The Perfect Ghost (8 page)

Claire Gregory. That would be some competition, me versus she, even with her dead. I can almost hear you laughing, Teddy. She’d been a hot leading lady, box-office gold, when the cancer took her, and even though she and Malcolm had divorced, he’d never remarried and he kept her portrait on the wall. Talk about glamour, she had it; she owned it. Talk about contrast; take a look in the mirror.

My heart started racing and my breath burned down my windpipe. I opened the window because the enclosed space of the car’s tight interior was a weight pressing on my chest.
Breathe,
I ordered myself. What would I do if this happened during tomorrow’s interview? How would I manage?

Forgive me, Teddy, but I couldn’t help feeling that you covered the easy stuff. I’m not disparaging the great travel interviews, and I know you were warming Malcolm up for deeper revelations. That’s how you worked, general to specific, grabbing the money quotes near the end. You got great quotes about his work, his stage and film triumphs, but I still needed to get the goods about his bad-boy days on Mulholland Drive. I needed fresh personal details about his marriage to Claire, the divorce, the custody battle over their only child. How on earth could I ask? What should I say? I hated to pry, but I needed to, if the book was to be a success. A small group would fork over their cash to learn about his films, but the big audience, the bestseller audience, would buy the book only if he revealed intimate secrets.

I didn’t want him to think me petty; I wanted him to like me. I didn’t want to pry, but I needed to know. For the book, of course. It’s not like I would normally press for answers to private questions.

You would have framed the questions skillfully, tactfully. If you could do it, I could do it. I could do it and I would do it. The rhythmic mantra soothed me, but it took half an hour before I felt competent to pilot the rental Ford. If it hadn’t taken so long, I wouldn’t have seen Brooklyn Pierce come walking over the hill.

At first I wasn’t sure, but that walk, that tiger prowl, was unmistakable. The one crucial interview we’d all but given up on was a session with Brooklyn Pierce, the actor who’d starred in Malcolm’s most successful films. Remember the relentless evasions his agent spouted? Pierce was in Europe, unavailable, making a film; no, he was in a monastery in Nepal, devoting himself to meditation. And yet, there he was, coming over the hill, looking as though he belonged nowhere else but in this landscape, nowhere else but on Cape Cod.

He didn’t seem quite real, not that I could see through him or any of that
Hamlet
’s Ghost nonsense. It was mainly that he was dressed for a different day, for warmer weather, a summer idyll. His khakis rode low on his hips, pant legs rolled to the knee. His shirt hung open, displaying wind-driven glimpses of torso. If not a Greek god, he was a blond Abercrombie ad, down to the flip-flops and the sand on his ankles.

Ben Justice had been his first big role, and he’d been more than a hit. He’d become an instant icon. Actor and character met and melded in the public eye the way they do once in a decade. Pierce had played other parts since, but none with that level of impact. Seventeen when filming started on the first Justice film, he would always be identified as Ben Justice.

He looked the same age now, as though time had granted him a suspended sentence. My God, maybe he was here to talk about rekindling the Justice franchise. If I could get that quote, Teddy. I had a brief vision of myself on some TV talk show, me but not me, me confident in the kind of reed-slim suit a TV anchorwoman wears, me breaking the news that Brooklyn Pierce was back as Ben Justice.

I knew what I ought to do: Leave the car, seize the moment, interview the man on the spot or, if that was impossible, make a firm appointment to interview him later in the day. My heart rate, which had slowed, took off like a late train speeding from the station. My hand made it as far as the door handle and stalled. I’d steeled myself for the session with Malcolm, but an impromptu interview? Unprepared? I couldn’t move.

Brooklyn Pierce, hero of three of Malcolm’s finest films, marched over the hill and disappeared. He seemed headed for the shore rather than the Big House, but he might have been going the long way round.

CHAPTER

eleven

Tape 038

James G. Foley

2/12/10

Teddy Blake:
It’s great to talk to someone who’s known Garrett Malcolm from the beginning.

James Foley:
Right, that would be me. But I’m surprised Cousin Garrett gave the okay to get in touch.

TB:
I guess you’re sort of the black sheep? Mind if I open a window?

JB:
Kinda thick in here, huh? I tried to quit, I do try. I do quit—about every weekend. That better? You ever see me act?

TB:
I don’t think so.

JF:
That’s very polite, but hey, even if you had seen me, likely you wouldn’t recall. Second grave-digger, man in the crowd, spear-holder number two. If I’d used the name Malcolm, might have been a different story from the get-go, but Foley was good enough for my dad, and it’s good enough for me.

TB:
Your father married Garrett Malcolm’s aunt?

JF:
Yep. His dad’s darling sister, Ella, another superb Malcolm-family actress. Never took the name Foley. A Malcolm forever, my mom. You’ve heard of her, I bet?

TB:
She died young.

JF:
Not the luckiest family in the world, but close-knit, loyal. Played together, ate together, acted together. Lived together at the old place, Cranberry Hill, but it didn’t have a fancy name then, just called it “Old Place”—Shakespearean pun, you know, reference to “New Place,” Shakespeare’s house—and believe me, it was nothing like what it is now. It wasn’t dirt poor, don’t get me wrong, but it was shabby. Every penny was reinvested in the theater. We wore discards from the costume shop.

TB:
You and Malcolm are the same age?

JF:
You won’t believe it, but I’m younger than he is. Year apart, traded childhood diseases back and forth like tennis balls. When I got chicken pox, he only got two freckles. Mumps, I got easy. He didn’t get it till way later, and then he got it bad, but nobody ever put us to bed or babied us if there was a show that night. We were child actors, soldiers of the eternal theater in the sky. We joined all the crowd scenes, yelled “rhubarb” and “garbage” when the action called for general hubbub. Did you know “rhubarb” and “garbage,” repeated over and over, sounds like crowd noise? That’s the sort of education we got. We were taught never to peer through the curtain, make faces, freeze up, or break character. Garrett learned to direct the same time he learned to walk.

TB:
Sounds like a fairly happy childhood.

JF:
We had some terrific times, I’ll say that. We didn’t know we were poor. And we weren’t, really, old Ralph wasn’t, not sitting on all that lovely land. If we had sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, it was because they were the fastest thing to make. Baloney and white bread sustained us, but we fed on hot and cold running Shakespeare. I learned to read with the soliloquies; they’re my ABCs, and I can give you chapter and verse for the whole of the canon. The money went for props and costumes, not bicycles or private schools. And there was more pride than money, a sense that we were on a mission to save the Legitimate Theater. I wonder what Garrett’s parents would think if they could see the place today.

TB:
It’s beautiful.

JF:
Yeah, but …

TB:
But?

JF:
They weren’t fond of movies and they hated TV. Legitimate stage was the be-all and end-all to them, especially Shakespeare, and it’s not exactly a secret that all the money that went into rebuilding the place, expanding it, came from film and TV work. I mean, Garrett didn’t do any legit stage work for ten years. His father thought TV was demeaning, the lowest of the low, opiate of the masses. I felt that way, too, I’m sorry to say. Had my opportunities to do TV, but I was too high and mighty. Mistook myself for a Malcolm. Something Garrett Malcolm never does.

TB:
How so?

JF:
I just meant Ralph and Eve, and old Harrison, too, were ultra-conscious of their status on the American stage. They talked about it like that: The American Stage, Seventeen-Seventy-Six and Onward: We Were There. Joseph Jefferson, the big name of his time, was a direct descendant. That bad Booth boy who shot President Lincoln? Practically ruined dear Laura’s comeback in
Our American Cousin.
And Gene O’Neill. Always Gene, never Eugene. And of course, Shakespeare, glorious Will. They made him an honorary American on the grounds that he would have emigrated to the States if he’d only had the chance. And the rivalry with the Barrymores. Oh, the Malcolms told this great story. They were the chosen ones. Garrett’s a terrific guy, don’t get me wrong. He’s better than any of them. More talented. His dad was a harsh taskmaster, a tyrant. He wanted a whole slew of kids, a whole theatrical troupe. There was a time when—

TB:
When?

JF:
The old man wanted to adopt me so he could leave more sons. Can you believe it? He had a thing about it, probably from playing so many British kings. The only way the dynasty would be secure would be to leave behind plenty of sons. As if my dad would stand for that. Aunt Eve always said she’d make sure I got my share, but the old man went all Shakespearean on her, blood of my blood, and that was that. You’d think old Ralph would have been happy with me, forgiven me, his own sister’s son, but no, I wasn’t of the pure Malcolm blood. My dad wasn’t an actor, and my mom had to be punished for marrying outside the theatrical gene pool.

TB:
Forgiven you?

JF:
Forget that. We’re a dwindling family, the great Malcolms, and now there’s only the one child in this generation.

TB:
Jenna.

JF:
The brilliant Jenna. Although Cousin Garrett could marry again, I suppose.

TB:
Any prospects?

JF:
Garrett’s very close with personal stuff. I got the impression that this book was a high-minded effort about his cinematic genius, that you were gonna ask questions about his directorial POV and what kind of camera angles he uses.

TB:
I’m interested in that, too.

JF:
But you’d rather get the dirt. Like why he and Claire got divorced? Well, no way I’m talking about Claire. Garrett foams at the mouth if I even ask about her family, her mother, for chrissake, her sister. Matter of fact, old Cousin Garrett’s the least likely subject for one of those in-his-own-words autobiographies I ever came across. He must be up to something, maybe got a screenplay in the works, something he wants publicity for. Don’t even put that in your notes. I don’t want him knowing I said that, okay?

TB:
Off the record.

JF:
Off the record, Garrett and Claire were perfect until they suddenly weren’t perfect anymore. It was a storybook thing at the start. He was her perfect director, and she was his perfect actress. He could squeeze a performance out of her that would trump anything anybody else could get because he knew how to push her, and when to back off. And she inspired him, especially when it came to comedy. Such a shame.

TB:
The divorce?

JF:
Ugly, very ugly, and probably why Garrett won’t speak to Claire’s parents to this day. But I meant what a shame about her death. Jenna’s the silver lining, but I’ll bet she’s off-limits for the book.

TB:
I haven’t met her or talked to her.

JF:
So Garrett hasn’t said anything about her coming back? Not to sign any papers? Not for an upcoming board meeting or anything?

TB:
Board?

JF:
The theater has a Board of Trustees. Largely ornamental.

TB:
I haven’t heard anything.

JF:
Well, like I said, there’s a kid got it all going for her, heiress and talented thoroughbred. Old Ralph melted when she entered the picture and he was as tough a bastard as they come. I will say on the record that Jenna will be one of the great actresses of our time.