’t think much about it now. Besides, judging from his letter, I’d say Horatio has forgotten all about the pool.” She looked at Pearl intently, then Anthony, as if trying to read their minds. “Anthony, please fetch us some lemonade,” she said with finality. “We will sit by the pool and discuss Pearl’s future.”
“My future?” asked Pearl.
“Yes. Your contract. That’s what Horatio wanted. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh yes,” Pearl said. “But I thought you despised me.”
“I do. But I also realize what an amazing actress you are. And I relax so much more beside the pool. I have some wonderful lawn chairs there. We can recline—it will be a much nice place to discuss business.”
They sat in three red-striped folding lawn chairs facing one another beside the water. The sun hovered low in the sky, flashing between the elm leaves. Adin held a clipboard and pen. Her eye sockets resembled ripe plums, thick and purple.
“So what did that guy tell you again?” she asked Pearl.
“What guy?”
“You know- that guy who drowned. Hell-ratio or something like that.”
“Are you all right, Adin?” Anthony asked. “Are you thinking clearly?”
“Clear as a bell,” she said, which sounded like ‘Claire Isabel.’
“Horatio gave me a five-year contract to sign,” explained Pearl, “and I signed it. I handed it back to him and never saw it again.”
“And when was this?”
“The night before he drowned.”
“Oh, so you were with him.”
“I was with him that evening, yes. After filming all day, he called me into his office to discuss business. When our meeting was over, I left and went home.”
“What time was that?”
“Around 7:00 p.m.”
“Did you see him sign the contract?”
“No, I didn’t. He was drinking and – well, I didn’t want to linger. But I assumed he would sign it.”
“Did you give him any gifts?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did you give him anything—you know, as a thank you gift.”
Pearl’s face reddened. “No.”
“No morphine or sexual intercourse or anything like that.”
“Adin, really,” interrupted Anthony. “This isn’t like you. You’re embarrassing me. Pearl, please be patient, she’s not herself at all.”
“I’m myself,” Adin said sharply. “I’m very much myself. I just want to know. Did you have illicit relations
my husband?”
“No,” Pearl said firmly. “Horatio and I weren’t like that.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Adin,” Anthony said. “Stop it. This is crazy talk.”
“Shut up, Anthony. Say it,” she insisted.
“Cross my heart.”
“And hope to die,” Adin said. “Say it.”
Anthony shook his head sadly. “Don’t,” he said to Adin.
“Say it.”
“And hope to die.”
“Okay,” Adin said. “Okay. I have your word. And you’re a witness, Anthony.” She scribbled something onto the paper on the clipboard. “I found this in his locked desk upstairs. Took me a while to find the damned key. It’s your contract, I suppose; it’s got your signature. It promises you $600 a month and 22% profits of any movie in which you have a starring role. Is this the real deal?”
Pearl scrutinized all five pages, then handed it back. “This looks correct.”
“Good. I am now putting my signature on it, and then I’ll ask our beloved witness, Anthony, to sign it as well.”
When he finished, Adin set the clipboard down and stretched. “The deed is done. Welcome back, Pearl; I know a lot of men who will be happy as stallions to see you on screen again.” She sighed. “Ah, I love this pool so much. If not for this pool, I think I would have gone crazy a long time ago.”
“It’s a lovely pool,” Pearl said.
“Does it still give you the heebie-jeebies?” Adin asked.
“No. It did at first, but not now. I see what you mean – it’s so very tranquil out here.”
“Just look at that sky,” Adin said. “This is what I love about Los Angeles. The sky turns so lavender at sunset. And listen to that cricket concerto.”
“I love the smell of the hot weeds,” Pearl said, “so sweet and pungent.”
“Listen to those coyotes yip,” Anthony said. “They sound like a choir of frightened puppies.”
They sat for a long while without speaking, absorbing the sounds of the hills. Adin closed her eyes; for a while Anthony thought she might have dozed. “I feel so old,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence. “So old and exhausted.”
She did look old, thought Anthony. Perhaps it was the dusk light, or the weariness on her face due to her injuries. He glanced over at Pearl and was surprised at how aged she also appeared, as if a makeup artist had applied wrinkles and nose putty to her face as she reclined. He felt alarmed when she smiled at him. The skin around her neck muscles hung in withered furrows. He had to turn his eyes away and toward the sky. Their lives seemed paltry beneath that unfathomable stretch of cosmos, in the corner of which Jupiter glimmered like a distant eye.
When it arrived, it arrived quickly. Pearl spied it first: indigo, vivid, slick, a whirl of shadow. She shouted and pointed and they stared, transfixed, as the water stirred. Three times it circled. There followed a leap, loud gasps, a panic of gesture. Chests filled with water. Then stillness. The moon rose, fat and silent, and christened them all with its glorious, turquoise light.