The last thing I did before leaving was give Damon a custom-made telephone that had no keypad, no numbers that could be pressed. I, and only I, could call him, because I, and only I, had his phone number. There was, of course, the risk that a stranger might dial his number by accident. Damon could then ask for help and be rescued, and I might get arrested. But he had kidnapped me first, so how much trouble would I really be in?
The risk had to be taken anyway. I left Damon in the cage, with his phone, and I went on my trip.
I called him every day. It was fun, having a pet to call. One time he didn’t answer, which worried me, but I tried to convince myself he was doing it for just that reason. A day later he did answer. The cello music was playing in the background, as almost always.
“Why didn’t you answer the phone yesterday?” I asked.
“Oh, did you call? I was out shopping.”
For a second I was alarmed, but then said, “For what?”
“More silk. I’ve made myself three costumes already, and I was getting bored again.”
“I’m glad you’re keeping yourself busy and you haven’t lost your sense of humor. How are the bold and the beautiful ones doing?”
“Fine,” he said, at once sullen.
At some point I would have to figure out what it was all about. I called him once at 1:45 P.M., in the middle of his soapie, to see what he would do. He picked up and immediately hung up, without saying hello.
Another time I called him at 2:00 P.M., right after his soapie.
“Hello?” he said, sounding all stuffed up and nasal.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I asked, feigning surprise and innocence.
He sighed. “What is it?”
“Are you crying? Why are you crying?”
“I just watched The Bold and the Beautiful.”
“Yeah, and?”
“And nothing.”
“Why do you find it sad?” I asked, hoping this was a turn of phrase I hadn’t used before and that he might respond to it. I couldn’t help but feel that all I needed was to discover the magic words, the magic phrasing of the sentence, and I’d get an answer.
But this phrasing was not the right one, for he just sighed and was silent until I changed the subject.
We chatted about my work. He was supportive, saying he was sure I was doing a great job, the best they had ever seen.
And my work was going well. No matter how good an actor I had become, I think I was even better knowing I had Damon locked up in my apartment. It endowed me with an air of power and calm that I might not have had otherwise.
Finally, the trip came to an end, and I returned to my apartment. Before going into Damon’s room, I looked at him through the one-way mirror. He was lying on the floor of his cage, on his side, wearing a long white gown, and watching TV. As he watched, he was raising and lowering his top leg like a ballet dancer, causing his gown to bunch up around his thighs. After a few reps of this, he lowered his leg and rested it on the nearby toilet seat.
I entered the room only after having donned my fencing armor in case he threw things at me. He had so much to throw, and he did throw, immediately: cans, the sewing scissors, more cans. I took everything away. I counted the cans; the empty ones and their lids, as well as the full ones, to make sure he was rid of all of them — lids could be used for cutting me.
“So, you made yourself a dress,” I said, as I took off my fencing gear.
“Yes,” he said, raising his arms and modeling it for me. “It’s A-shaped. It flares out at the bottom to provide me with freedom of movement. Do you like it?”
I shrugged and made a neutral sound. It was indeed A-shaped and flared out at the bottom. It was also coarsely cut and sewn. It was sleeveless, horrid, and looked like a costume from an abusive insane asylum. I’m proud to say it was better than anything I could have made.
When I handed him dinner, he stabbed my hand with the sewing needle I had forgotten to take away. This brought back memories of the ice shards he used to shoot at me. He now held the needle between his thumb and forefinger, ready to stab me with it again.
“Give it back,” I said, and he threw his dinner at me.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
“I’m in the cage. And I’ve been in here for two weeks, alone. It is appropriate for me to do this.”
I sat on the easy chair and ate my dinner on a tray. We talked about how my filming had gone. Two hours later, when he was getting hungry, I gave him a sandwich in exchange for the needle.
I didn’t leave the apartment for three solid days, to compensate for having been away so long. At night, I carried my TV back into my living room, to secretly watch the tapes of Damon watching The Bold and the Beautiful during my absence. I got the results I had hoped for. Not knowing he was being filmed, he was less inhibited than he had been in my presence, and I was finally able to detect a pattern to his crying.
It had to do with the legless character, Stem. When Stem would come on the scene, Damon would cry a little more. This also happened when Stem left the scene. I had a feeling Damon’s grief over The Bold and the Beautiful had to do with his past, with that terrible thing he sometimes alluded to having done.
To catch him off-guard and witness a genuine reaction, I confronted him with an extravagant guess, out of the blue: “You cut off Stem’s legs, didn’t you?”
He stiffened. He wouldn’t speak to me for the rest of the day.
So I did some research. I called an acquaintance of mine, Jeremy Acidophilus, who did menial labor at Screen, a magazine on movies and celebrities. He had just gotten his job back after having lost if for a few months when he had asked for a raise.
He was able to find out for me the name of the agency that represented Stem, or Philip Jessen, as was his real name.
I called it and left a message saying I needed to speak to Philip Jessen urgently about someone he knew, whose name may or may not be Damon Wetly.
I kept the phone at my side at all times that day and evening. The next day, while I was chatting with Damon, I got the call from Philip Jessen. Without asking me any questions about my reason for calling, he asked if I could visit him in person. I said I would fly there on the next plane out.
When I told Damon I was leaving again, he got mad and asked for how long. I said it wouldn’t be long.
I arrived in L.A. that evening and went straight to Philip’s house in Beverly Hills. A housekeeper opened the door and led me to a den where Philip was waiting in his wheelchair. I sat down, was served tea, and got straight to the point.
“Who is Damon?”
“My brother.”
I let this sink in, and asked, “Why does he cry when he watches you on TV?”
“Does he?”
“Yes. He does.”
“It’s a long story. Who are you?” he asked, and then quickly added, “I mean, I know who you are, from your films, but you only recently came on the scene. Who are you in relation to my brother? How do you know him?”
“Damon kidnapped me.”
“Why?”
“To thank me for having saved his life in the subway.” I explained that Damon had decided to make me happy by making my dream of becoming an actor come true. Then I abruptly asked, “Did he cut off your legs?”
“No, why?”
“He often referred to something terrible he did in his past. And I thought it might have to do with you.”
“No, he didn’t cut off my legs, although he probably feels he did.”
I begged him to tell me what happened. I claimed it would help me cope better with my kidnapping. After looking thoughtful for a while, he agreed. But first, he asked: