“Sorry,” Thomas said. He wondered what she could be writing or why she had chosen now of all times to do it. “I’m looking for Seth.”
Her response was to level her eyes at him, eyes so sad and empty that he should have stopped and talked to her. But he couldn’t do that for a number of reasons, the primary one being the behavior of her stubborn and defiant husband, who along with Skylar seemed determined to sabotage the environment that was keeping them alive.
The other downstairs bedrooms were dark, so the only place left to look was the game room. When Thomas reached the top of the stairs, he heard fierce whispers and found the twins huddled under the pool table.
Seth himself stood between the table and the bar, brandishing a handgun. Flickering candlelight lit the scene like a nightmare. When Thomas raised his hands and took a step backward, the two boys screeched.
“Daddy, no!”
“Seth,” Thomas said. “Put down the gun.”
“We’re tired of listening to you, Thomas. You’re not being reasonable and we’re all suffering.”
“You’re scaring the boys.”
“They don’t understand what’s going on. Natalie is so upset she won’t speak to anyone. You shouldn’t treat us this way.”
“Seth.”
“You caused all this to happen.”
Beyond the raised surface of the bar, Thomas noticed the top of what appeared to be an open liquor bottle.
“What do you mean I caused it to happen?”
“Your screenplay. You wrote this. It’s your fault.”
Thomas noticed Seth wasn’t pointing the gun at him anymore. His hands had fallen to his sides, and his weapon was aimed generally at the floor.
“Did Skylar tell you that?”
“Don’t patronize me. Just because I’m not some hotshot Hollywood writer doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Your whole shtick is to write shit that comes true.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it any more ridiculous than all this happening in the first place? A new star shows up and that’s it? The end of the world?”
Thomas blinked, and for a moment reality seemed to disappear. He lost his position in space and wobbled on his feet. He realized, as if for the first time, how alluring it would be if Seth and Skylar were right. If he had caused this, if Thomas had thrust them into some kind of alternate fictional reality, maybe all he had to do was wait for the inevitable happy ending. Because American studios didn’t fork over millions of dollars to make the feel-bad thriller of the year. In a movie everything would work out well in the end.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said to Seth. “Maybe all this is my fault. But we still have to live it. And there’s no reason to scare them.”
He pointed under the table.
“You don’t tell me what to do with my sons,” Seth blurted.
Thomas stepped forward. He looked down at the gun again but was convinced Seth was bluffing. His eyes were dull and uncertain and Thomas wondered how much he would remember tomorrow.
“Maybe it was a mistake to bring you here,” he said. “I was only trying to help. You’re welcome to leave if that’s what you want.”
“We can’t,” said Seth, breathing through his teeth. “That’s the whole problem. We’re trapped here now. In this stupid movie of yours.”
Where had he gone so wrong, Thomas wondered, that the people he was trying to help felt like prisoners?
Eventually he went downstairs and found Skylar still in the living room, devouring Alas, Babylon as if it were the most riveting novel ever written in English. She didn’t look up as he walked past.
Even if Natalie had killed most of the limoncello, several ounces remained, and Thomas dumped all of it into a tumbler. All he was trying to do was make the best of a bad situation, and somehow everything kept getting worse. He poured a bit of olive oil into the skillet and dumped in the chopped onions. Miraculously, in the pantry, he discovered a single can of coconut milk. Which meant this was the last batch of curry he would ever make.
While the onions sautéed, Thomas brought the water to boil again for the rice. He heard something behind him and found Skylar standing there, Alas, Babylon hooked under her arm.
“What are you cooking?”
“Curry. Doesn’t it smell good?”
He tossed in sliced carrots and red peppers and stirred them with the onions.
“Are you making that because I said I liked Asian food?”
No woman could respect an earnest man. The better approach was to impress without seeming to try.
“Will you stop?” she said.
“Stop cooking?”
“Stop trying to be so fucking perfect!”
“I’m sorry. Would you be happier if I treated you like shit? If I was more of a bad boy?”
“Stop trying to bend the world into the shape you want!”
The curry paste would burn if he didn’t add the coconut milk. He used an opener to puncture the can and poured milk into the skillet, where it erupted into a cloud of steam. Surely Skylar would see reason when she sat down to eat a hot meal.
“Don’t you get it?” she said. “It doesn’t matter if you wrote this world or if it’s just a coincidence. The outcome for us is the same. You behave as if you’re in control of everything that happens. You treat everyone as if they’re characters in your story. Why don’t you try being real for a change? Or at least vulnerable? I think everyone in the house would appreciate it.”
This was finally enough. He threw the empty can into the sink and pointed his spoon at her.
“Give the sanctimony a rest. You pretend the only reason you came here was to tell me how wrong I was about the script, as if your work is somehow more authentic than mine. But then you accept twenty million dollars to dance like a puppet in front of a green wall. You have all the money a person could ever need. You could make art films for the rest of your life. But you don’t. Because you’re as shallow as anyone else.”
Skylar stared at him. The curry simmered.
“So yeah,” Thomas said. “Maybe I could use a reality check. But so could you.”
“I think I’ll go to bed.”
“You haven’t eaten anything in hours. Why not sit down and have some dinner?”
“Sorry, but I’m too tired to be hungry.”
Skylar walked out of the kitchen while Thomas methodically stirred. A little while later the rice was ready, and he scooped some onto a plate. He added curry and took his dinner to the table along with a glass of whiskey.
Thomas didn’t waste any time with the drink. He knocked it back in a couple of swallows and toyed with onions and carrots and peppers. When he first conceived this meal, he had imagined how Skylar might smile at the chopsticks, an unexpected taste of refinement injected into the anxious boredom of their days. Now, sitting here alone, the chopsticks felt ridiculous. He pushed vegetables around his cooling plate and thought about what Skylar had said.
How on earth could she accuse him of being a control freak? All his life Thomas had tried to be a kind and honest and empathetic man. He wanted people to be happy, not miserable. Was the problem Skylar’s? Was she so upset that she couldn’t see reason?
Or was there something off-putting about Thomas that he was too blind to see?
TWENTY-FOUR
Ever since her career had begun to take off, Skylar had imagined her life as a flight of stairs. The steps themselves represented great events and milestones, while the space between steps was like the excitement of defining a new challenge and the anticipation of achieving it. Believing she would always reach the next step meant a life never wanting for hope.