Several Deaths Later (5 page)

    

    In the dream he sat in a vast dark movie theater and on the screen was
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
and Dana Wynter, whom he still thought the most beautiful actress of her time, was just about to fall asleep and in so doing become one of the pod people and he was in seventh grade again and watching the movie in the State Theater and held spellbound not only by the beautiful noir writing and directing but mostly there was just Dana Wynter, the luxuriant elegance of that face, the silken dark hair and silken dark gaze, domestic and exotic in equal parts-and now, as always in the dream, he cried out for her to not close her eyes, not to become one of the pod people, cried out to no avail…

    Knocking woke him.

    Disoriented, he had to put his circumstances together one word at a time. Ship. Cabin. Sleep. Dream. Knock. Door.

    "Huh?" he said, peering through the safety chain.

    She wore her white terry-cloth robe again. Her hair looked a bit mussed. Her wonderful mouth looked forlorn.

    "They gave me a new cabin," she said. Moonglow made a nimbus of her blond hair. "Yes."

    "But I couldn't sleep."

    "Ah."

    "I tried."

    "Umm."

    "But I couldn't."

    "Uh."

    "You're not awake, are you?"

    "Mhrmw."

    "What?"

    He shrugged.

    "I'm sorry," she said.

    He shrugged again.

    "I shouldn't have bothered you. I'm just lonely and afraid. Not even telling Aberdeen everything helped. Well, not 'telling her.' Writing her, actually. I mean, I put everything down. Everything he said to me-you know about that really annoying guy-and everything I said to him. I had quite a bit of champagne and even told him about that United pilot and what we did in the bathroom that time. And then how he was stabbed and all and…"

    By now he was sufficiently awake that he could say, "Do you want to come in?"

    "Do you ever sleep with women?"

    "As often as I can."

    "I'm serious, Mr. Tobin."

    "Please don't call me Mr." He wondered if his dreaded sleep-breath (which the army could use as the ultimate weapon) was wafting in her direction. "It makes me feel even older than I am."

    "I'm sorry."

    "It's all right."

    "But do you?"

    "Sleep with women?"

    "Yes."

    "As in sharing a bed with rather than making love?"

    "Yes, on occasion when I've been heartbroken or especially lonely, women have been nice enough to do that for me, and on occasion I've been nice enough to do that for women in similar circumstances."

    "I need to be held."

    "All right."

    "Very tightly."

    "All right."

    "I need to be a little girl again."

    "All right."

    "But I really don't want to be touched. Not sexually."

    "All right."

    "Really?"

    "Really."

    "It's a lot to ask."

    He leaned over and kissed her, nuclear breath or not, on the forehead. Chastely. The way he did his daughter when she was but a year and sleeping with her fuzzy pink bear.

    

    

    Her body was more wondrously curved than he'd even imagined and at first there in the dark, her lying against him, the water and the moonlight inviting immemorial urges, it had been difficult indeed but then she'd begun to cry, so softly he'd been moved far more than he would have thought possible, and then he had a frank and a sharp discussion with his penis about decorum and appropriateness and giving-Cindy-my-word, and finally then, next to her sweet scent and sweeter warmth, he fell asleep.

    

    

    

    Tobin had once read a rather long and surprisingly fascinating book on medieval theater and how, when the theater wagons pulled into the small towns surrounding London or Rome or Prague, the townspeople would come forth with gifts of flowers and food.

    What audiences these days had to offer was not much different, really. But their gifts were the special attention they lavished on people who were essentially nobodies, has-been's or would-be's (Tobin always put himself in the latter category), and instead of flowers their mouths bloomed with laughter over the trite jokes of mid-level celebrity. Game show or melodrama, they searched for some respite from the grind of work or dull relationships or any number of fears.

    And that was why there were so many of them this morning, the ocean sky cloudless blue, the ocean calm and unending green, on the brilliant white deck, where the episodes of "Celebrity Circle" were taped.

    Jere Farris, the producer, tense under the best conditions, looked even tenser and more exhausted this morning as he tore himself this way and tore himself that way to address all sorts of problems-from lighting to sound checks to makeup to cue cards to the routine the warm-up comedian was going to use.

    Tobin was in his seat behind the big horseshoe-shaped panel. He had a nameplate in front of him, a guide for all the millions of folks at home who might not have a clue as to who he was. He wore a Hawaiian shirt-even though they weren't anywhere near Hawaii. As Farris said, "It's tropical, that's all that matters to Mr. and Mrs. Midwest, it's tropical."

    Everybody on the panel wore Hawaiian shirts and leis, and had gigantic fruit drinks in front of them, and redwood-sized plastic palm trees behind them so that the picture that went home was of this fantastic floating paradise, complete with insert shots of truly incredible babes lolling about the swimming pool and snapshotlike inserts of the various celebrities doing "tropical" stuff: Tobin playing deck tennis, looking short next to the gorgeous Susan Richards; macho ex-TV cop Kevin Anderson pumping iron as two women with a lot of suntan goop on, so they'd look darker, standing to his right supposedly playing the ukuleles they hugged to their great bikinied bosoms; and Cassie McDowell leading a group of "young-at-heart older citizens" in a chorus of "God Bless America."

    It was ducky, it was plucky, it was yucky and Tobin, in his stupid screaming shirt, was right in the middle of it.

    The warm-up comedian, Marty Gerber, was one of those rare young comedians who didn't use shock material for his laughs, favoring instead almost gentle comments on the perverse nature of human beings, some of the most perverse of whom were the gaudy tourists in their gaudy clothes spread now like a lurid flower garden over the deck where the show was being taped.

    As Marty skillfully worked the audience, the rest of the crew went through the final breakdown of lighting, camera positioning, and sound checks.

    "We've got three segments to tape today! Three segmerits!" Jere Farris said, clapping his hands at a lighting man whom he'd perceived dawdling. "Do you understand how much money we're losing?"

    Farris, tart, given to matronly hand-clapping and a certain prissiness in expression, was never a favorite with crews, most of whom ran to overweight, blue-jeaned guys who hated anybody who was on camera, but hated especially people in position to give them orders. Especially guys who gave orders by clapping hands.

    Tobin ducked down and made an elaborate pretense of tying his penny loafer. At least he hoped that people had the impression he was tying his shoe. What he was really doing, of course, was pouring pure silver vodka from his pure silver flask-which was mounted by Velcro backing to his sock-into his stupid pink-yellow fruit drink.

    As he poured, he took the opportunity to admire Cassie McDowell's perfect ankles.

    Then he sat back up and began sipping with quiet satisfaction.

    He had just sort of wiggled himself back into position when he noticed the makeup woman, a very shy, graceful, twentyish girl named Joanna Howard, staring at him. If Tobin were ever asked to cast a film about the Amish, he'd choose her-she had that kind of severe prettiness that sometimes is far more interesting than any other sort, perhaps because it's touched with mystery. Joanna rarely spoke but only nodded, rarely smiled but only sort of inclined her head when she realized that she was supposed to laugh but could not, apparently, find the appropriate sound. Then there were her clothes. Though the cruise was "tropical," she always wore heavy white silk blouses that came all the way down to her wrists and very heavy designer jeans and heavy woolen argyle socks and white tennis shoes of the Keds variety. Her blue gaze fascinated him, and he wondered now how long she'd been standing there and if she'd guessed what he'd just done.

    "Did you see that?"

    She looked puzzled.

    "No, I guess you didn't."

    "Your nose," she said.

    "My nose?"

    "Needs powder."

    "Oh."

    "Shiny."

    "Ah."

    So she did his nose to reduce the glare and then she did his cheeks and jaw again, apparently just as a precaution.

    As she worked, he said, "Do you ever relax?" He saw her cheeks color.

    "I didn't mean to embarrass you, Joanna. And I wasn't flirting." You had to treat her like a very skittish animal. "I just mean, are you having fun on the trip?"

    She nodded. "Sure."

    "Why don't I ever see you in any of the lounges?"

    "Oh. This allergy, I guess."

    "Allergy."

    "To alcohol."

    "Oh."

    "But I brought some good books."

    "Oh."

    For the first time ever, he saw her smile. "Books are better than people sometimes."

    "True enough."

    "I'm reading Thomas Wolfe."

    And she was of course at just the right age for Wolfe. Only later on-after your first kid, your first firing, and the death of a parent-did you realize that Wolfe's concerns were those of a very talented but very self-consumed fourteen-year-old.

    "You don't like him?"

    "Why do you say that?" Tobin asked.

    "You just made a face."

    "Oh. Well, I'd have to say he's not my favorite."

    "Who's your favorite?"

    "Oh, gosh."

    "I guess that was a kind of stupid question, huh?"

    Seeing that he'd embarrassed her, he put a hand out to touch her forearm, but before his fingers could quite reach her, she jerked her arm away.

    He said, "Graham Greene."

    "What?"

    She was still looking upset over the fact that he'd tried to touch her.

    "If you pressed me about my very favorite writer," Tobin said, "I'd have to say Graham Greene." He was staring at the space where her arm had been. The arm she wouldn't let him touch. "I… I'm sorry, Joanna. I didn't mean anything by that."

    Half-whispering, she said, "I know." Then, "Well, I'd better get back to Fritz and see if he needs help." Fritz was the head makeup person. Then she paused and seemed to gather her strength and said, "You know what?"

    "What?"

    "I don't like Graham Greene any better than you like Thomas Wolfe."

    He sensed how heroic it was for a girl so shy to say something like this and he broke into an exultant grin, happy for her.

    His hand started out automatically to touch her-he was that sort, a toucher, which some people liked and some definitely did not-but she was gone before he could commit another mistake.

    He hoisted his fruit drink and looked around him, at the oval of audience in front, at the scurrying technicians all about.

    Marty was just now getting the audience to really howl.

    Jere Farris-dashing about, sweaty and hysterical-clapped his hands at everybody in his way, as if he were a farmer scattering chickens.

    Plump people from Cleveland whistled as the ersatz hula girls entered stage right.

    Two cameramen knocked over a light as they pulled their camera to the right. The sound was sharp as a gunshot. Some laughed, some screamed.

    

    

    The show itself was nothing much at all.

    Inside a semicircle of celebrities (technically, the thing should have been called "Celebrity Semicircle") sat three contestants, each of whom was handed a card with one-half of an answer (such as "E ="), and they then had two chances to choose the celebrity with the other half of the answer ("D Cup" would be a typical "naughty" celebrity response, sure to drive Dubuque crazy).

    The contestants, of course, had all been prescreened to prove that they were pneumatic grinners-laughers-jumpers-up-and-down, that subspecies of humanity endemic to TV shows where ordinary folks can win cold Yankee cash.

    The surprise of the day-and a long, grinding day it was-was Todd Ames's smooth performance as host. With his theatrically handsome features, his sleek gray hair, his almost courtly manner and his apparently genuine intelligence, he was in fact much better than the somewhat combative Ken Norris had been. Norris, famous for his occasionally too-tart responses, had always conveyed a kind of Malibu contempt for the masses, as if he might catch something from standing next to them. But Ames showed evidence of the sort of vaguely condescending paternalism that Americans love so much in their ministers, politicians, and doctors.

    Halfway through the second show, Tobin began to wonder if, in fact, Ames had been rehearsing for just this moment-he seemed so composed, so ready for the task you had the eerie feeling that…

    But would one actor kill another merely to ascend to the star position of the most popular game show in TV syndication?