From The Dead (10 page)

“I wouldn’t worry about that. The next surly looking
kid gets a rubber-horseshoe print across his pimpled face.”

* * *

Jesse jingled his keys as he approached the door to
his apartment, though he didn’t need them after all. Before he
reached the door, he watched it open from the other side. But Jada
didn’t walk out. Dr. Dale did.

Focused on his own car keys, Dale failed to notice
Jesse until they were face-to-face in the corridor. Unable to hide
a double-take when he laid eyes on Jesse, Dale regained his
composure. “Jesse! Good to see you again! I needed to pick up a
script from Jada.” He waved the roll of paper in his hand.

“You’re advising another project?”

“You got it.” Dale’s face was flushed, as if he had
stopped by after a three-mile treadmill run. Then again, Dale was a
smoker. That ruddy effect must not have required a lot of
exertion.

“See you around, Dale.”

“Later.” He headed off, but stopped at the top of the
stairs and snapped his fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot: Remember our
talk the other night—the symptoms you’ve experienced?”

Jesse’s eyes darted to the apartment door, but then
he relaxed. If Jada were within earshot, she would have graced them
with her presence by now. “Yeah, sorry about that. After I got it
off my chest, I realized how ridiculous it sounded to be so
concerned about it.”

“I’m glad you mentioned it. Your symptoms aren’t
disconcerting at face value. But when I considered how close
together they occurred, combined with their abrupt onset, it made
me think.” Dale leaned against the banister. “So I did some
research. Bear in mind, you haven’t had any tests run, and this
isn’t an official diagnosis. But the symptoms could point to a
blood disorder.”

Jesse sucked air but guarded against a visible
reaction. “So I should be worried?”

“No, I wouldn’t say so. Like I said, this is based
solely on research and not tests, so it could be a coincidence. And
even if it were a blood disorder, like a type of anemia, it may not
be cause for concern. Anemias vary according to which type of blood
cell is affected, as well as how those blood cells behave, such as
overproduction or underproduction. Again, you’d want tests. In most
cases, these tend to be treatable conditions. If it’s not
severe—and I’d be surprised if it were—it might mean a dietary
supplement and a minor change in your daily activity.”

“I
feel
fine, just tire easily on occasion.
You think it’s minor?”

“My thoughts aren’t concrete. The more I researched,
the more your symptoms seemed to point to a condition called Baer’s
Disease. It sounds bad but it’s much like a form of anemia and is
treatable. It’s uncommon, but a possibility. Symptoms show up for
no reason—the same sort you described. They don’t appear to be much
of a threat, and they don’t need to be.”

“So I can forget about it?”

“I didn’t say that. Left untreated, the condition
worsens. Catch it sooner rather than later, then your options
improve and you can get it under control. In the meantime, don’t
make a blood donation—that could be fatal with this condition, as
you might imagine.” When Jesse winced, Dale waved it off. “Don’t
worry about it. They always ask you those things before you try to
donate. Beyond that, I recommend you see your doctor and have some
tests ordered.”

“See my doctor? I don’t have health coverage,
Dale—I’m a starving artist with a part-time job.”

“You’re not on Jada’s plan either?”

“We’re not married and never took steps to pursue
coverage. It didn’t seem like a big deal. I’m only
twenty-nine.”

“I hear you. A lot of young guys try to go without
health coverage. It works out fine, unless something goes wrong. If
I were in that line of medicine, I’d help you out on a pro-bono
basis. Unfortunately, however, you’re talking to a cardiologist
here. And one who smokes, so what do I know, right? Just think
about it.”

“I will. Thanks for your help. You’re Jada’s friend
and don’t really know me, so I appreciate it.”

Dale shrugged. While he examined the soles of his
shoes, he said, “I’m a doctor; curiosity gets the best of me.” He
checked his watch. “I need to head to the hospital, so I’ll see you
around.”

Jesse pictured the medical bills that could pile
up—and all to prove what was, in all likelihood, a minor nuisance.
Didn’t Dale himself say this could be a coincidence? Jesse knew
someone who had surgery once, and six months after, bills continued
to appear in the mailbox—three hundred dollars here, seven hundred
dollars there. Without medical coverage, those bills would have
scrubbed the guy’s finances clean.

Fuck it. Jesse didn’t survive in L.A. through worry
or by cowering at every detail that tried to force him into
retreat. He’d come here to find freedom.

Medical tests would hassle his finances. His symptoms
were common and a coincidence.

Jesse listened to the engine of Dale’s Maserati as it
sped around the corner and out of range.

When a bricklayer builds a wall, he begins at ground
level and works his way up. At first, the wall isn’t impressive.
But as he stacks layer upon layer, eventually he requires a ladder
because the wall towers over his head, obstructs his view, and
closes him in.

With all his recent downturns, Jesse related to a
bricklayer, one who woke up each morning and faced the same cold,
rough wall and its chipped, jagged surface. The bricklayer must
become impatient. Yes, albeit metaphorical, he and the bricklayer
faced similar circumstances, except for one difference: Jesse
didn’t feel like he’d laid his own bricks, and he sure as hell
hadn’t selected the color.

Jesse gripped his keys and felt their rigid edges dig
into his palm.

Surely Jada had her own secrets. What was one more
secret kept from her?

CHAPTER 16

On the lifestyle ladder, Jesse thought he understood
where he resided—until he drove deeper into the hills of Malibu. On
countless occasions he’d seen the homes, but never from such close
proximity. And so today, as he wound his way up the road to Mick
Lewis’s home, Jesse gained new appreciation for how a clean,
well-maintained Honda can feel like a rust-mobile in these
surroundings.

The houses were enormous so far, yet he continued to
ascend the hill. He could only imagine what lay ahead. If he paid
more attention, he was confident he would hear his ears pop due to
the change in altitude. Technically, film directors were not
full-time employees. Like Jesse, these people were part-timers, but
compared to his job at LensPerfection, he preferred the media-mogul
interpretation of part-time. Then again, many of these people had
been in his shoes eons ago.

With the directions Adam Lewis had given him over the
phone, Jesse reached his destination. As he inched closer, past an
electronic security gate, the home emerged into view in slow
motion, like a whale that bobbed through the surface of Alaskan
waters. Cream-colored, the house’s architecture, like neighboring
mansions far below, encompassed a unique design but exuded
eloquence worthy of Hollywood’s golden era. He could picture this
home occupied by Mary Pickford, or better yet, Bogart and Bacall.
Given alternative circumstances, he would have been thrilled to
have access for a tour.

The sensation of having wandered out of his element
exacerbated his nerves. He had been nauseous since last night in
anticipation of today, a quiver at his loss of self-respect. As he
drove through the security gates to the top of Adam’s driveway and
shut off the engine, he wanted to turn around and return home.

Once he stepped out of his car, he gazed out toward
the rear of the house and couldn’t believe his eyes as he surveyed
the view below: Matchbox cars rolled along the Pacific Coast
Highway against an artist’s breathless rendition of the Pacific.
Now early April, the air prickled warmer against his skin and
amplified his nervous goose bumps.

While he scanned the greenery and Spanish patio
décor, Adam greeted him.

“You made it. The directions were clear?”

“It’s quite a drive. Nowhere to go but up,” Jesse
stuttered. He tried to relax but failed.

“Come on in.” Adam smiled and waved him through a
side door, as if he were an out-of-town guest or a friend who’d
stopped by after classes.

Weak in the knees, Jesse followed him into the house,
which opened into a spacious living room, two-stories high with
lofty, vaulted ceilings and a glass-windowed wall. On one end of
the room hung a flat-screen television that seemed ample enough to
satisfy a small auditorium at a movie theater. Plush, white-leather
furniture donned the room, complemented by thick Oriental rugs on
polished hardwood floors. The place smelled of pine. Jesse would
have savored the ambience if his legs didn’t resemble the
flimsiness of thin aluminum sheeting.

“Glass of wine?” Adam offered.

Maybe the alcohol would help Jesse forget why he was
here. “Thanks.”

“Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

Adam left to fetch the drinks. Not a sound could be
heard in the house, save the trickle of a waterfall which came from
an unseen source. Jesse examined the banister that crossed overhead
and seemed to lead to a bedroom; although he heard no voices in the
house, out of paranoia he expected to find an onlooker peek from
around the corner. Watch him. Survey him.

No voyeurs in the house, though. He and Adam were
alone.

It’s not sex if it’s oral—that’s what Jada always
said. According to her rules, Jesse wouldn’t cheat on her. Besides,
all he’d do is stand there; aside from his own physical presence,
he could remain passive as the act unfolded.

Jesse attempted to sit down but bolted upright again,
fearful he would vomit if he sat still. Instead, he leaned against
the sectional sofa and feigned comfort as Adam handed him a glass
of red wine. Against the natural light of the windows, the liquid
reminded Jesse of a stained-glass-window plate from his father’s
church back home.

“To dreams,” said Adam.

Jesse lifted his glass, the contents of which sloshed
around from the shudder of his hand. He wondered how many others
had walked into this particular room with the same purpose as his.
Unable to discard a mental picture of a naked person on the
expensive rug under his feet, he wanted to search for evidence of
similar activity. Had he gotten dizzy in the last few minutes?

Don’t think about it.
Just get it over
with.

“Bette Davis adored this room.” Adam gestured upward
with his glass.

“She used to visit?”

“She owned it. Decades ago, long before she died. She
lived here briefly, before she moved to a place with more
privacy.”

Privacy? From down below, the public would need a
pair of binoculars to spot a human being through the windowed wall
up here. And Jesse found that a relief.

“You’re nervous,” Adam observed.

“Yeah,” Jesse said, his voice hushed—it was all he
could muster.

“You don’t like secrets.”

“I already have secrets.”

Jesse pretended to take a sip but swallowed a gulp of
his wine. Adam continued to watch him, but Jesse couldn’t look him
in the eyes. Instead Jesse opted to memorize the tiny bubbles
around the perimeter of his wine as he swished the glass. In the
awkwardness of the moment, the room grew hollow. What did Adam see?
What traveled through his mind? His eyes weren’t harsh; rather,
they appeared soft and pensive. This brought no comfort to Jesse,
however, who felt like a cheap porn video alone on a shelf.

Adam drained his last sip of wine. “Well, are you
ready?”

Jesse’s glass remained half full. He shrugged with
supposed indifference, then knocked back the liquid in one gulp.
Hesitant, he forced himself to take a step toward the influential
person in front of him.

“Music?” Adam asked.

“No thanks.” Jesse didn’t want to introduce any songs
that would taunt him at random moments in an elevator. He closed
his eyes and tried to escape to a crevice in the back of his mind,
an attempt interrupted by Adam’s hands against his biceps. Jesse
opened his eyes, already glossed over with suppressed tears, and
focused on the banister again. He felt so vulnerable as this
unfamiliar person swept his hands along his arms.

Jesse flinched.

“Relax,” Adam whispered, then sank down beneath
Jesse’s range of vision.

Jesse thought of Jada and their last time of intimacy
together. He shut his eyes once more and clenched his jaw. By
instinct, he recoiled when Adam’s hand made contact below the belly
to reach for the button on Jesse’s jeans.

Jesse cringed inside. He felt filthy. Mixing business
with pleasure, or whatever this was.

All this to help his career. This wasn’t who he
really was.

The last sound Jesse could recall was the purr of his
zipper as it lowered.

* * *

His body tense, his stomach the consistency of melted
butter, Jesse burst into the apartment but found himself alone. He
didn’t want to stand; he didn’t want to sit. Restless, he ran into
the bathroom and scrubbed his face with soap and water until it
grew chapped. He rinsed with mouthwash even though his mouth hadn’t
been involved. He applied rubbing alcohol all below his waistline.
Whatever measure of disinfectant that occurred to him, he tried
it.

But he couldn’t reach the point where he felt clean.
Jesse couldn’t escape the sense of guilt that chafed against his
conscience: He had betrayed himself, allowed himself to be treated
like raw meat by a stranger for the sake of a job. And the more he
focused on it, the closer he felt to hyperventilation.

He craved a second chance but his options had
vanished. He’d made his choice.