But I had to tell Weber they were, because I was forced to. Tell him this. Tell him that. Make him believe. . . .
It's odd how you're allowed to lie here. I can lie to Weber, to you, to anyone alive.
But I'm not going to lie to you anymore. I want you to know as much as I'm allowed to divulge. Why? Because we have a long way to go yet, and I want you to know some of the anger and frustration I've experienced watching Pinsleepe (and the gang) and their manipulations.
Besides, like me, there is nothing you can do about what happens to Weber, Sasha, and Wyatt. Sit here next to me. I've saved a place for you. We'll sit up here in the expensive seats and watch the game together. If we yell very hard, they might barely hear us down on the field. But they won't pay any attention because they're too caught up playing.
Later, during halftime, I'll tell you about what happened in Browns Mills. Or about the scene they wanted me to cut. This time I'll tell you the truth. Take it however you want.
One of the nice things about Los Angeles is it's close to the ocean. Just get on Santa Monica Boulevard and drive till you see the water. It takes about half an hour and is a pleasant drive, especially if the top is down and you're with people you like.
Sasha and Wyatt had argued about who should sit on the uncomfortable tiny back seat of the Jaguar. Finally I suggested they shoot for it. Both of them lit up and they played Rock, Paper, Scissors until Wyatt won – out of five and hopped in the back. He was wearing a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts and matching khaki bush shf't, thus looking more like he was going lion hunting than to the beach.
"I never really swim, you see. Just put my feet in the water and browse."
Sasha had a bag packed with sandwiches, drinks, tanning lotion, a Frisbee, a book. . . . "I like to keep my options open." She wore a chic dark blue swimsuit that showed off her good figure. Seeing her so nicely revealed reminded me of our time in Zermatt; how generous she was in bed, how much fun we'd had that trip.
She also wore a promotional Midnight Kills baseball cap, which was disconcerting in light of what had been happening. But maybe it was good she could wear it and seem to ignore its implications. That meant there were corners of her life still untouched by the shadows Phil and his movies had cast over her.
It was time we all did something light and unimportant. When the night before I suggested the beach, Sasha shrugged, but Wyatt and I talked her into it. From the way she was acting today, it was plain she was happy.
Although nothing had been said, there was a silent agreement among us not to talk about Strayhorn or the other related things flying around our lives. We needed a rest. Jump in the water. Get a little sunburn. Lie on your back with the million-year-old sand under you, hard and hot and familiar.
We must have looked very California that day. The black convertible, good-looking woman wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses in the passenger's seat, friend in the back with his knees up and big smile on. I think we all felt good. The day promised to be clear and fresh enough so we could get out the paints (or toolbox) and touch up (or readjust) small parts of our lives. I remembered Saturdays as a boy that were like that. Today I'll lift weights or run two miles, clean up my room and help Mom shop. Maybe mow the lawn without being asked, do my homework carefully. You were too young to understand it, but the energy came from gratitude. Thank you for letting me be alive, young, healthy. I don't know any other way of showing it but to do more of everything and do it better today.
That's how it felt driving out to the beach with my friends.
Sasha said something I didn't hear.
"Excuse me?"
She leaned over and said loudly, "I asked why you stopped directing films. I always wanted to ask but never had the nerve."
I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Wyatt leaning forward, the wind blowing his wild hair back. He was trying to listen.
"I wanted to live in Europe awhile, and not just at the Crillon in Paris for a couple of weeks while making a film.
"One day when we were working on Wonderful, I was in the farmer's market buying fruit. These two old guys stood next to me. One of them said, "Aaron tells me I gotta finish two Dynasty scripts before we leave, not just the one. So I told Frances, 'Honey, we gotta skip Italy this time and just do the two weeks in Germany.'"
"Hearing that made me so fucking depressed. I didn't want to be sixty years old, writing Dynasty scripts instead of going to Italy. That happens too easily when you live out here too long and forget there are other things in the world."
"Why didn't you go on living in Europe?"
Pulling up at a red light, I looked at her. "Because you have to come home sometime. The longer you're away, the harder it is to return. I wanted to come back to America, but not to the life I had before. That's why I went to New York."
Finky Linky put his head on Sasha's shoulder as I accelerated away from the light. "Tell her about your half/half theory. That has something to do with it too."
"Not really a theory. It's just that I'd like to live the second half of my life better than the first."
Simultaneously, the two of them said "What's 'better'?" and then laughed at the coincidence.
The trip to the beach was all sun, wind, and shouting. We couldn't agree on what good was, but everyone disagreed so vociferously that it was obvious each of us had a damned good idea of what we believed it was.
We arrived at Santa Monica jazzed up and ready to go. Wyatt took our things and told us to go ahead while he set everything up. We didn't need any more encouragement and ran straight out into the cold ocean. It was early afternoon in the middle of the week, and very few other people were around. We swam out from shore together until the waves were really bobbing us up and down.
"You look like a beautiful blond seal!"
"And you look like a lifeguard!"
She paddled over and, coming behind, wrapped her arms and legs around me.
"This was a great idea, Weber. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Look at Finky!"
Back on shore, Wyatt had taken off his shirt and was doing what looked like't'ai chi. The quick cold slap and pull of the water around us was such a contrast to the slow delicacy of his exercises.
"Give me a piggyback ride." She bit me on the back of the neck. I bent down and bit her on the arm, then began moving slowly through the water at an old man's pace. It felt good having her around me like that. It had been too long since I'd been with a woman and the press of breasts against my back, warm breath on my neck and ears. . . . Something would have to be done about that when this was over; it was time to find someone who mattered. Besides my masochistic love for Cullen James, the only women I had serious, intimate contact with were those in the Cancer Theater Group. Their needs were very different from mine. When I began working there, I made the mistake of sleeping with one but quickly and painfully learned that pity is not a good substitute for support.
"Do I feel heavier?"
"I don't know, Sash, I haven't given you many piggyback rides."
"You know – from the pregnancy. Maybe I just think I float better now."
"What did the doctor say about your being pregnant?"
"He said the conditions were strange but things like this have happened."
"How do you feel about it?"
"If it's Phil's child, I want it. It could only be his! I haven't slept with anyone else since you and I were together in Vienna."
I paddled us out a ways. There were so many things I wanted to tell her and talk about with her.
"Weber! Look at that, over there!" She pointed off to our right. Coming up from behind a flipping wave was the large golden head of a dog. It moved fast toward us, head straining hard out of the water. Sasha let go of me and I went for the dog, thinking it must have fallen off some boat and been swimming since.