Jack was alive, funny, insecure, overconfident.
Jack was all those Yuma movies and TV shows.
Jack was America.
We went in and he took off his jacket and surreptitiously wrote something on a pad next to the phone table.
“Martini?” he asked. “Even when I’m sort of on the wagon I allow myself one at the end of the day.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Tip from Paul. A stiff drink and one-but only one-Ambien and all the cares of the world disappear… How do you like yours? Your martini?”
“Whatever way you’re having it.”
When he went into the kitchen I looked at the note he’d made on the scribble pad. It said: “1) Chk Richard Serra MOMA/Met? 2) New Yorker-tell Paul subscribe.”
Very sinister.
“You want me to find that Luke Wilson DVD?” Jack shouted.
“If you want to.”
Jack came back with the martinis and began showing me the various objets d’art and interesting pieces of furniture he had in his living room. He had somehow forgotten that I had been in this house twice already and dusted all this shit.
I listened. He told jokes. I laughed.
Upstairs he showed me his awards, his film books, his signed scripts, and that hideous framed poster of the twins in spaceship uniforms.
“What do you think?” he said, pointing at the poster.
“Who are they?”
Jack’s jaw dropped and hung there.
“It’s Kirk! From Star Trek. The two captains. Look, down there, signed by Shatner himself.”
I had heard of Star Trek but that particular Yuma series had never made it to Cuba.
“I thought the captain was bald,” I said.
“Jesus Christ, that’s Picard! Forget him, this is the main dude. Bill’s the man. Did you ever see Fight Club? Remember what Pitt said when they asked him who he’d want to fight in the whole world?”
“I did not see Fight Club.”
“Shit, man. No Star Trek, no Fight Club… I mean, you had electricity, right, where you’re from, right?”
“Electricity? No, we only just got fire a few years ago, but that was useful because it helped scare away all the dinosaurs that kept marauding the village.”
Jack laughed and kissed me on the cheek. “Oh, María, you crack me up. You’re funny. No, no, let me tell you, I’m proud of this. It’s from ‘The Enemy Within,’ episode five, you know, the two Kirks? I wanted ‘Mirror Mirror,’ but then I figured that if I ever got an opportunity to meet Nimoy, I’d get him to sign a ‘Mirror Mirror’ poster, the two Spocks. Good idea, huh?”
“Very.”
“I’d thought about getting a goatee myself like the evil Spock for Gunmetal, but everybody’s nixed it. The Brits back then wore mustaches, not goatees. Besides, after all the ‘Mirror Mirror’ parodies you’d feel like an idiot.”
“Yes.”
“Probably should move the poster to my place in L.A. More traffic through there, tell the story, impress them with my Trek lore. Youkilis says I should move full-time to L.A., but I’m a Colorado boy and Fairview is white hot for celebs right now and it’s still got that small-town feel.”
“It does.”
“Yeah, you really get to know people and the big rooster himself is up the hill. Shit, if we could get Spielberg to move out here we’d really have something…”
I stopped listening after a while. I liked Jack better when he wasn’t saying anything. He was several years older than me but he seemed younger, younger than Paco, even. I finished my drink.
“Get you a refill?” he asked.
The martini. Words. Another martini. More words.
“I’ll have to introduce you to my friends and I’ll have to meet yours… You should see my place in L.A. Seriously, why not?”
Jack’s shirt. His breath on my neck. A joke. A question.
Yes, Jack, I do. I want to feel your body on top of me, I want you to give yourself to me utterly, completely, all of you, Jack, even if only for a night.
Another refill and I caught him looking at his own reflection in the window. He grinned sheepishly. It’s ok, Jack, this is you at your peak, lead rolls in the pictures, money, women, fame. This is you on top, before the injections and the rejections. You shouldn’t be ashamed to look. You’re fabulous.
“New haircut, not sure I like it,” he said and pulled a strand or two.
Oh, don’t speak, Jack, just come over.
Why is it always the woman who has to show the man? I thought, drained the third martini and got up from the couch. I stepped out of my skirt and panties, I let the blouse fall to the floor, I unhooked my hair.
“Two hundred dollars in a new place on Pearl and they didn’t even trim my sideburns,” he said, still looking at the haircut, but then he saw me and his common sense kicked in. His mouth closed. He put down his glass.
“Fuck,” he said.
“My sentiments exactly,” I replied.
14 KAREN
Blindfolded dawn. Sound, then light. A timer clicks, a motor whirrs, and the curtains pull back by themselves. Snow at morning’s door. A pinkish-white dusting on the balcony rail.
The sun inching over the Front Range but as yet invisible behind a smother of low gray clouds. Above the clouds, a red sky turning American blue.
Hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
Something’s wrong. A shiver.
“Jack?”
But Jack’s asleep. Dreaming of Oscars and Spirit Awards.
I sit up and look around the bedroom.
Maybe Youkilis has come in early.
Maybe I’ve overplayed my hand.
No, the alarm box in the bedroom is still blinking. It hasn’t been disabled. No one’s come in.
Is there someone outside? A deranged fan? I have read about such things in French magazines.
I slip out from between the covers, find a pair of Jack’s sweatpants and one of his T-shirts. I pull on the sweatpants, tie the band tight, and tuck in the T. The T-shirt says “Total Loser” on it. Why would someone buy that? It must be an American joke. How long would I have to be in this country to stop feeling like an alien? Did Dad ever get over it? I think of Mork in that Yuma show from the seventies-that was Colorado too.
I walk to the glass doors and scan the balcony and the gravel drive that leads to the road. Chairs. Bird footprints. Snow. Once I would have run outside. Not now. I’ll never see it again after tomorrow. Not until Jefe and Little Jefe finally go to be with Marx.
Hector’s voice: Well, Mercado, what else do you see with that keen cop eye of yours?
A water tower rising like a Wells tripod from the trees. A breeze ruffling the upper branches. A plane on the approach to Vail.
No psychotic stalkers or fans.
Spotlights at the big Cruise estate at the top of the mountain are making a kind of false dawn. Spotlights and a flashing red landing beacon. The helicopter bringing Mr. Cruise will be here soon.
I walk to the window nearest the bathroom and check the garden and Jack’s car. The gate is closed and the car is still in its spot.
There’s nothing out there, I say to myself.
I sit on the ottoman and pull the hair back from my face. On a desk I find some other one-night stand’s scrunchie and make a short ponytail.
What now?
I could do breakfast, but Jack’s TiVo says it’s only 6:15. Too early to get up quite yet.
I don’t want to go for a walk. I don’t want to sit here.
Hell with this.
I lift the duvet, slide back underneath the cover, and sidle my way next to him.
“Jack,” I whisper but he’s out.
His breathing hushed, slow. One of my hairs falls on his face. His nose twitches.
What am I doing here with this lovely boy? The psalmist has words for you. But not me. I’m content to say nothing, to lose myself in the silence, to ripen in your good looks.