My skin tingles and Molly appears at my shoulder, dressed as before.
Are you ready? she says.
No.
It’s okay, she says. It will be okay.
We enter together, then separate and go to sit at opposite sides of the table. Jude lies between us, still staring at the candle. She doesn’t speak or acknowledge us. I am restless and soon light a cigarette, flicking my ashes on the wooden stage. Molly leans back in her chair and puts her feet up, crossing one leg over the other, the heels of her boots striking the table like hammers.
What’s on the menu, then? I say.
I don’t know, says Jude. You should ask the lady of the house.
Who is the lady of this house? says Molly.
That’s become rather unclear, says Jude. Hasn’t it.
Everyone shut up, please. This from Miller, entering.
He wears a gray wool suit and tie and an incongruous black top hat. In one hand he carries a flat cardboard box. In the other, what appears to be a small birdcage covered with a black hood. He stares for a moment at Jude, who remains on the table. She yawns, as if sleepy. Miller sits down and opens the box to remove a stack of bound, photocopied scripts. He tosses them around the table. Molly takes a copy and begins flipping through it. I pick up my script but I don’t open it.
This is the final draft? says Molly.
For now, yes.
Then you must know which of us is going to die.
The final scene has been removed from your copies, he says.
Of course, says Jude. Her voice very dry, like salt.
What’s in the cage? I say.
It’s a surprise, he says.
I don’t see a dinner party scene, says Molly.
Ah, says Miller. That’s because there isn’t one.
What’s going on, John? says Jude.
Tonight’s shoot has been cancelled, he says.
Why? she says.
Jude, he says. Get off the table. You look like a tramp.
Jude scowls at him, then slithers slowly to the other end and takes her seat. She stares at Miller for a beat, then lowers her eyes and sullenly picks up her script. One copy remains on the table. Jeremy is behind me. I can feel him back there and I have a feeling the camera is pointed directly at my head, like a gun. I would love to see a swinging, upside down shot of the room that slides out of focus and returns to focus on the back of my head before cutting away. Miller laughs softly and turns to look at the door as Daphne enters, leading Samwise by the hand. The boy wears blue and white striped pajamas. He is frightened, numb.
What’s going on? I say.
You fucking psycho, says Jude. You’ve let him see my face.
You’re his mother, says Miller. He’s got to see your face.
Jude is seething. I am not his mother.
Who’s the father? says Jeremy.
Miller frowns. That’s not your line, boy.
Molly reads from the script, irritated. Who’s the father?
I am, says Miller. Or I might have been.
This is a scene? I say.
I thought we weren’t shooting tonight, says Molly.
Fuck this, I say. I’m not playing this game.
The boy needs you, says Miller, softly.
The boy, I say. The boy needs to go home. He needs to sleep in his own bed.
Why are you doing this? says Jude.
Miller shrugs. I have a theory that actors need to be surprised now and then. Besides, the boy has to get used to being in front of the camera.
The boy is terrified, says Molly.
What’s your point?
John, for god’s sake. You can’t make a kidnapped boy memorize dialogue.
Of course not, says Miller. He will be allowed to improvise.
How is that going to work? I say.
Witness, he says.
Miller removes the black hood from the cage to reveal a small brown rabbit. Now he takes off his top hat and places it on the table, upside down.
Do you believe in magic, Sam?
The boy looks at me and I shake my head, fiercely.
No, he says.
Interesting, says Miller. I thought all little boys believed in magic. Would you like to see this rabbit disappear?
The boy shrugs one shoulder. Then nods. Daphne reaches down and strokes the hair out of his eyes. Miller takes the rabbit from the cage and places it inside the hat. He waves his right hand slowly over the hat, muttering incoherently. Everyone watches him, curious to see what will happen. Miller counts to five, then turns the hat over. The rabbit falls out of the hat and crouches on the table, shaking.
Tharn, I say. The rabbit is tharn.
Miller feigns surprise, waving his hands.
I know what he’s going to do before he does it, but I can’t stop him. I sit frozen, my hands like stones on the table. Miller picks up the rabbit with both hands and strokes its head once, twice. Then without changing his expression, tries and fails to break the rabbit’s neck. Blood sprays from its nose, and the rabbit begins to scream like nothing I have ever heard.
Molly cries out loud, incoherent.
Goddamn it, says Jude. Goddamn it, John.
She picks up the crippled, screeching rabbit and takes it out of frame, to the kitchen. The screaming abruptly stops. Sam still clings to Daphne’s hand. His face is so white he looks as if he will faint. A puddle of urine appears at his feet.
Motherfucker, I say.
I come out of my chair and hurry to the boy, growling at Daphne to get the hell away from him. I lift the boy up by his armpits and hold him close to my chest.
I whisper to him, my voice low. Okay, you’re okay.
Jeremy moves in with the camera, a slow zoom.
I look up and Miller has taken a gun from his breast pocket. His face still bloody.
What are you doing, Poe? he says.
I stare at Miller. I pray God strikes him with boils.
This gun contains live rounds, says Miller. If you’re interested in such matters.
Are we done? I say. Are we done with this scene?
The boy is heavy, so heavy he could crush you but at the same time he weighs nothing. I take him down the hall to the bathroom. He’s trembling, a little. His face pressed against my neck. His pajamas are wet and now my shirt is wet but I don’t want him to think I notice. I hold him close. I tell him he’s cool.
You’re cool, little man. You’re okay.
Into the bathroom and I close the door. The same black-and- white tiles. The light over my head is bright as the sun on snow and I wonder where the camera is.
The camera. The camera is obscure.
I ease the boy down onto the fuzzy black bathmat. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t look into my eyes. His hands on my shoulders. He stands with his feet wide apart and I notice how small his feet are, smaller than my hands. His feet just about kill me. He doesn’t look up. I can hear him breathing.
Do you want to take a bath? I say.
He doesn’t answer at first. Then nods, fiercely.
He doesn’t want to let go of my shoulders so I pull him over to the clawfoot tub with me. I turn the hot and cold taps until the water feels warm but not too warm. There is a bottle of cucumber-flavored bubble bath on a little shelf next to the tub and I dump some of that in.
The water turns pleasantly green.
Does your dad ever call you Sam I am?
The boy nods again.
Would you, I say. Would you could you in a box?
He stands there, breathing.
Not with a fox, he says. Not in a box.
The tub fills slowly and the room is white with steam. The boy and I are quoting everything we can remember from Green Eggs and Ham, and making up new ones. Not in a boat, not with a goat. Not on a slippery slope. Not at the end of a rope. Not on a train by god, and never in the rain. Not in the house of pain. I ask him if he wants to take his bath now. I know it won’t kill him but I hate for him to stand around in pajamas soaked with urine. I have been in those shoes. I have stood in my own piss and it’s not cool. The boy nods and says he needs some privacy.