Jude had a sniper’s brain, though. She lived in a world that was defined by mathematical probabilities, and I’m sure that in her mind Miller had been as good as dead. The version of her that had been married to him was therefore dead, too. But still, Miller represented a massive loose end, and Jude did not tolerate loose ends, which made me think she was afraid of him.
The way she told it was flat, unemotional.
She had vanished into the ether and begun freelancing. She had done a few contract hits, but mainly she’d been a hired seeker. If you had wealth and you wanted to recover something that was impossible to find, a stolen Van Gogh, a rare religious artifact, or a military document that didn’t officially exist, you hired Jude. She had done very well, living a shadow existence free of relationships, sleeping in posh hotels, working only when she needed to, or when a job appealed to her. Miller had rarely, if ever, crossed her mind. She knew that her husband worked for the Cody family, but she’d never met any of them, never given them any thought. They were public people whose activities were generally aboveboard, and they weren’t the kind of people who had occasion to employ her. But one day an obscenely rich drug and weapons trafficker in Texas had hired Jude to find a kidney of an uncommon blood type, and that was how she found me and fell into a relationship. The relationship took her to South America on the run, where she had needed to make money. She had been trained as a field surgeon in the army, and she learned early on that there was good money to be had doing procedures that regular doctors would not do, so she set up shop in Mexico City. I knew this story, of course. I was there, holding the bucket. She performed a couple of expensive fetish amputations for rich Americans who recommended her to their friends, and eventually a very disturbed man who looked like a quarterback gone soft had come to us and paid Jude twenty-five grand to cut off his left hand. That man, as it turned out, happened to be MacDonald Cody, and when he saw Jude on the street in New Orleans he was being groomed by his family to make a run at the senate, and it had been only days before Miller found us.
I find Molly in her bedroom, reading. She has changed into black leather pants and an impossibly small, transparent T-shirt that says pornstar across the tits. I stare at her.
What? she says.
I don’t like those pants. You look like Jude.
Why don’t you suck my dick?
That’s nice. Now you sound like her.
I’m sorry, she says. I’m just trying to get a handle on my character. I don’t want her to be too passive.
Uh-huh.
What do you think? she says.
About what?
My character, she says. Do you think she’s tough enough?
I close my eyes. Do I think Molly is tough enough? No, not really. Molly is too neurotic and fragile. Molly is sweet but there’s something ghostly about her and you get the feeling she’s not gonna make it.
Molly stares at me.
I’m sorry, I say. This thing with the kid is making me…uneasy.
Did you see him?
Yes.
How is he?
He’s a nice kid. His name is Sam.
Is he okay, though?
He’s scared. What the hell do you think?
Molly hesitates. I think he would break my heart.
There is an incessant grinding noise coming from down the hall and suddenly I don’t want to talk about the kid anymore. I have a powerful urge to rip off my own head. Or Molly’s head. The grinding noise is slowly but surely eating into my spine. I have a beauty of a headache, a whopper. I push through the silver wings to the bathroom and commence to root around in Molly’s medicine cabinet for pills. The grinding noise is louder in the bathroom. It’s coming through the pipes, it’s echoing. I want a muscle relaxer, something in the narcotic family. I want a big glass of whiskey but I don’t care to wander around the house anymore so I eat a Valium and two aspirins and chase them with a chewable vitamin C.
What the fuck is that noise? I say.
What noise?
That grinding noise down the hall.
Oh, she says. Huck and Jeremy are constructing something in the dining room. We’re shooting the dinner party scene in a few hours.
Fabulous. I sit in the green chair and close my eyes. Then open them. What dinner party scene?
Molly frowns. I think it’s one of the new scenes John added to the script.
Brief, awkward silence. What color would they be? says Molly.
I hold my head. What color would what be? I say.
Those Nazi lampshades. Do you think they would be pink or yellow?
What?
You know. The Nazis made lampshades from the skin of death camp victims, supposedly.
I stare at her, helpless. What the fuck are you talking about?
It’s a line from a Sylvia Plath poem.
Okay.
Do you like poetry? she says.
No. I don’t like poetry.
Why not?
I don’t know. Because I’m empty inside. Because I have a headache.
But you’re such a good kisser.
Have you been talking to Jude?
No, she says. Why?
Because Jude has a funny theory about murderers and poets being the best kissers and now I wonder if you and she are only pretending to dislike each other.
Molly stares at me. Are you a murderer?
I have never kissed you, I say.
Anyway, she says. Pink or yellow?
I don’t understand this conversation.
Molly rolls over and stares at me. I’m reading lines from the script. You and I have a scene later where we discuss Sylvia Plath.
Oh, I say. Of course.
Molly smiles at me and she looks so sweet and normal I feel insane. I cover my eyes with my hands. I try to crush my eyes into my skull.
Are you okay? she says.
No, I don’t think so.
Molly sighs. I think John just wants us to go mad and kill each other.
Long beat.
He’s succeeding, I say. And those lampshades would definitely be yellow.
The grinding noise stops, mercifully. Then immediately resumes. I light a cigarette and notice that my hands are twitching.
I don’t know, says Molly. I think they would be pink.
Molly, I say. I have to get out of the house.
The grinding?
The grinding.
Let’s go somewhere, she says.
Do you want to go shopping with me?
Where? she says.
I explain that I want to get the boy some action figures, that if he has his own little army of five-inch superheroes to wreak imaginary mayhem with, maybe he won’t be lonely. Molly kisses me, a quick darting kiss on the mouth and I remember something my redneck baseball coach once told me, perverse but true. Be kind to dogs and children, he said. Women love that shit.
And so we take the motorcycle across town to a Toys-R-Us.
It’s an American afternoon, by god.
The parking lot is a shiny wasteland of family cars and minivans and I wish the sun were not so bright. I wish the sun would fuck off for a while. The statistics claim that people in the Northwest kill themselves at a much higher rate than those in any other region, presumably because of the endless rainfall. But it seems to me that the opposite should be true, that the unfortunate souls who are confronted day after day by the glaring sun would be the ones most likely to reach for the sleeping pills. The sun is neither flattering nor sympathetic. The average American is afflicted with some combination of bad skin and bad hair, bad posture and bad shoes. Bad habits and bad genes and bad taste and bad fucking luck and the sun seeks out such flaws with the cool, detached efficiency of a sniper.
Just ramble down to the beach on Labor Day weekend. Take a good look around.