Horizons Past

Chapter 38

Bill Stephens — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 22:40:33 +0000

     The dim hope of one day rejoining Chris was gone. That thread had, for the months since leaving Corpus Christi and Mustang Island, sustained Trish. Often she had uncontrollable urges to call Jeffrey. To hear something – anything – about Chris would have sent her soaring again, but in the end she could never bring herself to call. The risk of breaking that thread was too great. Only after accidentally finding Chris’ new book, Horizons Passed, on display in Barnes & Noble and reading it, did she get the nerve to write him a note.

     For weeks, she’d been on the merry-go-round of pre-release publicity for Anna Karenina. Talk shows, press interviews, trade paper interviews, and Internet appearances paraded end-to-end. The whole marathon had to be repeated in Russia because of the Moscow World Premier.
     Leah, during a phone call about the impending trip to Moscow, had asked her if she knew about the hurricane in Texas. Trish was unable to speak while she rushed to turn on TV. Fox News was showing live coverage of the devastation in Port Aransas. She had told Leah that she had to call Jeffrey immediately. Then for three weeks she’d called Jeffrey daily, each time hoping to hear the right thing. The weeks dragged by painfully as she realized the horrors the hurricane must have visited on Chris. Personal appearances became serious acting engagements. She cancelled two appearances and secluded herself in a Miami hotel when Jeffrey gave her the news of Chris being “presumed dead.”

     The room phone rang eight times before she lifted it from its cradle. “Hey, Pumpkin, it’s me.”
     “Hi, Dad.”
     “Leah tells me you’ve had some really bad news.”
     “Yeah . . .” She was having difficulty forming words. “Yeah . . . I guess Chris is gone.”
     Her dad didn’t answer immediately. Finally, he spoke softly, “It’s rough losing someone special. Someone you really care about. I live with it every day, watching your mom drift away.” Her dad’s voice carried the immutable weight of Gibraltar. “I grieve for your sadness, Pumpkin.”
     “It’s difficult to understand. Out of everybody, why Chris?” Her voice was barely audible.
     “I wish I could tell you, Pumpkin.”
     “The hard . . .the terrible thing . . . it’s the selfish thing that’s hard to deal with. Being able to separate grief for Chris from grief over my disappointment over knowing that someone who could change my life no longer exists.”
     “You still exist. That’s the important thing. It’s okay to feel disappointment over losing your dream and the pain of losing a loved one. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to get your mom back, but it’s not going to happen. All I can do is try to build back a little each day, hoping someday there will be happiness and hope again.”
     “It’s really hard starting over again this soon. I really loved him, Dad.”
     “That’s why I called. I wanted to make sure you remember who you are. You’re that little girl who never gave up on anything. There’s no way you will ever forget your love for Chris, but you have to get on with building another life. So get your chin off your chest and get out there and make good decisions.”

     The Moscow World premier of Anna Karenina was surprisingly tolerable, even uplifting for Trish. She knew Russians were not fabled for their hospitality, but the pre-publicity events, parties, and the premier itself all had an air of cordiality. Most Russian film critics and social commentators felt the Yankees finally got Anna right, after so many attempts in the past. Others still believed that non-Russians lacked the emotional capacity to delve deeply enough into the complicated Russian psyche to portray characters living between the pages of the Motherland’s revered authors. They felt only a lifetime of Russian winters could grind away the sensibilities to sufficiently expose the dramatic nerve endings.
     Hubris infected the Meecham and Ivor people and the actors attending the premier. They all knew they had a winner, and Academy Awards speculation punctuated every conversation. Trish was not a household name in Russia because most of her past films lacked the budget to warrant Russian language sound tracks, which made her performance in Anna all the more astonishing to the Russians.
     The intense media hype in Moscow attracted politicians who came to bask in the visibility of the event. Even Russia’s Premier attended the grand after-party.
     Trish spent a few days with her dad on the return trip and then flew to Los Angeles to prepare for the Hollywood premier. Leah had preceded her to L.A., and rode in the limo to pick her up at the airport. They drove directly to her Malibu beach house. Once at the house, while the caretakers unloaded the luggage, Trish and Leah settled down with drinks for a visit.
Leah brought out a stack of newspaper film critic reviews from her briefcase. “Here’s some light reading for your enjoyment.”
     “I like the sound of ‘enjoyment.’” Trish picked up the top one and scanned it.
     “The critics are all amazed by your performance. They love the film, and most say you should be working on your acceptance speech for an Oscar.” Trish could hear Leah’s pride.
     “I should be the happiest girl in the world, right?” She took a sip of her tequila.
     “You’re on a career track only a handful of people could even dream about. Unfortunately, that just doesn’t get it done where happiness is concerned.” Leah’s eyes betrayed her personal experience.
     Trish got up and walked to the windows, absently looking out over the beach. “Truthfully, the good things that happen fade so quickly without someone to share the joy with.”
     “Speaking of someone to share it with, I have a list of available Hollywood hunks to escort you to the premier on Friday.” Leah took some papers from her briefcase. “You can give the tabloids something to gossip about.”
     “Do I have to pay them?” The first smile Leah had seen in weeks flickered across Trish’s face.
     “Boy, what a headline that would be, ‘Hollywood Love Goddess Pays Male Companions’.” Both laughed aloud.
     “Actually, Leah, my dear, how about being my date? It’s time for you to hit the red carpet. You can save me from some ego maniac mugging the cameras for the publicity.”
     Leah blushed slightly. “That’s a nice offer, Trish, but I really don’t have a thing to wear.”
     “Tomorrow we’ll hit Rodeo Drive and get you decked out. Phermona and Gwen will make us beautiful on Friday and we’ll knock ‘em dead.”
     Leah let out a girlish giggle. “Will they think we’re gay?” The house phone rang.
     “Who the hell would think I’m here? Who even has this number for that matter?” Trish looked at Leah. Leah looked at Trish.
     Together they said in unison, “Rod!”
     Caller ID confirmed it when Leah picked up the phone. “You have reached the Leah Armour Agency. We manage the stars. Unless you are reporting your demise, then please call back sometime after your departure.” Trish laughed aloud.
     “Very frigging funny, Leah.” Rod’s voice had the irascible tenor of someone chafing from months of neglect. “Let me talk to Trish.”
     “I would, Rod, but she doesn’t want to talk to you.”
     “Dammit, Leah, she’s been ignoring me for months. I’ve got dozens of projects lined up for her. Great stuff. The kind of parts other actors only dream about. I could book her into the next century.” Rod almost screamed into the phone.
     “That’s what she’s afraid of, Rod.” Leah was all business now. “I can’t speak for her, but in my opinion, she’ll do only a picture every year or two from now on.”
     “That’s not how the business works, Leah, and both you and Trish know it. You gotta grab it while you’re hot, cause when you’re not, you’re not.” Rod sounded like he was reading scripture.
     “I think one day Trish will forgive you, Rod. But here is some friendly advice: don’t bother her at the premier.”
     “What the hell does that mean?”
     “That means, FUCK OFF, Rod. Don’t call her. She’ll call you!” Leah hung up.

     Over blown Hollywood premiers had become a little passé over time, so Meecham and Ivor’s people had originally scheduled the Anna Karenina Premier in a smaller venue, but the prerelease publicity had paid off and ticket sales outstripped the theater. Word was out around town that this was going to be the biggest event since the premier of Gone With the Wind and requests started to pour in from Hollywood royalty for Red Carpet arrival times, theater tickets, and invitations to the after-party. Finally, the premier was shifted to the Kodak Theater, home of the Academy Awards. The 3,400-seat venue was sold out and The Entertainment Channel booked over ninety-minutes of live Red Carpet arrivals to be televised nationally.
     Search lights blazed into the twilight of the Los Angeles smog, and paparazzi flashes and TV flood lights transformed darkness into daylight as the limos paraded past one by one, spilling their glittering cargo out onto the red carpet. Fans in the grandstands cheered themselves hoarse as the very famous waved regally and glided into the theater.
The EC announcer chortled, “And here she is, Miss Trish Lowe, and her escort . . aah, and a friend. Trish Lowe, star of Anna Karenina.”
     Trish and Leah waved a Queen Elizabeth style salutation and moved to the microphone where the host said, “A big night, Trish, everybody’s expecting really good things from this film.”
     “We hope everyone enjoys it.” Trish offered a big Hollywood smile and wave.
     “Rumor had it we might see your new guy tonight.” The announcer looked a little peevish over the substitute.
     Leah leaned into the mike. “Actually you are. I just like to wear drag.”
     The announcer laughed an uncertain laugh and added, “Well, it should be a grand night for you, Trish.” She started to phrase her next question, but Trish and Leah moved away waving to the crowd.

     The audience gave a standing ovation during the curtain call after the screening. Meecham and Ivor took their kudos smiling, laughing, and slapping everyone on the back. Then a chant trickled through the audience building in a crescendo. “Trish! Trish! Trish!”
     Finally, Ivor escorted Trish to the microphone and gave an understated introduction, which she did not need: “Here she is, Ms. Trish Lowe.”
     Trish stood for a moment listening to the chant as it broke out again. “Thank you. Thank you, very much.” She tried to quell the applause, and waited until it died down. “You make me feel very welcome. I appreciate it more than you can ever know.” The chant and applause turned to murmurs. “I want to thank Meecham and Ivor for their faith in me on this picture. . . .” She looked at the floor and shuffled nervously, then looked directly at the audience. “You know, some people seem unrealistically fortunate. It’s as if things just fall into place for them . . . by chance or by good luck. But it’s not by chance at all. Each person’s good fortune is built with blocks chiseled and placed by other people helping them. By people who love us, and some who don’t, but all doing the necessary things that, together, add up to our good fortune. I am one of those unrealistically blessed people. All of you who I’ve worked with on previous films, and the others over the years who helped me grow have added to my good fortune. And because of all your help, I was given this opportunity. I’ve had a great personal loss in my life recently, and feeling your warmth and acceptance at this time is truly wonderful. Thank you very much.”
     The press people scribbled furiously in their notebooks, sensing a continuing story in Trish’s “personal loss.” While the audience stood applauding, the press scurried out of the hall vying for an interview with Trish.

     “You were really a good sport to go with me tonight.” Trish squeezed Leah’s hand as the limo smoothed through Malibu. “I’m sorry about being a party pooper. I just couldn’t face all those people at the after party.”
     “The night was a smashing success for you. You should be very proud of your accomplishment. I know I’m proud for you.” Leah patted the back of Trish’s hand. “Have I ever told you how wonderful it is working with someone like you? Someone I can love as a friend?”
     “Now don’t get all soggy on me. You know I get emotional easily these days.”
     The limo pulled into the driveway, and the two got out. They hugged each other, and Leah asked, “You sure you don’t want me to come in and keep you company? I hate for you to be alone on such a special night.”
     “No, I’ll be fine. I just want to collapse and spend a little time with myself. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” They hugged again and Leah got back in the limo and waved as it backed down the drive.
     Once in her bedroom, Trish took off her evening gown and put on the oversized sweater she’d never returned to Chris, her bedraggled security robe, and a pair of pink fuzzy bunny-slippers that were traditionally part of her Malibu homecoming ritual. She spent some time at her vanity removing her makeup and combing out her hair, then padded in her slippers to the bar and opened a bottle of wine, took the wine glass, and went out on the deck overlooking the beach. She settled on her favorite chaise lounge. There were no lights. A full moon danced over the surf, and gave the beach an ethereal glow. Palm fronds rustled like dune oats, and the surf sighed as it rolled out on the beach. She untied the robe, opening it, and the scent of Chris wafted over her from his sweater. So few nights with Chris, she thought. Nights with salt-laden breezes, quietly heaving surf, wrapped in love’s ageless embrace as close as surf to sand, cloaked in his warmth. Now a life of regret and memories.
     When the wine bottle was almost empty, she set her glass on the table. Gathering Chris’ sweater in both hands, she brought it to her nose, and felt his presence again. She drew her security robe around her and drifted softly to sleep.

The shadows crept steadily back onto the deck as the sun claimed the morning sky. The ocean was calm, and brilliant sparks splashed from its few ripples. Insects buzzed in the quiet air, and a fly circled the wine glass, considering a liquid brunch. Instead, it established a beachhead on Trish’s nose. She swatted it in her sleep and woke herself. Rising to her elbow, she tried to reconstruct her condition. The wine glass and bottle rekindled her memory of the previous night. Sitting on the edge of the chaise, she stretched and straightened her robe. She grinned down at her bunny slippers and wiggled her toes flopping their ears. Using the chaise arms, she pushed herself up and stood for a moment before walking to the deck railing. The ocean, the sky, the beach – all were pristine. She held the railing and leaned back to look for anything of interest overhead. When she rocked forward she saw something in the sand below the railing. Some kind of writing. Adrenalin set her heart pounding, and she vaulted over the railing, burying her bunnies, ears deep in the sand on impact. She dropped to her knees, almost suffocated with joy as she read:

Horizons past were filled with dread
That barrier bisecting earth and sky
That stifled all escape.
Then you appeared and filled the void
With touch, and smile, and sacred scent,
And with your eyes you cast a light
And woke my soul
To dream
To love
To Soar
Beyond horizons passed

(End)

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Chapter 37

Bill Stephens — Sun, 29 Jul 2007 23:45:32 +0000

District Attorney Sid Blevins often thought back to his days with D. A. Romney Anderson, a person who had seriously misjudged the power of “flowers.” Anderson’s zeal to rid the whole Marin peninsula of hippies and quash Flower Power permanently in a bid for reelection in 1966 was general knowledge. His plan was flawed by the fact that hippies voted. Not only voted, but marched in the streets with placards beseeching other voters to “RID US OF ROMNEY!” Flower Power had morphed nationally into a fledgling political activism, militating against the Vietnam War and anything else that could provide a plausibly good reason for a drug-laced demonstration or sit-in. The ridding of Romney was not a daunting task for them.
     The year 1966 ushered in the laissez faire era of Eugene Krantz as Marin County District Attorney. He was sworn in at age twenty-nine, wearing an open collared shirt and bell-bottom trousers, the youngest District Attorney in California history. Krantz moved gracefully through three-plus terms of office while hippies changed to yuppies, molting their tie-dye in favor of Brooks Brothers suits. Along with this came a national awareness of drugs followed by a War on Drugs, which finally snared Krantz himself on a charge of possession of marijuana. Apparently Eugene had never lost his fondness for smoking an occasional “fat one.”
     Sid Blevins still smiled when he thought of how he had persevered in the trenches as Assistant DA, and how he was elevated to District Attorney in 1985 after the conviction of Krantz. He had flourished in the job, even though some thought he lacked the killer instincts of a true prosecutor. Others knew, much to his discredit in their eyes, that D.A. Blevins always sought justice rather than a conviction.
     On July 7, 2000, Blevins sat at his desk reviewing correspondence when his administrative assistant announced, “There’s a man named Marvin Christofferson here to see you.”
     “What about?” Blevins didn’t look up
     “He didn’t say. He just said it’s important,” she replied.
     “Let’s hope so. I have plenty to do without Mr. . . . what’s his name?”
     “Christofferson. Marvin Christofferson.” She emphasized the name over her shoulder.
     A tall gray-haired man about 60, tanned and fit, wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt was ushered into the office and stood by the clients’ chairs.
     “What can I do for you, Mr. Christofferson?” Blevins didn’t rise to meet the visitor.
     “I’m wanted for the murder of Lesa Tolivar.” Marvin shuffled his feet as he made the pronouncement.
     “In that case, Mr. Christofferson, you’d better sit down.” Blevins motioned to the chairs while trying to look as little surprised as possible. “When exactly did this murder take place?”
     “It was an accident, actually, but it happened in 1965.” Marvin looked directly into the D.A.’s eyes as he spoke.
     “Can you fill me in on some of the details? I’m having . . .”
     “A VW bus went over a cliff on the Marin Headland Road with my fiancée, Lesa Tolivar,          in it. She was killed.” Marvin spoke matter-of-factly.
     “Wait a minute. I remember something about that. You were a pretty famous painter in Sausalito when it happened.” Blevins looked proud of himself. He punched the intercom button. “Will you get ‘Records’ to pull up a cold case dating from 1965 on an indictment of Marvin Christofferson for the murder of Lesa Tolivar, and I. . .think . . . her unborn child?” Blevins looked at Marvin, who nodded agreement.   “Now, Marvin, can I call you Marvin? What do you want to tell me?”
     “What do you want to hear?” Marvin shifted uncomfortably as he spoke.
     “Everything.” Blevins learned forward. “Actually, Marvin, I’d like to record your statement, if you don’t mind.” Marvin nodded agreement. “It will take a few minutes to get set- up, so would you mind waiting in Mary’s office?” Blevins punched the intercom again. “While you’re at it, please get ‘Records’ to bring up a camcorder to record a statement, oh, and offer Mr. Christofferson something to drink while he waits.”
     The camcorder and lights were set up, and Marvin returned to his chair. The preliminaries of establishing Marvin’s identity that he was testifying voluntarily, that he did not want a lawyer, and that his statement could be used against him in a court of law were complete. Blevins said, “Okay, Marvin, just tell us in your own    words what happened on that day in 1965.”
     Marvin squirmed in his seat and fumbled uncomfortably with the mike in front him: First, I want to say that this was the most desolate day of my life and still causes me unbearable grief even today. That day began as a grand adventure with much excitement. We loaded Lesa’s Volkswagen van for a trip up the Marin Headlands to paint the pines with San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge as a background. This was to begin a new era for my painting . . .

Chris recalled everything with an awful clarity. In the 1960’s, the ease of access through Fort Baker to the scenic grandeur of the Marin Headlands guarding the entrance to San Francisco Bay was known only to a few of Sausalito’s overripe Beatniks, mostly in the art community. They had convinced Marvin that the Headland’s view of San Francisco, framed by the Golden Gate Bridge, was a landscape painter’s dream.
     A stand of tall pine trees was rumored to be perched on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean, high above Fort Baker, an army base that supplied the men and the armament of the day to the current installations. Legend had it, the army had planted the grove decades before and made it into a picnic area with thick grass watered nine months a year from barrels hauled up the Headland’s road, which was chiseled from the cliffs overlooking the ocean.
     This possible change of painting subject overpowered Marvin. He borrowed a fellow artist’s bolt cutter, packed up Lesa’s VW bus, and the two lovers headed for an adventure.
     “My ears are popping,” Lesa said as the VW ground its way up the hill.
Marvin only nodded. Rounding the first outside curve of the narrow graveled road, Lesa laughed. “Great God, we’re gonna die!” A shear cliff plummeted hundreds of feet to the Pacific Ocean.
     “Easy, girl, we’re not the first to do this. Just relax and enjoy the view,” Marvin said, but his jaw jutted more at each switchback while Lesa disappeared further into her seat.
     Finally Lesa shouted in earnest, “Let’s go back before we kill ourselves!”
     “Go back? How the hell can we turn around on this road? We’re almost there . . . I think.”
     “Let me know when we’re having fun.” She added, “This doesn’t bother you?”
     A long pause followed before he answered, “I’ll admit it. My butt’s so puckered you couldn’t drive a hatpin in it with a sledgehammer. If you can just hang on a few minutes, I think we’ll make it.”
     The road turned inland for about a quarter mile just before cresting a small knoll, and they saw the pines in an acre of grass, as promised. San Francisco, Golden Gate Bridge, and the pines were perfect for ushering in a new Christofferson period of inspiration.
     Blowing a joint settled their nerves a little. The second shared roach set them talking again. Laughing, actually. Laughing and leaping insanely. They danced jigs, rolled in the grass, and churned in circles until they collapsed, exhausted, on the grass beside the picnic basket.
     The basket held some bits of cheese and crackers and three bottles of wine. Burgundy sloshed over their chins, spiraling rivulets down their necks, dripping and disappearing into the turf as they lay on their backs swigging from the bottle.
“Did your life flash before your eyes on that cliff?” he asked.
     “No, but I almost wet myself.”
     Marvin outlined her breasts with his finger, and shivers rippled over her skin. They fondled and caressed each other like two people taking inventory. Lesa slid the straps of her shift from her shoulders, and it shed like water from her skin. They thrashed away as if The End was nigh, from the moment they joined until they lay on their backs gasping for breath. When Lesa’s breath slowed, she asked, “Well?”
     “Well, my dear, I think we blasted through the land of love like it was a cemetery and moved into the maelstrom of deep fucking from which only the brave, the true, and the strong ever return.”
     “Yeah, it was good for me, too.” The sun-warmed breeze soothed them, and they drifted to sleep in each other’s arms.

The chill of the fog bank spilling over the Headlands woke them. The sun’s last glow faded, and fog rang down the curtain on San Francisco.
     Marvin crept down the Headlands road, knuckles white on the steering wheel of the Volkswagen van. Fog plugged the entrance to San Francisco Bay, curtaining off the entire world outside the twenty-foot dimness of their one functioning headlight. He and the VW bus were mechanized rock climbers suffocating in opaqueness, feeling their way along this cliff-side trail with no guardrails for protection.
     The bus inched forward. Rocks, loosed from under the right front wheel tumbled down the cliff. Lesa moaned. The evil smell of burning brake shoes pervaded the bus. Marvin glanced at Lesa’s pained expression and brimming eyes, and he stopped the van, setting the parking brake.
     “Why are you stopping?” she asked
     “It’s hard enough to concentrate without your moaning and whimpering.”
Climbing over the seat he moved all his art equipment to one side of the mattress in the back of van. “Hop over and take a nap, we’ll be home when you wake,” he said, offering his hand. She crawled onto the empty half of the mattress.
     “Here, take this. It’ll help you rest,” he said. She swallowed the Quaalude offered from their stash bag with the dregs from an empty wine bottle.
     They hugged; he wadded his coat, laid her head on the makeshift pillow, kissed her lightly on each eye, and said, “Sleep tight.”

The fog finally blindfolded the windshield. He stopped, shouting, “Jesus H. Christ! Give me a break!” No break responded in the fog. He set the hand brake, left the engine running, got out of the bus, and looked for a rock to chock a wheel. The smell of the overheated brake shoes hung in the fog. Finding no chock, he felt his way down the bar ditch and around a curve into total darkness.
     Something tangled his feet and sent him to his hands and knees. “Fuck!” He felt around and found the offending stick. It was long enough to use as a cane, so he stood and tapped his way along the road trying to get his bearings.
     He moved faster, scouting the general layout of the road ahead of the bus, and then a sound resembling a seal’s bark froze him. The grinding noise that followed was unmistakable. The pitch was rising, and he knew the heat-glazed brakes on the VW van were slipping.
     Spinning, he ran, stumbling back up the road. Rounding the last turn he saw the bus’s headlight through the fog. Running faster he tripped and fell sprawling again. The bus gained speed. Scrambling up, he ran to the bus and slammed into the grill like a football linebacker. The impact slowed the bus, but his shoes slipped in the gravel inching him toward the cliff. “Lesa! Wake up! Goddammit, Lesa, get out of the van!”
     His feet slid from under him, and the front tire grazed him as the bus ground past, brakes howling. He lunged and missed the door handle, and barely rolled away fast enough to save his arm from the back wheel. “LESA! WAKEUPGETOUTATHEBUS! IT’S GOING OVER THE CLIFF!” He grabbed the rear bumper and pulled himself up then dug in his heels trying to slow the runaway vehicle. Furrows plowed into the gravel, and still the bus edged closer toward the cliff.
     The right front wheel cleared the cliff and the bus bucked, dropped to its frame, and slowed almost to a stop. The jostling woke Lesa, who sat up and saw Marvin screaming at her through the backdoor windows. She reached for the door handle just as the left front wheel bumped off the cliff, and the back of the bus flipped up throwing Marvin back on the road. Then, as if tilted by an unseen hand, the bus pitched forward and Marvin’s last memory of Lesa was her horrified face plastered against the back door window as the bus disappeared, groaning and grinding into nothingness. The silence was dreamlike, but the crash of the bus hitting the water and rocks below was real. The shock and horror frozen on Marvin’s face lasted through the night. The MP patrol that found him the next morning, logged “. . .comatose . . .” into their notebook, and lifted him into their jeep.

I couldn’t face returning to my old life so I asked a friend to look after my art gallery, and I left town with no particular destination. I wanted only to get away. I read about the criminal charge in a Phoenix newspaper several days later. I was suicidal and couldn’t handle the mental anguish of a criminal trial.
     I didn’t fear the punishment. I feared a trial in some way might exonerate the burden of guilt I felt for allowing Lesa and our child to die. The pain I’ve felt every day since then is far greater than any sentence or punishment by a trial.
     For more than twenty years I drifted around working on my sober days as a house painter. During the good times I would scrounge up some paints and canvas and paint Lesa from memory. My only contact with my former life was with Randy Quartz, who for years was the manager of the Trident Restaurant and later managed my art gallery.
     Randy told me of a friend on the Texas Coast who was dying of AIDS, and had no one to see him through his final months. I’ve lived there since that time.

The room was completely silent for a time. “Were you there during the recent hurricane?” D.A. Blevins asked.
     “I got washed away along with my beach house.”
     “How did you survive?”
     “I tried to escape in a boat, but it capsized. I had my things in a Navy Seal bag tied to my leg, and it acted as a buoy and rode the storm waves across Corpus Christi Bay. I hit shore near IH 37 and hitchhiked to San Antonio where I took a bus here to see you.”
      Blevins said, “Just incredible.” He sat for a time starring blankly at Marvin. “The news coverage was amazed that only one person was missing. Was that you?”
     “They must think by now that I’m dead.” Chris’s brow furrowed as he thought of Lottie and Jeffrey and how they must feel over his death.
     Blevins could see Chris’ discomfort at the thought his “death.” “Is there someone we should notify?”
     “I had only two friends who would care.” Chris rubbed his forehead thinking of the right thing to do. “I really think they will be better off with things left the way they are.”
     Blevins nodded as if he comprehended. “Are you staying locally?”
     “I spent last night in a motel down the street.”
     “It will take me some time to get up to speed on this case. I wonder if you’d come back tomorrow about three o’clock?” Blevins stood as he spoke.
     “Don’t I have to go to jail?” Marvin looked bewildered. “You’re not locking me up?”
     “Should we?”
     Marvin rose to leave, then turned. “Thank you . . . I appreciate it.”
Late that afternoon, Blevins’ assistant brought in the case file to him and he looked at the tracking sheet. “God, this case is so cold he could have moved next door to the police station and not gotten caught.” He spent the afternoon and early evening reviewing the file. Most of the time was spent going over his ancient notes to the file about discussions with Romney Anderson regarding prosecuting the case. Blevins had been convinced the charge was unfounded back then. He turned off the desk lamp and sat in the dark for a time before going home.

Marvin arrived promptly at three but still sat silently in the anteroom almost an hour later. Blevins assistant had acknowledged him, but was totally absorbed in gathering documents and running them in and out of District Attorney Blevins’ office. Men in suits came and went carrying sheaves of paper into and out of the DA’s office while he waited. A growing uneasiness built inside him. He could sense things were not right. He considered the consequences of his coming here the day before. Of telling his story and having it recorded by the DA. The thought of long term imprisonment or worse loosed a panic in him. This was going terribly wrong, he thought. He rose and went to the door and looked both directions in the hall, then back at the DA’s closed office door. He turned and walked out.
     “Mr. Christofferson!” The assistant was following him down the hall, and her voice had an edge of urgency. “Mr. Christofferson I’m sorry for the delay. There was so much paperwork, but Mr. Blevins will see you now.” He stopped for a moment, and she caught up with him. “Please, Mr Christofferson, come back to Mr. Blevins office.” She walked to him and touched him lightly on the elbow, and Marvin moved toward her with uncertainty.
     Blevins motioned for him to be seated and stared at Marvin for a time before speaking. “Why did you come in and tell your story after all these years? We both know you could have lived out your life without us ever knowing anything about you.”
     Marvin moved forward in his chair. “I finally came to terms with myself over Lesa’s death. I had to have a new life. I had to do this to completely erase my past.”
     “It was a very brave thing to do, considering all you could lose.” Marvin shifted in his chair but didn’t respond. Blevins continued. “I spent a very long night reviewing your case, trying to reconstruct all the events and to get an understanding of motives. Frankly, I didn’t get to sleep until very early this morning.” He rocked his overstuffed executive chair forward and placed his hands on the desk. “Marvin, I decided the people of the State of California have done you a grave injustice. Charges should never have been filed against you. I am dropping the charges against you, and I personally will see that it is taken off your record.”
     “What are you telling me?” Marvin looked astounded.
     “I’m saying you can go. You’re a free man.” Blevins smiled broadly as he spoke.
     “I can leave? No charges? No trial?” Marvin had a dazed expression
     “That’s right. What do you plan to do now, Marvin?” Blevins seemed genuinely interested.
      Marvin thought for a moment. “I recently had a chance at a different life.” He continued as if thinking aloud. “So different it couldn’t have worked.”
     “Maybe it’s still worth a try.” Blevins asked
     “I don’t know. . . I just don’t know.” Marvin’s eyes glistened with emotion.
     “Well, good luck at whatever life you chose.” A smiling Blevins rose, shook his hand, and called his assistant to escort Marvin out.
     Marvin stepped through the front door of the Marin Civic Center and down the steps to the sidewalk. The panorama stretched across the valley bisected by   Highway 101. Cars rushed heedlessly in both directions oblivious to anything but their own destinations. He looked to the left, then to the right, and then stared into the distance trying to decide which direction to take.

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Chapter 36

Bill Stephens — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 04:43:06 +0000

While Jeffrey was working with the crew assigned to rebuild the RV facilities at Mustang Island State Park after the floodwater had receded, his cell phone rang and Caller I.D. showed “Trish Lowe.”
     “Hey, Miss Lowe, it’s been a while.” He was excited by her call.
     “Jeffrey, thank God, you’re okay. I’ve been on the promotional tour for Anna Karenina, and, with all the traveling and appearances, I wasn’t keeping up with the news. I just heard about the hurricane yesterday.”
     “It’s a mess down here, that’s for sure.” Knowing she was calling about Chris made Jeffrey uneasy.
     “How . . . where is Chris?”
     Jeffrey didn’t know how to answer. “I’m afraid there’s a problem.”
     “What do you mean, Jeffrey?””
     “Chris is missing.” Jeffrey blurted it out.
     “God, no!” Trish’s voice broke, and Jeffrey could tell she was crying. “I heard that everyone was evacuated.”
    “I tried for days to get Chris to move into town and stay with Lottie, but he just wasn’t interested. Then, the day before the hurricane hit, he changed completely and started boarding up the beach house. I was going to pick him up the morning Alvin hit, but the beach was flooded, and I couldn’t get to him. I tried to get the Coast Guard to him, but apparently they never made it.” Jeffrey paused and made shrugged futilely. “The beach house is gone.”
     He knew Trish was trying to respond. All he heard were gasps of shock and sobs. He added, “Listen, Trish, we haven’t given up. We’re checking area hospitals, the Red Cross shelters, police reports every day hoping to find him. There are a lot of displaced people all over in Corpus Christi.”

Hope for Chris soared shortly after Trish’s call when a picture ran on the front page of the Corpus Christi Times showing a johnboat resting in the top of a tree in Corpus Christi Ocean Drive Park. The caption referred to the boat as Deliverance. Jeffrey contacted the Corpus Christi Parks and Recreation Department and claimed the boat in the name of its owner. Hope faded as time trudged along with no word about Chris.
     Chris’s body was not found after three weeks of being listed as “missing.” Finally, Christopher Maven was listed as “presumed dead.”   Jeffrey told Trish of the change in Chris’s status during a subsequent phone call, and she became irreconcilably distraught. That finality cast a pall of gloom over them as they worked through the loss of Chris and the guilt they felt.

Jeffrey was returning from Corpus Christi with a pickup load of lumber and other materials for rebuilding The Backyard. He took a side tour around Port Aransas to see what had happened since the hurricane a month before. He knew, from all the old timers that Port Aransas was the most persistent of all the small coast towns. Other villages had simply disappeared after hurricanes, but this eclectic collection of vacation homes turned residence for contemporary squatters on the tip of Mustang Island was so potent it always rose immediately from the muddy tide and debris of successive hurricanes like a finned phoenix. The faithful always returned to rebuild. Everyone knew that nothing was produced in Port Aransas, nothing grown, and nothing caught in commercial quantity. Amazingly, Port A seemed to thrived solely on the joy of living.
     Jeffrey could see history repeating itself. A minor miracle had transpired in the four weeks since Hurricane Alvin. The streets were cleared of debris and mud, and utilities were restored. Damaged homes and buildings were stripped of unusable materials or were totally demolished. Rebuilding was underway on many structures. He could see the fires at the city dump billowing smoke signals to the area as Alvin’s wreckage was reduced to ash. His neighbors around town were beginning to return their sun-dried household contents, that for weeks made the town look like a giant yard sale, back inside

Because of the style of construction, The Backyard had been totally demolished; but for the same reason, it was easily rebuilt. That process was proceeding nicely with insurance covering the cost. Jeffrey helped on his days off and in the afternoons after his shift ended.
      About six weeks after Alvin, Jeffrey stopped at the post office on his way to help Lottie. He emptied his mailbox and was leaving when the counter clerk hailed him. “Jeffrey, your friend, Christopher Maven, has a package.”
     He was startled to hear Chris’ name spoken. “Right. . .yeah, I’ll take it for him.”
     The clerk handed him a smallish package wrapped in brown paper with a handwritten address. “It’s sent certified mail, so you’ll have to sign for it.”
After signing the return receipt, Jeffrey went to his Bronco and sat looking at the package. Finally, he opened it to find a handwritten note enclosed with a red leather-bound book. The book had a traditionally ribbed spine, gold leaf-edged pages, and gold leaf lettering on the cover: Horizons Passed by Christopher Maven. Jeffrey opened the note.
Dear Mr. Maven:
       My father was very fond of telling about the mysterious major
poet whom he had represented for many years, but whom he had never
seen, and with whom he had never spoken.
     I asked the publisher to traditionally bind the plate proofs of
Horizons Passed in classical fashion for your library copy and your
pleasure. I hope one day to have the honor of meeting you.

                                                 Melvin Ortz Jr.
                                                 Melvin Ortz Literary Agency
Jeffrey sat so long holding the book that the clerk, who could see him through the post office front door, came out to ask if he was all right. Jeffrey nodded his affirmation, and started the Bronco. He drove to the liquor store where he bought a bottle of cold champagne, some ice, a plastic ice bucket, and a package of plastic cups. He stopped by Family Center Grocery, bought a beach blanket, and drove to The Backyard.
     Lottie’s hair was pulled back with a rubber band, and she wore a cap with its bill backwards. Her face was spotted with paint from the brush she was wielding. Jeffrey stood for a minute admiring her. “I think it’s time we launched that wild, passionate love affair we’ve talked about for so long.”
     Lottie turned around smiling. “You’ve talked about so long.”
     Jeffrey took the paintbrush from her hand and closed the paint bucket.   “You’ve worked enough for today.” He took her hand and started for the entrance.
     “Whoa, wait a minute! What are you up to?” She couldn’t help laughing.
     “We have something important to do.” Jeffrey’s arm swung behind her legs, and he scooped her up and walked out the entrance.

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Chapter 35

Bill Stephens — Tue, 17 Jul 2007 04:56:57 +0000

The VW bus drifted slowly down – down – settling toward the bottom. A face approached dimly into view through the rear window. Hair hovered and floated about her head. Her eyes showed no panic, only stared questioningly at him. She mouthed a soundless word. The lips moved in exaggerated slow motion as the word formed again. Chris sat upright in bed sucking in a deep breath and held it, tying to clear away the apparition. Gradually he exhaled as things came into focus again. It was dark, and he knew the electricity was off. The house rocked on its pilings as the wind howled and buffeted it. Rain pelted the roof. Shit! I slept too long, he thought; Jeffrey should have picked me up by now.
     Still wearing the blue jeans and a T-shirt from last night, he took the flashlight from his nightstand and made his way down into the living room. He couldn’t see out the boarded windows. When he turned the knob, the front door exploded open, catapulting him back against the couch. Lying there stunned, he saw a pale greenish glow to the watery landscape outside the door. Wind and rain blasted through the opening while he struggled to close the door. He could see waves crashing on the dunes and water filling in behind them. A panic shuddered through him. I’m totally fucked, he thought. “I’m totally fucked.”
     He was unable to reach the apex window on the back of the house when he boarded up, so he climbed to the loft again and stood in a chair looking out it now. Rain clouded visibility, but he could make out the highway enough to see there was no traffic. Water threatened to overtop it. Sitting on the bottom stair, he rubbed his head trying to think what he should do. The situation must have changed so fast that Jeffrey was unable to get there. Jeffrey would be working on Plan B, whatever Plan B was. Maybe he’d contacted the Coast Guard. Where was the cavalry when he really need them? He knew this was not the main storm. The weathermen had warned of a possible thirty-foot storm surge. That meant the worst was yet to come.
     Maybe he could make it to the highway and walk into town before the surge hits, he thought. Using the flashlight, he looked through the pile of tools and equipment he had brought up from the storeroom below and found the sledgehammer and chain saw. He stuck the flashlight in his pocket, grabbed the sledge and chainsaw in one hand and the waterproof duffel in the other, and inched his way to the front door in the dark. Standing to the side, he turned the doorknob and was almost dragged down when the door exploded open before he could free his hand. He struggled through the door, carrying the bag and equipment. The door was impossible to close, and the plywood sheet left for boarding it up had blown away. He crawled to the stair leading down to the storage room, and threw the hammer and bag down the steps. With the chainsaw in one hand, and his other arm wrapped around the railing, he inched down the stairs as the wind ripped and tore at him. Rain stung his face like wasps.
     Once inside the storage room, he turned on the flashlight and made his way to the back wall. Rising water was already ankle deep. He put the chainsaw and sledge on the workbench. The flashlight passed over the johnboat, Deliverance, as he inspected it. She sat on the two support horses about two feet above the rising water. He waded around the boat, placed the oars into the oarlocks, and tied a thirty-foot length of rope to the waterproof bag and threw both into the boat. Returning to the workbench, he laid the flashlight down, grabbed the chainsaw, and pulled the starter cord. Nothing. Choking it, he tried it again. Still nothing. Working the throttle trigger and choke again, he cranked it one more time. “Come on, baby, I need a little break here,” he whispered. He choked it again and pulled the cord. The saw roared into life.
     Water was about mid-calf now and he sloshed to the rear of the room, carrying the saw and the flashlight. He balanced the light on the boat, shining it where he wanted to work. About a foot above his head he punched the saw through the back wall and sawed a ragged gash horizontally almost the width of the room across the studs and siding.   Then he tried to cut vertically at the one end of his horizontal cut but the saw was very difficult to hold in this position. After several attempts he finished th cut and sloshed to the other side of the room. Again he tried a vertical cut with very little more success. Halfway down the makeshift door opening he was cutting, the saw blade jammed, kicked back, and he lost his grasp it. It hung for a second in the siding then slid out, landing in the water. “Shit! You son-of-a bitch.” He knew the saw would not start again.
     He backed away from the wall as far as he could and sloshed through the knee-deep water and slammed into the partially cut out section, but it budged only slightly. Backing up, he tried again. It still stood stubbornly in place. He grabbed the sledgehammer and swung at the base of the siding, but it only splashed under the water without reaching the wall.
     Deliverance sill rested on its supports with the stern about three feet from the back wall. With his back to the boat’s transom he rested his weight on his elbows and hopped with all his strength, doubling his legs as he swung them up and gave a mighty kick, landing both feet on the siding. The makeshift opening nudged forward slightly, but the force of the kick sent Deliverance rocking forward on its supports and the boat fell, plunging Chris and the flashlight underwater. He came up sputtering, trying to regain his balance in the darkness. The only light now came in through the partial cutout. Deliverance was afloat in the waist deep water, and he clung to her as he felt his way to the bow.
     “It’s time to see what you’re made of,” he said to the boat as he pulled it as far forward in the room as possible. With every bit of strength left he lunged forward, shoving Deliverance toward its possible escape. The mass of the boat hit the cutout section, and the siding yielded with an audible groan to the greater force. He backed the boat up again and slammed it into the wall, this time continuing to shove with his full strength as the boat’s keel ground over the dislodged wall.
     The force of the wind surging around the house created a suction and Deliverance began accelerating as it came free from the submerged lumber. The wind caught the high johnboat bow, and it spun around. Chris momentarily lost his balance and fell to his knees as the boat yanked itself from his grasp and began pulling away from him. He pushed himself up again and ran up the submerged wall, using it as a springboard trying to catch Deliverance. Half stumbling, half swimming, he leaped out as far as he could and got a hand on the boat’s stern. The wind and the rain howled and pelted him as he tried to pull himself into the boat. Deliverance came to rest momentarily against an Australian pepperbush, and, using it as a crude ladder, Chris swung himself into the boat.
      He sat facing the stern, took the oars, and began pulling away from the house, aided by the wind that beat on him incessantly. The water was deep enough to float the boat, but protected by the dunes, it was too shallow for big waves. His oars caught often in the brush that now was underwater, but still he made good progress. Rainwater was several inches deep in the boat, and he realized he had nothing with which to bail. He could not see if the road was totally under water.
     Nearing the highway, the sound of the wind changed. Great rushing wind was replaced by a high-pitched swishing/swooshing sound coming from the beach. He stopped rowing, trying to understand the strange noise. He looked past the stern of boat at his house and the dunes, while turning his head from side to side, listening. Finally, he covered his ears as the sound now was painfully loud. His eyes, squinting into the rain, opened in full amazement as he saw a greenish-black monster appear over the dunes as far as he could see in both directions. It came with alarming speed and grew until it towered over the dune house.
     The swishing gave way to a roaring crescendo, a monstrous slapping explosion as the surge wave hit the dunes. It erupted into a mountain of white spray and began curling at the top like a giant breaker. The dune house buckled like the knees of a boxer hit with a championship solar plexus punch. It shuddered for a moment, then shouted an agonized groan, trying to right itself. The roof exploded off, and the whole house rocked backward, sighing, and regurgitated itself into the wave. The wave was unrelenting. He recovered from the shock and pulled hard on the starboard oar working desperately to bring the bow around into the wind and onrushing wave. He turned facing the bow and tied the end of the duffle rope to his ankle. “All right you evil bastard! Bring it on!” he screamed
     In an instant, the boat catapulted upward. The bow reared, and he lurched forward crashing headfirst into the bow gunnels and slumped unconscious to the deck of the boat with blood streaming down his face. The boat continued its race up the face of the wave. At its crest, the wave’s breaking curl flipped Deliverance into the air like a matchstick, sending boat, oars, duffel bag and Chris to the points of the compass. He splashed into the water and sank as the storm surge sucked him down. Then the underwater forces loosed their hold on him, and blood traced dark, unintelligible messages around his head as he floated weightless under water.
     “Marvin. . . .”
     Such a soothing voice, he thought. “My name is . . . Chris.”
     “Marvin, wake up.”
     “Who . . . who is it?”
     “It’s Lesa, Marvin. . . . Open your eyes.”
     “Lesa? . . . My Lesa?”
     “Yes, Marvin.”
     Lesa smiled at him as he opened his eyes He held out his hand trying to touch the hair floating around her face.
     “Lesa . . . Oh, Lesa, how much I’ve missed you . . .”
     “I know, Marvin . . . but now it’s time to move on.”
     “I love you so much, Lesa.”
     “No one could ever love me as you have, Marvin. But there are things you must do.”
     “Lesa, can you ever forgive me?”
      Lesa’s face smiled and began drifting away.
     “Wait, don’t go. I’ve waited so long.”
     “I must go now. There is nothing to forgive, Marvin. It wasn’t your fault.”

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Chapter 34

Bill Stephens — Fri, 13 Jul 2007 16:27:48 +0000

Conditions worsened by the minute as Jeffrey drove the streets, and radio chatter told of winds gusting to eighty knots. Alvin was coming of age on Mustang Island. Rain came in torrents dancing across streets horizontally like windblown holograms. The sky continued darkening until streetlights popped on, adding ghostlike features to the relentless downpour. Headlights ignited the rain-dimpled surfaces into a fireworks display. Loud reports from advertising signs and tree trunks cracking and crashing to the ground occasionally reverberated above the howling wind. Sheets of corrugated steel roofing, stationary years, danced free of their bonds over parking lots and plunged into the flooded streets, only to reemerge, driven end over end by the current and wind. The island’s electricity still functioned, and downed power lines sparked and whipped in the wind like fire-spitting snakes.
     The evacuee-drive was complete and about fifty of the last holdouts were herded into the ferry line. All but three of the ferries had been sent to the Corpus Christi harbor. Two of the remaining ferries loaded the last vehicles, and the third waited for the emergency vehicles still on the Island. Jeffrey pulled up next to an officer directing traffic. “I have time to run an errand before the last ferry?”
     “You got about ten minutes. Ferry’s gonna blow three long blasts on its horn five minutes before departure.”
     “Don’t leave without me!” Jeffrey moved down Cotter Street toward the Coast Guard Station. Axle deep water made going slow even for the Bronco. Though valiant, the windshield wipers were not up to the task, and visibility was less than half a block. Movement caught Jeffrey’s eye as he approached Alister Street. At first he thought it was trash blowing, but looking closer he saw a man wearing garbage sacks for raingear sneaking around the corner of Trout Street Restaurant. “Jesus Christ, it’s Fuck-Em-All-Ted!” Jeffrey hit his red lights and siren, but Fuck-Em-All broke into to a run, splashing across Trout Street toward Shorty’s. Jeffrey turned toward Shorty’s, but the water was too high to get through. He backed up and onto Cotter, and just as he righted the Bronco onto Cotter he saw Ted splash through his headlights and disappear through the Tarpon Inn parking lot heading toward White Avenue. Driving as fast as he dared, Jeffrey turned right onto Station Street and circled the block trying to cut the vagrant off on White Avenue, but he was nowhere to be seen. Jeffrey cruised slowly down White Avenue looking for his hiding place. Just as he approach Beulah’s parking lot, someone broke out from behind a huge oleander bush, splashing down White Avenue toward Alister. Jeffrey stopped the Bronco, leaped out, pulled his gun and fired a shot into the air. “GODDAMMIT, FUCK-EM-ALL, IF YOU DON’T STOP RUNNING I’LL SHOOT YOU. SWEAR TO GOD I WILL!”
     Ted slid to a stop holding his hands in the air as his garbage sacks quaked and his three-foot beard stood straight out in the wind.
Three long blasts sounded on the ferry horn. “SHIT! GODDAMMIT, TED, DON’T YOU MOVE AN INCH!” Jeffrey waded down and handcuffed him, and led him back to the Bronco. The loaders waved wildly to Jeffrey to load his vehicle when he got to the ferry. Jeffrey released the handcuffs from Ted once they were safely on board. “Goddammit, Ted, you might of gotten us both killed.”
     Ted looked straight ahead and, as expected, growled, “Fuck ‘em all.”
     Jeffrey got out of the Bronco and stood in the rain, watching Port Aransas recede as the ferry got under way. The vessel immediately began bucking wildly as the waves crashed over the bow, and water flooded the deck, causing Jeffrey to lose his footing. He climbed back into the front seat and tried calling the Coast Guard Station, but could not get through. He tried the emergency radio. “This is Ranger Jeffrey. Does anybody out there know the phone number of the Coast Guard at the Naval Air Station?”
     There was a pause before a voice crackled over the radio. “Hey, Jeffrey, I’ve got it here somewhere. Hang on. Here it is — 361-961-2070. Got it?”
     “Thanks, got it!” Jeffrey had trouble dialing the number on his cell phone as the ferry pitched and plunged on its crossing. “This is Park Ranger Jeffrey, let me speak with operations. Yes, sir, this is the State Park Rangers. We reported a Christopher Maven stranded on the beach at Fish Pass Road. Can you tell me if you’ve picked him up?”
The voice returned after a minute. “No, Sir, I don’t have any record of it here.”
     “Good God! You haven’t picked him up? I can’t believe this!” Jeffrey pounded his head on the steering wheel.
     A muffled “Fuck ‘em all!” came from Jeffrey’s passenger.
     “Sir, the chopper just returned to base about fifteen minutes ago, and the Captain has suspended all operations until conditions improve.”
     “Is Lieutenant Albert Gaines, there?” Jeffrey’s hands shook so from excitement and chill he could hardly hold the cell phone.
     “Just a minute, sir.”
Several minutes passed before there was any response. “Lieutenant Gaines, here.”
    “Jesus, am I glad to get you, Albert. This is Jeffrey.”
    “Hey, Jeffrey, is it a bitch out there or, what?”
    “Listen, Albert, about five-thirty this morning I reported to the Port A station that Chris was stranded on the beach. I’m trying to find out if you picked him up.” Jeffrey held his breath.
     “God, you’re kidding me. Ol’ Chris was still on the beach when this thing came in?”
     “You haven’t picked him up?”
     “I worked offshore distress calls all morning. I just got back to refuel. Visibility is almost nil in this rain, and the wind is gusting to eighty-five knots, so Captain’s suspended ops until conditions improve. We just hangered the chopper.”
     “Is there anything you guys can do? When the storm surge hits, it’ll blow Chris into the next county.”
     “It’s not far over there, let me talk to Captain and try to get permission.”
     “Hurry!”Albert burst into the Captain’s office. “Captain, there’s a man stranded on Mustang Island beach. We need to go get him.”
     “Whoa, Lieutenant, what’s all this about?” The Captain got up from his desk.
    “This old guy that lives on the beach by himself got stranded before they could get to him by land. The Park Rangers reported it this morning, but we never got there.”
      “I’m afraid it’s impossible now, Lieutenant. Conditions are just too risky.”
      “We could be over here and back in twenty minutes, sir.”
     “Then we might consider it when the hurricane eye passes, but not before.”
Albert Gaines stepped back two paces and hit a brace. “Permission to fly a rescue mission, sir.”
Captain remained seated. “Have you ever flown eighty-five knot winds, Lieutenant?”
     “No, sir!” Albert still held his brace.
     “Well you’re not going to start on my watch, and that’s final.” The Captain’s voice left little doubt.
     Still in his brace, Albert replied, “Permission to attempt a rescue mission, sir!”
     “Dismissed, Lieutenant!” The Captain returned to the papers on his desk.

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Chapter 33

Bill Stephens — Fri, 13 Jul 2007 16:13:41 +0000

Lottie sat in her San Antonio Spurs basketball jersey nightgown, watching The Weather Channel with increasing dread. John Kope had narrowed the projected area of landfall of Alvin to somewhere between Port O’Connor and Port Mansfield. Port Aransas stood dead center.
     Kope pointed to the satellite map. “Alvin’s moved less than one hundred miles in the last three days. The intensity now is at Category Three, and it possibly could build to Category Four with winds of up to 155 miles-per-hour by landfall. The jet stream is way down here below the Texas Coast,” he pointed to the Jet Stream Map – “and it’s holding this high-pressure cell that’s blocking the path of the hurricane. If the Jet Stream shifts rapidly to the north, we can expect Alvin to move rapidly onshore.”
     Lottie changed channels to a local Commercial TV station. It was in the middle of an hourly update on Alvin, and a graphic showed guidelines for hurricane preparedness. They cut away to live coverage of the mob scenes at grocery stores and lumber yards in and around Corpus Christi where people clamored to hoard supplies and materials to protect their homes. Home Depot was selling plywood directly off eighteen-wheelers. The customers hauled it off strapped to the tops of their cars, or any other way they could manage, including some who pushed it away on Home Depot rolling carts. The camera showed grocery shelves stripped clean of bottled water, canned goods, and batteries. The local weathermen warned of unusually high tides from the stationary hurricane’s huge impeller-like swirl pushing water toward shore.
     Lottie dialed Jeffrey’s cell phone. “Jeffrey, I just got the latest Weather Channel update, and I’m getting really nervous. What did Chris say the last time you talked to him?”
     Jeffrey’s voice crackled over the phone line. “I went out there last night and tried to talk to him. He changed the subject every time I tried to make plans for the hurricane. I swear to God, he talks like he welcomes it.”
     “That’s insane! You’ve got to move him in here so I can get him off the island.” Mild panic elevated her voice.
     “I took plywood out there yesterday to close up the house, but he wouldn’t let me help him put it up.” Jeffrey paused. “I tell you what, I’ll go out there this afternoon and kick his butt. Make him agree to come to town. You need help at your place?”
     “I’m fine. I had storm shutters installed last year, and my insurance is paid up. I might use a little help closing up the bar.”
     “You got it!” Lottie’s phone went dead.Chris sat at his desk staring at the unopened envelope. It was plain white and handwritten with no return address. He picked it up and looked closely at the writing. It had the neatness and flair of a woman’s hand. He held the envelope to his nose hoping for a clue and finally put it down again. Several times he had started to open it over the past three days with the same result. At his center he felt a need so great – one letter could produce unbearable disappointment. He stood and went out on the deck, looking at the hostile surf as he leaned on the railing. After a time, he pulled himself erect and walked purposefully to the desk. He picked up the letter and opener, sliced neatly through the flap, and removed a single-fold note with “TL” engraved at the top:
  Dear Chris,
  Critics here are raving about Horizons Passed.
  Each Verse fills me with rapture, and I feel warm and content
  as if I were there by your side.

  I want so desperately to explain how things got confused
  and out of control. I pray one day I will have that chance.      I still love you,
      Trish
     He sank into the desk chair, still holding the note. A flood of release flowed over him as he lowered his head and wept.

Chris was on the deck nailing plywood over the windows when Jeffrey’s Bronco wound its way along the strip of beach left by the big surf. “I like what I see,” Jeffery said as he walked onto to the deck. He pointed to the plywood that was already installed. “Does this mean you’re going to town with me?”
     “I have to apologize, Jeffrey. I haven’t been thinking straight for some time now. So if I’ve been an asshole, I’m sorry.” He held out his hand to Jeffrey.
     Jeffrey took the hand and pulled him into a hug. “Not to worry, Pardner. The main thing is to get this plywood up and get the fuck out of Dodge.”
     “You’ve got too much to do. I can finish this and get things packed, and you can pick me up sometime tomorrow morning.”
     “I don’t think that’s too smart. When this thing is going to land is anybody’s guess.” Jeffrey made a questioning gesture.
     “I just saw a weather update, and they’re saying it’s probably still two to three more days. Really, I need to get a lot of things stashed.” Chris waved his arm indicating the entire house.
     “That’s cutting it awfully close.” Jeffrey’s expression showed his concern, and he paused before he continued, “all right, I’ll head into town and help Lottie board up The Backyard and come back in the morning to pick you up.”
     A steady stream of vehicles, most pulling boats or trailers, made their way toward the JFK Causeway as he pulled onto the highway. The lane to Port Aransas was empty. People in town were boarding up windows at almost every house and building or hauling household furnishings and appliances to waiting pickups and trailers. Strangely, few cars were in the Family Center Grocery parking lot. He saw the manager out front taping up windows, and pulled in to inquire. “We’ve just about sold it all,” the manager explained. Farther up Alister Street, Gary was loading paintings into his truck that doubled as a billboard for his art gallery.
     Wiley’s pickup, with his boat trailered behind, sat in front of The Backyard. The sole occupant of the bar saluted Jeffrey with his beer mug from his usual seat. “Thought I’d have one for old time’s sake, before I head off to San Antonio.”
     “Going to stay with your brother?” Jeffrey asked.
     “Yeah, hurricanes are good for gettin’ families back together.” Wiley’s words gave the measure of his sibling relationship.
Lottie finished boxing up the liquor. “I don’t suppose you two gentlemen could help a damsel in distress and haul these out to my car.” She pointed to a pickup load of liquor cases, a computer, cash register, and other electronic equipment and small appliances.
Lottie’s car loaded, Wiley hugged her. “I’m old enough to remember the last one. I’ll warn you, things’ll look pretty shitty when this all blows over.” He turned and went to his truck.
Jeffrey nailed plywood over the office windows and doors. Lottie had already closed the umbrellas and carried them into the rest rooms, and now was stacking tables and chairs under the bandstand to be tied down. It was dark by the time they finished the securing everything. They walked down to the harbor railing and looked at the slips left empty by boats evacuated to safer water. The wind had picked up noticeably. There was activity, some of it frantic, and the unctuous flow of island nightlife had vanished.
     “There was no way to get Chris to come to town with you?” Lottie looked anxiously at Jeffrey.
     “It’s impossible to read Chris, as you know, so it’s hard to say. All I know is he finally was talking like he’d leave at all.” Jeffrey shrugged. “So I went along with him.”
     “Maybe I should go get him tomorrow morning.” Lottie ran her fingers through her wind – blown hair.
     “I barely made it out there today with four-wheel drive. There’s no way you’ll make it. It’ll probably be worse tomorrow.”
     “You’ll go get him first thing in the morning?”
     “I have a FEMA meeting in the morning. I’ll get him after that. Then you both should take the ferry and head out immediately.”
     “You’re really nice to do all this.” Lottie gestured around the bar. She felt something different about Jeffrey. She recalled the years of friendship with Jeffrey and his wife, Connie. Lottie constantly laughed and joked around with Jeffrey, but lately she was seeing a new side to him. “I made a pot of soup just in case of emergency. Why don’t you come over and share a simple peasant broth?”

Chris worked into the night. Anything of value in the downstairs storeroom he carried up into the house. He piled furniture and paintings in the center of the living room, emptied the refrigerator and freezer, and tied their doors open. He went outside below the deck and turned off the propane. He copied all his files on the computer onto Zip Disks, and placed the television, sound system, and computer by the front door for hauling. Finally, Chris packed some clothing, money, toiletries, the computer disks, some books and the video of She into a Navy Seal waterproof duffel. About midnight he finished and went out on the deck to check conditions. The sky was overcast except for occasional broken patches that let a full moon cast an eerie light over the scene. The intense wind blew straight from the east. Breakers rolled up on the beach but left a passable opening in front of the dunes. He climbed the stairs to the loft and collapsed into bed from exhaustion.

Jeffrey tried to hide from the irritating noise by putting his head under the pillow. A couple of bottles of wine with Lottie had sent him home to crumple into bed and into a catatonic state. The noise was pervasive. He turned on the nightstand light and looked at the clock. “Four o’clock!” He half shouted. “Hello, Goddammit!”
     “Jeffrey, it’s Rick.”
     Jeffrey tried to clear his head. “Rick?”
     “Rick out at the park. Listen, Jeffrey, we’ve got a problem.”
     Jeffrey finally realized it was the Ranger on night duty at the park. “Yeah, Rick, What’s up?”
     “They just called from FEMA and Alvin is roaring toward us. It’s gonna hit before noon.” Rick’s voice sputtered with excitement.
     “Wait a minute! I thought they said a day or two.” Jeffrey’s voice was incredulous.
     “It’s all changed. Something about the jet stream moving up to Oklahoma or some goddamn place, leavin’ a vacuum that could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. That son-of- bitch is comin’ at us over fifty miles an hour and accelerating.”
     “Jesus Christ! This can’t be happening.” Jeffrey leaped up from bed.
     “That’s not all. It’s pushed the tide up on the dunes already and water is pouring through the beach access cuts. They’re expecting the highway and causeway to go under water within the hour. They’re gonna have to evacuate Port Aransas with the ferries.”
     “Good God! When are you leaving the park?
     “You’re my last call, man, and I’m outta here. They want you in town helpin’ with the evacuation. They’re goin’ door to door. Traffic’ll be totally fucked up with everybody trying to get on the ferries.”
     “Listen, Rick, can you go down and pick up old Chris for me?” There was a pleading quality in his voice.
     “No way, man! I’m telling you, there’s two, three feet of water on the beach and it’s startin’ to backfill behind the dunes.”
     “Shit!” Jeffrey slammed down the phone, pulled on his uniform, and ran out to his Bronco.
     Lottie awoke to the pulsating wail of the Fire Department emergency siren. Before she could get out of bed someone was pounding on her front door. Wearing only the Spurs jersey, she opened the door to Jeffrey. “Jesus, what’s happening?.”
     “You need to get dressed and get over to the ferry. The hurricane’s going to hit sometime this morning.” Jeffrey stepped inside.
     “What do you mean? I thought we had a couple of days.” Her face contorted into dread. “What about Chris? Where is he?”
     Jeffrey looked at the floor and shuffled his boots as he spoke. “I’m afraid Chris is stranded. The tide came up fast and there’s no way to get to him by land. Actually, Highway 361 and JFK are probably closed by now.”
     She screamed. “What the fuck are you telling me? We can’t leave Chris out there!”   She pushed past him headed out the door. “I’ll go get him myself.”
     Jeffrey grabbed her and pinned her arms against her body. “LOTTIE! LISTEN TO ME! NOBODY CAN GET OUT THERE!” She struggled to get free. “LOTTIE! IT”S NO USE!”
     She went limp in his arms, and he sat her on the couch. “I knew this would happen.”
     “Nobody knew this would happen. But it has. So get dressed, and I’ll drive with you over to the ferry.” He pulled her to her feet again. “Buck up, kid, we’ve got a lot to do. After I get you to the ferry, I’m going to the Coast Guard station and get them to send the helicopter out for Chris. It’s all gonna work out fine.”
     Lottie said, “I can make it to the ferry by myself. You go on to the Coast Guard. Hurry.”
     He looked at her suspiciously. “Can I trust you? You’re not going to try something dumb are you?”
     “No. I promise. Just go!” She shoved him out the door.

The Coast Guard Station was pandemonium. Phones rang, radio messages blasted over an intercom, guardsmen hustled back and forth delivering messages and plotting locations on a large map. Several minutes passed before anyone acknowledged Jeffrey. “Sir, can we help you?” It was the small female Coastguardsman who normally worked the afternoon shift. She overcompensated for her size and gender with an abrupt manner.
     “I need to report a man stranded on the beach about ten miles south. His name is Christopher Maven, and he lives in that A-frame you can see from the highway out by Fish Pass Road.”
     “He’s stranded you say?”
     “Yes. I was going to pick him this morning, but the beach and highway are flooded. You’ll have to use the helicopter.” He glowered at her as he gestured in Chris’ direction.
     She pulled out a form. “Give me the name, location, and condition of the man.”
     “Jesus, we don’t have time to play twenty questions here. Just get the helicopter headed that way.” Jeffrey made circular movements simulating a helicopter.
     “Sir, nothing happens until this report is filed.” Her expression was adamant.
When the report was finished, Jeffrey demanded, “Now can the helicopter go get him?”
     “I’m afraid not, sir.” There was finality in her voice.
     “What the fuck does that mean?”
     “There’s no reason to use profanity, sir.” She frowned. “We currently are working four distress calls. The helicopter is out working a tanker that’s foundering in high seas eighty miles out. When it gets back and refuels we have two other distress calls in front of this one.”
     “God. I can’t believe this. Can’t they just swing by and get him on the way?”
     “I’m afraid not, sir.”
     “What about sending a cutter with a zodiac boat to pick him up?”
     “One cutter is on its way out to the tanker. The other is working a pleasure craft that was being ferried to Port Isabel and developed engine trouble and is shipping water.”
     “Let me talk to the Duty Officer.” Jeffrey demanded. The clock on the wall showed five-thirty and the anemometer registered winds gusting to fifty-five knots.
     “Sir, he’s quite busy right now.”
     “LOOK GODDAMN IT! I’M AN OFFICER OF THE LAW, AND I WANT TO SEE THE DUTY OFFICER!” Jeffrey’s voice roared through the room.
     A young man of slight build wearing lieutenants bars was bent over a table reading a map. He stood and frowned at Jeffrey, then strode across the room. “I’m Lieutenant Rogers.Can I help you?”
     “I’ve got a friend stranded on the beach about ten miles south. It’s flooded out there and I can’t get there by land. This lady is giving all the reasons why you can’t pick him up. I need you tell me all the reasons why you can.”
     “Where exactly is he?”
     “He lives in the A-frame just north of Fish Pass Road.
     “You mean the ‘Mystery Man’s’ place?” A smile flickered across his face.
     “That’s it exactly.” Jeffrey refrained from adding, “Asshole!”
     “We currently have all of our assets committed. Hopefully, the helicopter will be freed up before the storm hits, and we can get him. Call and tell him to put on a life vest, and we will be there as quickly as we can.” The lieutenant turned to go.
     “He doesn’t have a phone.”
Lieutenant Rogers stopped and turned. “We’ll do the best we can, but I’ll warn you, conditions could deteriorate below our flight minimums.” He went back to the table.
The sky roiled with black clouds releasing huge drops of rain that splattered over Jeffrey’s Bronco at first, then it bucketed down. The wipers barely kept up at top speed. Trash blew down the streets, and twice he swerved to miss garbage cans tumbling across his path. He pulled into Lottie’s drive and saw her car was gone. Thank, God, he thought. At least she’s headed for safety. He backed out, drove to the police station, and asked what was he needed to do. The Chief of Police told him to patrol the residential streets and knock on doors of those who had not vacated. No one would be allowed to stay. He put on a yellow slicker and returned to his car. Signs and trees swung wildly in the wind. The streets were flooding, and his tires threw up a curl of water as he drove toward the beach. Two blocks from the beach, he saw four people carrying suitcases and wading in water half way to their knees.
     He pulled beside them. “Hop in, I’ll take you to the ferry.” Once inside they explained their car had stalled, so they had struck out on foot. Traffic now jammed the streets and the queue for the ferry snaked through Roberts Point Park then stretched to Alister Street. Jeffrey doubled back to Cutoff Road and drove the left-hand lane with his red lights blinking. He dropped them as close to the ferry landing as he could, and returned to his patrol. It was not even seven a.m. and the wind was so vicious it rocked his car. The rain had flooded the streets curb deep, and as he turned onto Alister Street he slammed on the brakes to avoid being hit by two Jet Skis skimming over the water. The riders had sports bags strapped to the Jet Skis. They roared down the left lane past the ferry cue. A police car turned from a side street into their lane forcing a James Bond maneuver of jumping the corner curb and catapulting into the side street where the two roared off in the direction of the ferry, much to the chagrin of the cop.
     Jeffrey knew every ferry was pressed into service, and they did not load return passengers. They plied the quarter mile roundtrip across the channel at full throttle. Policemen positioned along the route kept the evacuees calm while urging them to keep moving. They directed side street traffic into the ferry line at intervals. The process was orderly enough to raise hope the evacuation might succeed.
     The police, sheriff, constable, and state law enforcement cars patrolling the streets started on the beach and south sides of town, and in cattle-herding fashion worked their way toward the ferry, rousting out those mistakenly thinking they were “going to ride it out.” These hard cases became more cooperative as the morning progressed and the wind velocity, rain, and flooding increased. Jeffrey had just put a family of four into their car after offering to cite them for recklessly endangering their children, when his cell phone rang.
     “Where are you, Lottie?”
     “I just got off the ferry. What about Chris?” Lottie’s voice was garbled with static.
     “The Coast Guard will send out a helicopter as soon as they can..” There wasn’t much conviction in Jeffrey’s voice.
     “Jeffrey, what are you telling me? You telling me they may not get out there?” Lottie sounded panicked.
     “Lottie, settle down. Anything that can be done is being done. We just have to keep the faith.”
     “When will you know if they have him?”
     “I’mgoing over there when we finish the evacuation. I’ll call you.”
     “God, this is horrible.” She screamed.

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Chapter 32

Bill Stephens — Wed, 04 Jul 2007 04:24:30 +0000

May in Port Aransas was the usual three weeks of incessant wind that kept any sane fisherman in port. The southeasterly wind had blown all the clouds somewhere north of Kansas, and the blue sky was so intense, it made eyes water. The palm fronds on The Backyard palapa bar voiced their restlessness in the wind, and the truly hardy barstool sitters’ chinstraps were all that held their hats in place.

Wiley Coots had not taken anyone fishing for over three weeks, opting instead to sleep late and to arrive at The Backyard as the clock struck noon. “This is a nice service you’ve started here, Lottie.” He held his beer mug up.

“What’s that, Wiley?” Lottie looked up from cutting drink garnishes.

“Normally, a man has to blow the head off his beer his own self.”

“Wiley, it makes me feel really good when somebody like yourself appreciates all the little things we do for our customers here.” She returned to her citrus slicing and didn’t notice Jeffrey walking through the entrance from the parking lot.

“To what do we owe this honor, Jeffrey?” Wiley held his mug up as a toast.

“Hey, Wiley. Hi, Lottie, got a beer left?” Jeffrey slumped onto a bar stool and cradled his head in his hands.

“Jeffrey, you look lower than whale shit.” Wiley was exercising his fish guides’ extrasensory communication skills.

Lottie brought a beer and sat it in front of Jeffrey. “Yeah, Jeffrey, what’s up?”

“What we’ve got here’s the makin’s of a truly shitty day.” Jeffrey raised the beer and took a long pull on it.

“Can’t say’s I’d argue that.” Wiley nodded affirmation.

“I got called in for a FEMA meeting this afternoon on my day off. I figure it’ll take me at least three beers to make it through that.”

“What do the Federal Emergency boys have up their sleeve?” Wiley glanced at Lottie.

“Something about Hurricane Alvin. They’re gettin’ all law enforcement, public works, utility, highway department and emergency people together for a planning meeting just in case Alvin visits Mustang Island.” Jeffrey drained his beer bottle and held up his finger for another. Lottie rolled the beer in a napkin, popped the top, and brought it to Jeffrey. “And just to make the day more thrillin’, a guy brought this to me.” He took out a fat envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to Lottie.

Lottie opened the flap and took out the papers inside. “Jesus, Jeffrey, Connie’s filed divorce papers on you.”

“Isn’t that a bitch?” Jeffrey returned his head back to his hands.

“Jeffrey, I don’t want to make light of this, but surely this can’t be too big a surprise.” Lottie slid the papers into the envelope and handed it back to Jeffrey.

“She’s been gone a long time up in San Antonio, that’s for sure. The last time I went up there to try to get her to come home, she didn’t have much to say to me.” He shrugged and pulled on his beer again.

Lottie reached across the bar and patted his hand. “I’m really sorry, Jeffrey, it’s a bummer for you, I know.”

“Maybe another beer would make it better.” A wan smile tickled the corners of his mouth.

Wiley pointed toward the television across the bar. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy watching As the World Fornicates, but maybe we ought to switch over to The Weather Channel and check out this Alvin fellow.”

Tropical Storm Watch came on, and John Kope, the Weather Channel’s elderly hurricane expert, wasted no time getting into his Hurricane Alvin spiel. He pointed to the satellite map of the Gulf of Mexico. “This huge swirling cloud is Hurricane Alvin, located about five hundred miles off the Texas coast. It’s just been upgraded from a tropical storm to a Category One Hurricane. Alvin is the earliest hurricane to threaten the Texas Coast since 1871 when two consecutive hurricanes hit Texas, one on June 2^nd and the other on June 9^th. Record high tides inundated Port Aransas, Texas in those storms.”

The satellite map expanded to include the whole Atlantic Ocean between the Caribbean and North Africa. Kope pointed to clouds off the coast of Africa. “Since the El Nino Effect ceased, these clouds continue building all the way across the Atlantic. This year’s exceptionally warm Caribbean water temperature from the mild winter provides the fuel to build these storms into early hurricanes. Alvin is currently stationary, which makes it hard to track, but I predict its landfall to be between Brownsville and Houston, Texas. The longer it hangs out there, the stronger it will be on landfall.” Wiley looked at the other bar bibbers. “Boys, we sure enough got a cloud on our horizon.”

“Guess I’d better get over to that meeting.” Jeffrey climbed off the bar stool and paid his tab.

“Check back and let me know what they say.” Lottie handed Jeffrey his change.

After the meeting at the Convention Center, Jeffrey felt uneasy as he drove back to The Backyard. He was more keenly aware of the houses and buildings that were Port Aransas. You never know what you have until you might lose it, he thought. The little town had not been hurricane tested for over twenty years, but that string of good luck might end soon according to FEMA.

Jeffery parked his Bronco and walked into The Backyard. The regulars were uncommonly interested in the TV and barely acknowledged his return. Lottie had a beer waiting for him when he sat down at the bar.

“So what’s the big plan?” She pointed to the TV.

Jeffrey took a long draught on his beer. “Total evacuation. If Alvin heads our direction they want every living thing off this island. People, dogs, cats. If they could, I think they’d round up the coyotes and haul them off. All electricity, gas, and water shut off. Coast Guard and law enforcement patrols against looters until just before landfall, then a pullback to Corpus.”

“That total evacuation thing is a good idea,” Wiley said, “but they’re gonna have a hard time gettin’ ol’ Fuck-Em-All-Ted off this island.”

“Has he ever been off the island?” Lottie posed the question. Wiley thought for a minute. “I reckon the beard that hangs down below his crotch was just a five-o’clock-shadow the last time he went to the mainland.” “Well, ol’ Ted isn’t our only problem.” Jeffrey looked at Lottie. Lottie nodded knowingly. “You’re right about that.”
The conversation and the meeting about Alvin left Jeffrey feeling he should discuss impending hurricane Chris. Chris seldom watched television news.

It was more ritual than necessity, but once or twice a month Jeffrey checked general delivery for Chris’ mail when he went to the post office. A letter postmarked “Sausalito, CA” was the last mail for Chris, almost a year ago. Jeffrey emptied his own post office box and asked the counter lady to check general delivery for Christopher Maven. There was a hand-written note postmarked “New York, NY.”

Driving through town Jeffery saw no signs of preparation for a hurricane. The twenty-year hiatus had produced a population with little hurricane savvy. About halfway to Fish Pass Road, three men on horseback were just completing the roundup of the Santa Gertrudus cattle that normally grazed in the fields between the highway and the bay. Jeffrey stopped next to the loading pen corral and one of the men loped up to the truck showing no sense of urgency. He told Jeffery that a truck would be there tomorrow to load the cattle and haul them inland just in case the hurricane landed.

The surf, turbid and angry, broke on the beach in three-to-four foot swells driven by the May winds. At the dune bridge, Jeffrey saw what looked like Chris, sitting in the sand farther up the beach. He took a chance and drove up to the lone figure.

Chris sat with his arms around his knees just at the edge of the surf’s rollout on the beach. He wore only a pair of blue jean cutoffs. His hair was tousled, and he was damp from the wind-driven spray of the breakers. Jeffrey leaned out the window. “Hey, pardoner, how about a lift?”

Chris absently looked in Jeffrey’s direction smiling. “Actually, I’m pretty busy here.”

“I can see that.” Jeffrey got out of the car and stood beside Chris. “A fellow can get more than a little damp here.”

“I reckon that’s true.” Chris rose. “Maybe we ought to go inside and have a toddy.”

They were seated at the dining table, Jeffrey with a beer and Chris with a scotch, before Jeffrey broached the subject. “We have a problem we may have to deal with in the next few days.”

“The hurricane?” Chris looked at Jeffrey as he stirred his scotch with his finger.

“You know about it?”

“I happened to see something about it last night as I was clicking through the channels.” Chris took a sip of his drink.

“If it heads this way, we’re going to evacuate the island. We have to make plans.” Jeffrey was hoping for the right response.

“I was thinking about it out there.” Chris motioned toward the beach with his glass. “I guess they don’t know where it’s headed yet.”

“That’s true. The son-of-a-bitch just sits out there gettin’ meaner by the hour. Why don’t I come by here after work tomorrow and let’s board this place up? We can load some stuff and move you in with Lottie, just in case the bastard heads this way. You can leave with Lottie if we have to evacuate. I’ll have to stay until just before landfall.”

“I appreciate it, but that’s too much trouble for you guys, especially if it lands in Houston or Mexico. I’ll have to commune with the waters some more before I know what to do.” Chris had a vacant stare as he looked out at the water.

Chris followed Jeffrey out to the deck after they finished their drinks, and Jeffrey was already walking over the dune bridge when he stopped and returned to Chris. He pulled Chris’ letter out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him. “I almost forgot about this.”

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Chapter 31

Bill Stephens — Thu, 28 Jun 2007 02:56:31 +0000

Leah had made flawless arrangements for the trip to Moscow, but the first steps out of the terminal into Russian winter were a harbinger of things to come. People wore their breath frozen into their mustaches and scarves. A howling snowstorm blotted out the sun, leaving only a dim glow in the sky. Leah, making the best of it, said, “Now when do we get these fur coats, boss lady?”

Whether real or imagined, Trish felt Meecham and Ivor lacked confidence in her. Maybe it came from three weeks delay before she arrived and their ensuing extra week’s exposure to the brutal Moscow winter. In her mind it was born of their having to work with a substitute actor, and it produced a hypercritical environment that failed to build her self-assurance.

They were in week four after her arrival, with Leah, in Russia. The first week they rehearsed, did run-throughs, held orientation and dialogue coaching in Moscow, then moved to Saint Petersburg. The train station sequences, including close-ups, were finished in week two. The ballroom scenes together with the introductory scenes of Vronsky, Levin and Kitty also were in the can. Trish contacted a bad case of bronchitis in week three, much to the consternation of Meecham and Ivor. It threatened to go into pneumonia, so she had spent the week in her suite, with Leah nursing her back to health. A middle-aged doctor, whom Leah immediately nicknamed Zhivago because neither of them could pronounce his name, visited Trish daily taking vital signs, administering medication, and topically treating her sinuses, throat and cough. Toward the end of the week both Meecham and Ivor dropped in to assess her recovery. While there, they decided that Trish’s pallor, sinus problems, and occasional cough might lend realism to Anna’s birthing and near-death scene. As Ivor put it, “She won’t even need makeup.”

This scene would be her first entry into pure drama, all the previous scenes having some element of action in them. She cast a nervous eye toward Leah when she learned the scene was eminent. Leah gave her reassuring thumbs up, but was very much concerned about the emotional freefall she perceived in Trish.

Trish had carried as much emotional baggage as Gucci luggage on the flight to Moscow. The hurt and disillusionment of her separation from Chris were unrelenting. She desperately had hoped the time with her parents would bring relief, but each day she saw her mother drift farther from reality. Her dad was his usual pillar of support and propped up her sagging self-esteem as best he could. She basked in his overt and unflinching love. But she knew her mom’s condition had worsened to the point of requiring full time care. Trish’s short sabbatical was consumed with medical counseling and agonizing over the best arrangements to make for her mom. They finally gave in to the doctor’s advice and placed her in a home. That guilt, compounded with her guilt for leaving her parents to make another movie, weighed on her like a mantle of lead that shielded her emotions from the camera.

The obvious lack of confidence Meecham and Ivor showed toward Trish gnawed at the self-confidence any actor requires to function well. Take after take piled up before Ivor was satisfied with a scene. The almost perennial darkness and mind-numbing cold of Russian winter bored into her psyche. Add the discomfort of her sickness and she was beginning to think it all too much.Meecham and Ivor had partnered with Len Film Productions of Saint Petersburg for technical and production support. Len’s set-dressing staff moved around the suite, purposefully renovating the parlor into a grand bedroom. Next came the lighting, sound, and camera crews. In the adjacent bedroom, Trish, Leah, and the dialogue coach rehearsed Trish’s lines endlessly. Leah could see the hesitancy and lack of confidence in her recitations at first. But over time she marveled at the transformation that took place. The lines no longer were Anna’s. They became Trish’s own lament.The bedside scene with Vronsky, and the scene with Anna’s husband, Alexy Alexandrovitch Karenin, were filmed and complete. Ivor had finished framing the camera for the last scene and moved to the bedside where Trish lay looking like death itself. “Remember, you are in a delirium from puerperal fever, from which only one in a hundred recover.” He patted her arm and moved behind the camera. “Roll camera.”

The clapper-loader held the scene marker in front of the camera and snapped it. “Scene 3, Take 1, Mark!”

“Action!” Ivor gestured toward Trish.

INT: ANNA’S BEDROOM – MEDIUM LIGHT

CAMERA: WIDE – HIGH

ANNA, pale, feverish, hair tousled, sitting upright near the right side of the bed. Bedclothes are in disarray. Vronsky, head in hands, sits in a chair against the wall on the right side of the bed. ALEXY, sobbing kneels beside the bed with his head on Anna’s arm. DOCTOR and MIDWIFE stand on the opposite side of the bed watching Anna intently.

CAMERA: TIGHT ON ANNA AND ALEXY

ANNA

That is he. I knew him! Now, forgive me, everyone, forgive me! . . .

(shivers holding herself)

They’ve come again; why don’t they go away? . . .

(tries to undress herself)

Oh, take these cloaks off me!

DOCTOR

Anna, you must rest.

(Lays Anna back on pillow and pulls up covers)

ANNA

Remember one thing, that I needed nothing but forgiveness,

and I want nothing more. . . .Why doesn’t he come?

(looks toward the door then Vronsky)

Do come, do come! Give him your hand.

VRONSKY

(moves to the side of bed. Starts to speak, but seeing Anna’s condition hides his face again)

ANNA

Uncover your face – look at him! He’s a saint(gestures toward Alexy)

Oh! Uncover your face, do uncover it! Alexy Alaxandrovitch,

Do uncover his face! I want to see him.

ALEXY

(Takes Vronsky’s hands and removes them from his face revealing

Vronsky’s agony)

ANNA

(Takes Alexy’s hand and gives it to Vronsky)
Give him your hand. Forgive him. . . .

Thank God, thank God! Now everything is ready.

(moves her legs under the cover)

Only to stretch my legs a little. There, that’s capital.

CAMERA – TIGHT ON ANNA PANNING TO MIDWIFE AND BACK

ANNA

(squints and points at the violet ribbons on MIDWIFE’s cap)

Look! How badly these flowers are done – not a bit like a violet.

(winces in pain)

My God, my God! When will it end? Give me some morphine!

Doctor, give me some morphine! Oh, my God, my God!

The room was silent. Ivor looked at Meecham. Meecham looked at Ivor. “CUT AND PRINT!” Everyone in the room, including Meecham and Ivor, leaped to their feet cheering

Leah leaped the highest, “Yes! I knew it!”

Sailboat shopping became one of Rod’s favorite pastimes as the agent’s fees from Anna Karenina piled up. He thought he might give himself a nice Christmas present. Something about forty-five feet long. A phone call from Leah in Saint Petersburg came in while he was standing below deck of a Southerly 135, an impressive sloop moored in Marina del Rey and offered for a bargain price by a Hollywood notable no longer so notable. He climbed out of the teakwood and leather cabin to the deck for better reception on his cell phone.

“Merry Christmas, Leah.”

“Merry fucking Christmas to you too, Rod.” Leah’s irritation crackled over the phone.

“We don’t sound happy today, do we, Leah?”

“We just got word that we are going to shoot straight through Christmas to get back on schedule. So we get no reprieve from this miserable goddamn weather over here.”

Rod looked around at the cloudless sky and the seagulls gliding on a warm breeze through the forest of white sailing masts moored in the harbor. “Yeah, it’s pretty miserable here too.”

“Poor Rod. Did the sun go behind a cloud?”

“Anyway, how’s our girl?” He tried to sound upbeat.

“She’s had a very difficult time over here. But I’ve got to hand it to her. She’s making believers out of the Meecham and Ivor bunch. They treated her like shit at first, but they’ve really come around.”

“I knew she could do it!”

“Listen, I need your help?”

“Your wish is my command.”

“Since Trish can’t be with her parents for Christmas. I’ve ordered some presents from Bloomingdale’s for them. But I need you to follow up and make sure they get delivered. Can you help us?”

“Consider it done! Actually, I am going to New York for the holidays myself, and I will deliver them personally.” Pride welled in his voice over the idea. He knew it would be a great opportunity to suck up to her parents.

“Really? You’d do that? I take back every mean thing I’ve ever said about you, Rod.”

“Tell Trish I’ll give them both a big hug for her.” Rod was almost gleeful. “When do you think you guys will be back?”

“We’re picking up some weather delays. I hate to think about it, but it looks like another month.”

“It’s drinks for the house when you get back.”

“No, it’s hot tub for a month when I get back.” Leah chortled.

“Listen, when the trade heard Trish was doing a Meecham and Ivor movie, offers began pouring in for some really good scripts.”

“Rod, I’m going to hang up on that happy thought.” The line went dead.

Rod hung up and dialed Angie in Corpus Christi. “Hey, girl, Rod here. How have you been. . . . Great! I’ve been working on some things for you out here. . . . Right. Listen, how would you like to meet me in New York for Christmas? There are some important people you need to meet. Wonderful! I’ll make the arrangements and get back to you.” He hung up again, and dialed his office. “I need to make some travel plans.”

It was not a triumphant return, but Trish brought home the sure knowledge of having accomplished something far better than she had ever done before. In her exit interview, Meecham and Ivor never apologized for their early shabby treatment of her, but fairly gushed about the quality of her work. “There is the smell of Academy Awards in the air,” Ivor had said, actually sniffing the air around him. They paid her the ultimate compliment: they wanted to work with her again.

Meecham, who also had the Academy Award feeling, wanted to make sure Trish was on board for the promotional push and run up to the Awards in February next year. He planned a forced march to complete the post-production by June and distribution by July.

She assured them there would be no new movies while she recovered from the emotional catharsis of making Anna, so there would be time available for the promotion. They agreed to meet with Rod and Leah at their New York offices to plot out the prerelease publicity tour that would build to a crescendo before a World Premier in Moscow the last week of June. The advertising campaign would run up to the U.S. premier in Los Angeles, during the second week of July.

“The early movie release will allow DVD sales for Christmas,” Meecham explained. “DVD’s will be included in the promotional release to Academy members. We’ll follow this with another round of publicity interviews just before Academy voting.”
Winter blanketed New York, but compared to Moscow it was like spring. Living with her dad let spring back into Trish’s spirit also. A warning from Leah about Rod’s movie plans had Trish wary of incoming phone calls. She never returned Rod’s calls. She didn’t want to address the issue at this time.

Her dad let her sleep late and always had her breakfast ready when she awakened. Twice a week since she had arrived three weeks ago, he had prepared his specialty and her favorite breakfast since childhood, French toast. This morning she was on her fourth slice. “You’ve still got it, Dad. You’ve made French toast an art form.”

“That kind of talk will get you two more pieces.” He laughed as he flipped the two slices on the griddle. “The secret is simple. Use buttermilk and add vanilla and brown sugar. Beat in the egg yolks and fold in the beaten egg whites. Of course using pure maple syrup doesn’t hurt either.”

“Hurt is the operative word. What we’re doing here is hurting my figure.” She reached for her fifth slice.

“You looked emaciated when you first got back. Didn’t those communists feed you over there?” He served her the last piece.

“Russia’s not noted for its food, that’s for sure.”

“You’re looking a little better now. At first I was worried you were sick.” He sat down across the table from her.

“Thanks for those encouraging words on my looks.” She grinned at him.

“Forget how you look. How are you?” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Careful there, you might squeeze out some tears.” Her eyes glistened.

“That bad?”

“I really don’t understand it. It’s like an emotional runaway horse that I can’t rein in. Tears come real easy these days, and most of the time I don’t even know why.”

“Is it the ‘Mystery Man’ down in Texas?”

“There you go with the ‘Mystery Man’ thing again. His name is Chris, and yes, he’s part of it. But there are a lot more issues. I just feel so sad and helpless around mom. Filming Anna Karenina was like going through an emotional wringer. And when I think about the rest of my life, I get terrified. Things are really confusing right now.” She patted her eyes with her napkin

“A few more French toast breakfasts like this one, and you’ll get through this depression thing.” He chuckled.

“You’re cheaper than a shrink, that’s for sure. And I get breakfast thrown in for good measure.” She got up and came around the table to hug him. “Anyway, it’s a beautiful day. Let’s take mom for a walk.”

*Dialogue from Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy, Trans. Constance Garnett New York: Barnes & Noble Classics: 2003

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Chapter 30

Bill Stephens — Tue, 19 Jun 2007 20:38:58 +0000

Chris stopped at the Circle K and inflated the tires on the bike, and then he went inside to buy a cup of coffee. The counterman recognized him from the previous morning. “You find Lottie’s place?”
     “Yeah, I found it, thanks.”
     “That Lottie’s quite a lady, right?”
     Chris thought for a moment. “Yes, she certainly is.”

The breeze had turned from the south and small cumulus clouds floated past like lumps of divinity candy. Low swells, pushed by the wind, rolled onto the beach. Chris stopped at the end of the Fish Pass Road pavement, dismounted, and rolled his bike through the loose sand onto the hard sand at the water’s edge. He stood for a moment looking in both directions. The coast is clear, he thought, and began peddling toward his beach house.
     As he approached the dune bridge, a car with Minnesota tags pulled abreast of him and the driver asked in a Norwegian accent if this was Trish Lowe’s house. Chris stopped peddling, looked at the driver, and asked, “Who’s Trish Lowe?” The driver started to answer, thought better of it, and drove on, rolling up his window.
     Chris removed the “No Trespassing” sign from the front door and to nailed it at the end of the dune bridge. Cars passed on the beach more frequently than normal for this time of year, but a crowd never formed. Mostly they slowed to a crawl as they passed, uncertain what to do now they were there, and then accelerated down the beach seemingly disappointed by their discovery.
     He struggled with restlessness. Doors, ever so slightly pried open by Trish, allowed slivers of light into years of darkness. With the light, a pallor of hope dawned that now dimmed again into emptiness.
     He finally grabbed the bottle of Don Sergio and a glass and sat at his desk. Two shots later he pulled out his notebook and began writing furiously. Crumpled pages piled around the wastebasket as the last of the tequila drained from the bottle. Hours had passed, and the page in front of him still was blank. “Fuck!” he shouted to the empty room, leaped up, and walked unsteadily toward the front door.
     Chris wandered the beach with no purpose or concept of time. He was almost to the state park before he turned back north and trudged home. Thoughts ricocheted through his head, trying to link up into cohesive ideas. Poetry was an emotional release in the past, more like therapy than creative expression. His muses – guilt, anguish, loneliness, despair – occasionally forced pen to paper for a catharsis. This was different. It was compelling – irresistible. He had something to say, and he must get it right.
     The early morning, the bike ride, and the long walk had him tired and finally relaxed enough for a nap. He approached the dune bridge thinking only of slipping between the cool sheets in the loft, when a rise in the sand left by the morning’s receding tide caught his eye. He had missed it earlier. The sand on all sides of the small mound was trowelled smooth by last night’s tide, leaving it like a tiny rampart above a broad plane. He went to examine it more closely. Written on the mound were the words:
                                          “Never Lose Hope”

                                                   ***
Television weathermen were fond of calling it the mildest winter on record for the Texas coast. The temperature never dipped below freezing, and, except for a few short stints in the forties, it hung around seventy-five degrees during the day. The water temperature remained warm enough for swimming even in February. The downside of a winter like this for Chris was more beach traffic. Word had spread among beach buffs that good times were to be had, but the interest caused by the National Investigator article had died out months before, leaving Chris to his monastic existence.
     During those months, Chris maintained a structured life. He salved anxiety, loneliness, or memories with the healing balm of this structure. Structure produced numbness. He needed numbness. Each morning he rose shortly after sunrise and went for a beach walk and an extended swim. Albert Gaines, the Coast Guard helicopter pilot who flew the early morning beach patrol, circled him to make sure he was not in distress the first few times he saw Chris swimming out in the surf with no one else in sight. The helicopter did a wigwag each day after that, and Chris waggled his arm to send it on its way.
     The regular exercise paid dividends physically and mentally. He felt better than at anytime in recent history. His dream still visited at night, but not as regularly. Bouts with depression spaced out over weeks rather than days.
     He worked regularly on a collection of poems entitled “Horizons Passed.” After his swim, he showered, dressed, and prepared a nourishing breakfast including one shot of Don Sergio, “for the spirit.” The rest of the morning and usually into the afternoon, he spent at his desk. Writing was different and more difficult than in the past. Previous random expression gave way to structured thought, crafted around ideas. It was slow, and always left uneasiness that saw him scratching in the sand regularly. The partition between meaningful personal investment and simple indulgence in writing was always blurred, and he often strayed over the line. He had asked Jeffrey four times, over as many months, to bring him more writing paper and notebooks.
     Wednesday and Sunday were reserved for recreation – fishing , reading, or fishing and reading. Monday and Tuesday were Jeffrey’s days off from Park Ranger duties, and he brought Chris’ weekly provisions and supplies on one day or the other and often stayed for a visit, much to Chris’ approval.
     Lottie’s visits were not at all structured. Several times a month, she would arrive at night after closing The Backyard, as had been her custom in the past. But she also showed up occasionally on recreation days. They enjoyed either lunch or dinner together, and she often sunbathed while he fished. Theirs was a entente born of need. Lottie hated the limited relationship but was resigned to it. She unwittingly mentioned, on one occasion, Trish’s visit to her bar. Chris’ hostile reaction and the ensuing estrangement left no doubt in Lottie’s mind about Chris’ loving feelings for Trish.
     The rest of the time he worked on his poetry and on his new interest, painting. Several months before, on a particularly bad poetry day, when nothing satisfied his obsession about “horizons,” he’d stomped down into the storage room below the house and rummaged around in the closet until he resurrected a paint box and easel. “By God, I’ll paint a horizon if I can’t describe one.” There was one old canvas mildewed from age and dampness left he’d brought when he first arrived at Osborn’s. He cleaned it with some of the turpentine that had not evaporated since he last tried painting then. He set up the easel on the deck and opened the paint box. The paint tubes were dry to crusty, and the paints needed to be reconstituted with turpentine.
     Shrimp boats trolled along a horizon that was trimmed in purple-tinged cloudbanks. Flocks of white pelicans skimmed over whitecaps that became translucent as they broke on the beach. Dune oats and brilliant yellow sea daises cast medium shadows from the mid-afternoon sunlight that bleached the sand to a brilliant white.
       He was totally absorbed from the time he sketched the horizon line. The smell of the paints, the feel of the brushes, and the canvas slowly blooming with color and life captivated him. This first few paintings were rough but gave him a reason to try again. On Jeffrey’s next visit Chris had a list of art supplies for him to purchase in Corpus. Lottie knew her exile was over when he sent word by Jeffrey asking if she would like to pose for a painting. He wanted to paint seascapes with a female figure in them.
     Paintings began piling up after four months. Though Lottie had misgivings, she suggested selling some paintings in an art gallery. Chris refused at first, but eventually relented, immediately excluded two seascapes with Lottie posing nude, and finally selected four to exhibit. Lottie offered them to Gary’s Gallery in Port Aransas, and he accepted them immediately. When he inquired about the artist who only initialed the paintings “MC,” she explained the artist wanted to remain anonymous. “Highly irregular,” Gary explained. “Buyers want to know about the artist.”
     “Then you’ll have to make up a story,” she repliedIn March, Chris gave Jeffrey a large, thick envelope addressed to Melvin Ortz, Ortz Literary Agency in New York. Jeffrey bounced it in his hand. “I brought you about twenty five pounds of paper, and this weighs only a couple. Where’s the rest?”
     “Somewhere under the sand or in the wastebasket.”In the weeks since completing “Horizons Passed,” the loss of purpose sent Chris spiraling again into his lethargy and depression. He saw his book as a plea for redemption, but no redemption came. Instead the void of loss returned as the structure in his life crumbled, and his demons returned. Painting no longer interested him, even though his paintings sold. He drank too much and slept most of the day. Beach walks were purposeless rambles on those sporadic occasions he ventured out. Sleep did not relieve him. The ghostly apparition regularly wrenched him awake, gasping for breath in a claustrophobic panic, sending him fleeing to the beach for respite. Often, hours passed before he could return to the house.
     Albert Gaines asked Jeffrey one evening at The Backyard if Chris was all right; he’d not seen him lately on the beach patrol flights.
     “Chris is really in the shits.” Jeffrey pulled on his beer thoughtfully.
     “He’s sick?” Albert inquired.
     “Not so much physically.” Jeffrey answered more to Lottie, who was seated between them, than to Albert. “It’s like writing that book of poetry kept him together. Kept his mind occupied. Now he just sits or sleeps.”
     “It’s really bad this time, I know. He’s gone past anything I can even understand, much less help him with. He needs to see a doctor, somebody who can do something.” Lottie was deeply concerned. She’d helped Chris through several self-destructive periods over the years, but this one was different. It scared her.

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Chapter 29

Bill Stephens — Thu, 14 Jun 2007 04:15:33 +0000

One by one, as the movie production trucks were loaded, they rumbled off toward Fish Pass Road. The bulldozer had to tow two of the larger trucks stuck in the sand. The portable kitchen left almost immediately after serving lunch. The dressing trailers left with the limos. As each truck disappeared, so did some of the crowd, feeling a little vacant as the excitement ebbed. Those lured to the beach in the hope of a glimpse of the Mystery Man and Trish Lowe had soon blended with the crowd gathered solely to watch movie making. As the movie company faded from the beach, so did the the gawkers’ original purpose for coming. The obviously empty beach house held no interest. The remaining contingent of spectators left with the last truck.
The vehicle ruts in the sand dissolved under the advancing tide, and the beach returned to its timeless, beautiful sameness. A patchwork of cumulus scudded along on a southerly breeze that pushed up small that swells vanished without a sound. Hollywood had vanished and all was quiet.
A limo nosed onto the beach from Fish Pass Road. Probing at first, it finally turned north and accelerated. A short distance from Chris’ dune bridge it stopped. Trish stepped out barefooted and walked to the bridge. Her movements were slow and thoughtful as she walked over the dunes to the deck, where she leaned with her back to the railing as if waiting for an invitation. Retracing her steps to the beach, she walked to the water and let the calm surf play over her feet as she gazed at the horizon. She walked for a while at the edge. A driftwood stick washed up at her feet, and she picked it up. Walking back toward the house, she studied the sand. Near the end of the dune bridge she stopped at a rise and wrote with the stick, then stood, head bowed, for a time, considering her inscription. She dropped her stick, wiped her eyes, and ran back to the limo.

Movie wrap parties traditionally serve as pressure release valves. All of the intensity, stress, anxiety, personal conflicts, egomania, and bone-crushing hard work are released into alcohol-laced mayhem. This one would be no different, Leah thought. She was in the final stages of dressing for the party when her room phone rang. Thinking it might be Trish, she answered on a cheery note.
     “We need to talk.” It was Rod instead.
     “This sounds like the amazing, vanishing Rod Blitzer.”
     “Listen, Leah. Trish thinks I had something to do with the National Investigator article. She called me ‘a worthless piece of shit’.”
     “That’s how I would put it.”
     “Leah, I had nothing whatsoever to do with it. I was working on getting this guy St. John set up for an interview with Trish. You know, for a little pre-publicity, and he ups and does this article. Can we at least sit down and talk about it?”
     Leah pictured Rod’s pleading gestures on the other end of the phone. She had seen his act before. “You need to talk to Trish. She’s very upset and hurt by this whole thing. You may have screwed the pooch on this one, Babe.”
     “Come on Leah, you gotta smooth this thing out so I can talk to her.”
     Leah thought for a minute the gestured down stairs. “Meet me in the hotel bar in thirty minutes.”
     “Actually, I’m calling from the hotel bar.”
     “You bastard. You knew I would give in.” Leah slammed down the receiver and stalked out of her room.
     Rod stood and waved Leah to his booth near the back. He looked her over and said, “Hey, you really clean up nice, kid. Thanks for coming.” He was in his solicitous mode.
     She slid in across from him holding her distance “So what’s this wonderful thing we have to talk about?”
     “What’s happening between Trish and her lover boy?”
Leah could feel the intensity of Rod’s eyes. “Rod, you know I don’t gossip about Trish.”
     “It’s important, Leah. If she’s having trouble with him, she’ll blame me. I need to know what’s happening before I talk to her.”
     Leah looked silently at him for a while. “I’ll tell you this: I was surprised at how much she cares about this guy. It’s definitely not a fling. According to Pher and Gwen, she’s got it bad. And as the song goes, ‘that ain’t good’.”
     “Bad, huh?”
     “Bad!” She nodded for emphasis.
     Rod knew he was in more trouble than he thought, and he hesitated before responding. “What about him? It didn’t seem like he’s on board for the long haul when she talked to us. What does he say about all this?”
     “Hard to say, but from what I saw this morning, he may have hit the road.” Leah shrugged.
     Rod felt a flutter of excitement. “Has she said anything more about doing Anna Karenina?”
     “I’m going to forget you asked that, Rod.” Leah slid out of the booth and walked away.

Frivolity reigned in the Remington Room. Cast always arrived after crew at a wrap party so they could make an entrance. The knowledge they were no longer working together on the film leveled the guests to the same plebeian plane, which many of those anointed with stardom found disagreeable. Trish Lowe was not one of those. She still wore her sun dress as she approached the Remington Room. She paused before her entry. Suck it up, kid, she thought. The show must go on. She pasted a big smile on her face and waded into the room. Her entrance was greeted with a ruffle of applause, animal grunts, and cheers. She raised her arms in a victory gesture as she beamed at the guests and walked through the room, greeting everyone there by name as she clasped their hands and hugged them in celebration.
     The low lit room sparkled with a Mardi Gras theme. Food service stations positioned around the room offered Creole dishes. Two beverage bars drew crowds on opposite ends of the room. The Locomotions held forth on the bandstand, and a handful of cast and crew gyrated on the dance floor. The attendees had segregated themselves by craft, as often happened at these functions.
     Trish walked directly to the Teamster contingent and began hugging each and thanking them individually for their effort on the picture. She moved to the camera/sound tables and then the stunt people. Wardrobe, property, and makeup had positioned themselves near the tables where Danielle, the assistant directors, and the production staff were seated. She sat for a minute with Phermona, Gwen, Rodney, and Gus. “So these are the two wild and crazy guys I’ve heard so much about.” She held out her hand to them.
     “This is our chaperone, Miss Trish Lowe. She makes sure Gwen and I are not unduly influenced by the likes of you two.” Phermona flipped a back-handed gesture at the men
     “I think maybe Miss Lowe should be chaperoning Gus and me, where you two are concerned.” Rodney made a cross of his two index fingers to ward off Phermona and Gwen.
     “Listen, why don’t you guys go get some drinks?” Gwen stared at them and nodded in the direction of the bar. “I’m guessing Trish will have a shot of tequila.”
     “Actually, a shot of tequila might help my attitude,” she said and nodded a ‘thank you’ at the two.
     As soon as the guys departed, Phermona leaned close to Trish and asked, “Girl, what are you doing here? I thought you’d be rattling the rafters in that beach house right now.”
     Trish looked at the floor before she answered. “I’m afraid things didn’t work out the way I wanted.”
     “Is this guy nuts, or what?” Gwen was flabbergasted.
     “I didn’t get to talk to him. His girlfriend told me a lot of things that make it all different.” She held up her hands to close the discussion. “Anyway, I’m putting one foot in front of the other and keeping on going.” She shook her head sadly.
     They stood; Trish hugged them and moved on to Danielle’s table, where Leah was seated.
     Leah watched Trish with Phermona and Gwen, trying to get a reading on what was happening, and she rose to greet Trish. “I got the impression you might not make it tonight. What happened?”
     “Nothing that I wanted to happen. I was hoping to find Chris and set things straight with him.” Trish sighed.
     “No luck?”
     “None. The whole thing completely blew up when I talked to his girlfriend. The whole picture changed, thanks to this Lottie person.” Trish’s eyes flashed at the thought.
     “You’re a real trooper to be here after the day you’ve had.” Leah put her arm around   Trish and patted her back. “For what it’s worth, Rod crawled out from under his rock, and I met with him about an hour ago. He wants to talk to you. Says he didn’t have anything to do with that article.”
     “You believe him?”
     “Can you ever believe anything Rod says?”

They bantered about their table, interrupted only by members of cast and crew coming by to congratulate Danielle and plug for a job on her next movie. Danielle eyed the crowd, considering the proper time to give her thank-you speech. The producer hated to speak in public and left it totally up to her. The director asked Trish if she would mind saying a few words also. She declined at first, but then agreed after the third shot of tequila. Danielle moved to the bandstand and signaled for The Locomotions to take a break. She gave her “show of appreciation speech,” which included some funny anecdotes from the filming including a couple of oblique asides about the prodigal, Trish. Grinning broadly at her teasing of Trish, she turned the microphone over to her.
     Trish waited for the standing ovation to end. “I’ve really enjoyed working with all of you, even though as Danielle pointed out, it may not have appeared so. Some films just are not fun to make. Thanks to Danielle, the production staff, and all of you, this one was fun.” Trish paused for a minute looking around the room, then continued, faltering a little. “Thanks to all of you, and to everyone who has helped me grow over the years, I’ve been offered my first chance at a dramatic role. In two weeks I leave for Russia to play Anna Karenina in the Meecham & Ivor remake of that great book.”
     Danielle leaped to her feet at the surprise announcement and applauded while the others the followed nodded their surprise at each other and added another standing ovation.
     Trish waved for them to be seated and waited for the room to quiet. “I’ve worked with some of you almost fulltime for years. Others off and on – so I won’t see you for a while. But thank you again, and I look forward to our next film together.” She replaced the microphone in its stand and hurried out of the room.

Trish rose early and spent two hours reviewing the Anna Karenina contract and script
provided by Rod. The contract seemed standard with the usual clauses in place, and the attached letter from her lawyers confirmed this. She checked the “Nudity” clause and saw they had the right to film frontal nudity. She thought for a moment about the ramifications for a Meecham and Ivor production then crossed it out anyway. The pay was low, as was always the case for any actor wanting to work with Meecham and Ivor. The love of art, the thrill of real creativity, and the dramatic challenge were considered “part of the pay, so to speak.”
      The script was different from those with which she had worked in the past. It was filled with dramatic prompts and page after page of dialogue. The success of each scene hung on her acting ability rather than an action sequence. The thrill of the opportunity this script offered her was blanketed by insecurity that crept over her as the script unfolded. What have I gotten myself into? she thought. The storyline and script writing so absorbed her, they masked for a time the hurt and sorrow propelling her into this project.
     The knock on the door was Leah’s. Trish let her in and the two sat on the couch.
Leah pointed to the contract and the script. “So you’re really going to do it?”
     “Yeah, I guess so. What do you think?”
     “I think I don’t really understand how ‘the other woman’ scared you off so easily.” Leah started to take out a cigarette before she remembered Trish’s no smoking rule.
     “You would have to be there. She never once mentioned her feelings, what she wants. All she cares about is Chris, what is best for him. How do I fight that? I’ve known him for two weeks, and she’s known him for years. She knows things about him I know nothing about. It came to me in a blinding flash, Chris was an answer to my problems. A way out for me. It never entered my mind that I might not be good for him.” Trish’s lips quivered with emotion, but she pursed them tight. “Anyway, this Anna thing is a big step. Are we up for it?”
     “You’re the one that has to do it. All I can do is hold your hand.”
     “You mind going to Russia in the dead of winter?” Trish wanted Leah to know that she was needed.
     “You buy me a big Russian fur coat to keep me warm?” Leah laughed.
     “You got it. And one of those funny-looking fur hats they wear.” Trish held her fingers together over her head.
     Leah looked concerned. “I’ve talked to Pher and Gwen about making the trip, and frankly, they have some concerns about going to Russia with Christmas coming on.” Leah rose and took her clipboard notes from her purse. “And they have these new boyfriends they like so much. I think they plan on getting something going with them when they get back to California.”
     Trish looked disappointed. “It won’t be as much fun without them, but I’ll make sure they know it’s okay to beg off on this one.”
     “I have your plane set up for one-thirty departure. That should have you in New York before six, and a limo will whisk you off to your folks.” Leah referred to her notes as she spoke. Glancing up she asked, “You mind if Pher, Gwen and I hitch a ride to the airport with you? We have a flight to L.A. at two.”
     “Of course not. When do you want to leave?”
     “Rod’s due here anytime now. Will you be through cuffing him around by twelve-thirty?”

Rod approached Trish’s room with great misgiving. Leah had set the meeting at ten o’clock according to Trish’s instructions. The grapevine had already told him of Trish’s announcement at the party last night concerning Anna Karenina, but the distance between that thought and a signed contract was still lined with pitfalls. He knew he would need all of his skills to navigate these treacherous waters and bring the agreement into port. Anticipating the signing, he had contacted the Meecham and Ivor group that morning to announce that Trish was coming to Russia. His requests for perks in Trish’s behalf had effectively stalled them. He knew this version of Anna was to have an “R” rating, and the nudity issue would raise its head, so he laid down the law – no nudity, stating it was a deal breaker. They had agreed, but emphatically demanded, “When will she be here?”
     The door opened immediately, and Trish met Rod with a reproachful eye. She motioned him in without a word and gestured toward the other end of the couch. He had the look of a sheep-killing dog. “Look, Trish . . .”
     “Don’t ‘Look Trish’ me.” She scowled at him for a time before continuing. “There’s something I want you to understand.” She spoke in a calm, considered voice. His head bobbed up and down in agreement even before he knew what the proposition was. “You’ve meddled in my personal life for the last time. If I ever get even a random notion that you are back at your old tricks again, I’ll exercise the thirty-day cancellation clause in our contract. Is there any part of what I just said that you do not understand?”
     “Trish, I . . .”
     “No!” She held up her hand to silence him. “Don’t say something we both know is a lie. It’s over, and I don’t want to talk about it. I’m trying very hard to forgive you.”
     He wanted desperately to mention Anna Karenina, but he knew it had to come from her. “So where do you go from here?”
     “According to the opinion letter from the lawyers, the Anna Karenina contract is in order. I’ve looked over it and crossed out the frontal nudity. What are your comments?”
     “They’ve already agreed to canceling th tit clause, and I’ve picked up a few other little perks you’ll enjoy. You have the Presidential Suite at the Marriott Aurora Royal Hotel in Moscow and at the Astoria Hotel in Saint Petersburg. Personal servants will staff both suites, and you will have a full-time limo with chauffeur. I impressed on them the need to be warm, and awaiting you in your suite in Moscow will be a full-length sable coat.” Rod was obviously pleased with himself.
     “Leah needs a fur coat also.”
     “I can handle that. It won’t be sable, but it’ll be warm enough.”
     “So, where do we go from here?”
     “Leah said you’re heading to New York, so I thought I’d go up with you, and we can sign the contract in Meecham and Ivor’s office there. We might even schedule some interviews, maybe catch a few shows while we’re there.”
     “Cut the crap, Rod. You’re not going to New York with me. I’m going to New York to spend time with my folks.”
     “Fine! I’ll have the lawyers FedEx an approved copy of the contract to Meecham & Ivor’s office, and I’ll meet you there Friday. You can get your marching orders so Leah can get to work on the details.”

The Lear Jet lifted from Corpus Christi International Airport Runway 17 climbed gradually. At five hundred feet, it banked to the left, leaving the traffic pattern. At one thousand feet, the pilot dialed in an autopilot course correction to heading thirty degrees. Trish, the lone passenger, looked out a starboard window. They were approaching the JFK Causeway and the Intercoastal Waterway bridge. She saw Snoopy’s and the site of the restaurant demolished by Pyro across the canal. The waterfront houses and condos of North Padre Island grew smaller as the altitude increased. Packery Channel bisected Padre from Mustang Island and marked the boundary of Mustang Island State Park. Further down, Fish Pass Road ran off to the beach, and down the beach was the lone beach house where a part of her now resided. It all was so orderly and understandable from up here. Straight lines and manageable curves. Each item where it should be. Everything visible, believable.

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