Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

Darren asked what the rest of his day was like. Kit said he was free, and the director suggested a field trip.

• • •

THEY WERE MET in the waiting room by a thin black queen of indeterminate age. He wore hospital whites, a hairnet, and aviator glasses with smoky green lenses.

“Mr. Aronofsky!” He shook the director’s hand, then looked at Kit and smoldered, as if wanting to take a bite. “And you must be Mr. Lightfoot. Been expecting y’all — though your girl didn’t say when. Don’t get me started, you can drop in any time you like! I know y’all’d like to get straight to business, but I have to do my official meet-and-greet thing. Won’t take but a minute. My name is Tyrone Lamott, and I am Valle Verde Liaison for Television and Motion Pictures. I am media liaison, that’s right. And Mr. Lightfoot, Tyrone is a very large fan and thought he would just get that out of the way so he don’t salivate over y’all while y’all are here. No no no, that just wouldn’t do. Now just so’s y’all don’t think we are pikers, I must inform that we’ve had ‘em all come through, the full gambit — Mr. DiCaprio for Gilbert Grape and Mr. Hoffman for Rain Man, Mr. Ford for Regarding Henry —we have seen quite a few. Because we are the best. But, Mr. Lightfoot… Tyrone will say for the very last time that you are the one among all the others who thrill him most!”

As they toured, the staffers gawked. Tyrone sternly, comically shooed them away. “G’on, now! G’on about your business!” After walking what must have been three city blocks, they approached one of the stations.

“Roy getting bath,” said a Cambodian nurse, with a curious eye to the guests. “Be done in few minute.” She broke a toothy smile as her giggling cohorts gathered round. “Is Kit Lightfoot?”

“Yes, Connie. Is Kit Lightfoot.” He turned to the men. “That’s Connie Chung . I give all my girls names. Freshens ‘em up. Now go check on Roy, girl!” he said, with outrageous dispatch. “These are busy, busy men! Go tell Roy he gonna meet hisself a movie star!”

“Tyrone,” said Darren humbly. “What happened to Roy?”

“Glioblastoma multiforme. Now I don’t know if that’s what y’all are looking for—”

“Is that a tumor?” asked Kit.

“Uh huh,” said Tyrone. “But he’s doin real well.”

Nurse Connie emerged from the room and said they could go in.

A pale, beleaguered man stood at the bed, poorly draped by a shabby robe. He was around forty and attended by an orderly, who wasn’t thrilled to be part of any dog-and-pony show.

“Roy, you got y’self some visitors! This is Dar-ren. ”

“Hi, Roy.”

“He’s a very famous director. And this is Kit Lightfoot. ”

“How are you?” the actor softly inquired.

Roy took them in, blank-faced.

“Do you recognize him from the movies?” said Tyrone. “Huh, Roy? I’ll bet you do. I’ll bet you recognize him from the motion picture big screen.”

Kit was mildly uncomfortable with the approach but let it go.

The man spoke up, in a garbled drone. With Tyrone’s coaxing, the words became apparent:

“I… fuck. I fuck. I–I fuck.”

Connie Chung held a hand over her mouth, embarrassed.

“Roy Rogers fucks a lot, ” said Tyrone, rolling his eyes. “Least he say he do. If you believe Roy, he get more pussy than Julio Iglesias.”

“I fuck! I fuck! I fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” barked Roy, smiling gleefully as he got up to speed.

“He gettin excited — cause you here, Mr. L.”

Other nurses gathered in the doorway. More hands to giggling mouths. Nurse Connie and the orderly lowered the patient back on to the bed.

“Roy Rogers had his own business. Didn’t you have your own business, Roy?”

“Fuck!” He laughed, messy and unnerving, full of spittle. He stood up again. Tyrone put a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder and said indulgently, “Naw, it wasn’t the ‘fuck’ business. I think he had a McDonald’s.”

Kit noticed a horseshoe-shaped scar over his temple.

“Those Golden Arches made lots of money for you, too, didn’t they, Roy. Roy got some grown-up kids,” said Tyrone, turning to Nurse Connie. “I guess it ain’t been no Happy Trails.”

“They no come,” she said.

Tyrone took a framed photo from the bedstand and handed it to Kit and Darren — Roy and his family, in happier days.

Kit went over and steadied the man with his hands, murmuring softly while helping him to sit. The orderly dropped his sullen demeanor and pitched in, supporting Roy’s other side. The patient’s obscene perorations faded. There was something so touching and fearless about Kit’s tender mercies, and Darren knew for certain that he had found his man.

Field Trips

LISANNE SET OFF for Riverside. It was Sunday. Apart from her main plan, she wanted to scope out the famous brunch at the Mission Inn that her boss was always raving about. It turned out to be a tad Waspy for her taste. She had a general rule never to eat where women of a certain age congregated in colored hats.

She went to Denny’s instead. Lisanne thought she felt the baby kick, but maybe it was too soon for that. Maybe it kicked when one of those big fat pancakes I promised myself I wouldn’t order thunked it on the head.

It was easy to find the house. There were a thousand Kit Lightfoot links and Web sites that listed the address of the local landmark, many containing interviews with Lightfoot Senior. He spoke freely, almost defiantly, of his son’s early years, glibly advertising himself as a good parent, a tough but caring dad, an all-too-human family man who had done the best he could under great hardship, insurmountable medical bills, beloved wife dying of cancer (he fudged time lines and history), a sorrowful patriarch benevolently bewildered by his boy’s estrangement. “He’ll come around,” said Mr. Lightfoot. “He knows I’m there for him anytime he needs me.” In a more current posting, Burke Lightfoot bragged that Kit had indeed come around, and not too long ago at that, to visit the old homestead. (“I still live in the same house my son was born in. I have nothing to hide.”) In fact, it was noted, that with his father’s recent urgings, the star had made a generous donation toward the rebuilding of his grade school’s auditorium — see? Reparations were well under way, all across the board.

Lisanne took the leisurely route over to Galway Court. The Lightfoot residence was on a cul-de-sac, making it harder to do a simple drive-by. She parked a few blocks away and hid behind the classifieds, as if looking for rentals. After a few minutes she glanced around, absorbing the sights and sounds of the neighborhood. Maybe she’d take a stroll. Then she thought that wasn’t such a great idea (the street probably had its share of lookie-lous) and decided to leave. Her mood plummeted. She felt common, aimless, unveiled, one more fat, lonely fan in a vast, uncelebrated throng. In a few short moments, she had lost her special connection.

She was embarrassed at having come at all.

• • •

THAT AFTERNOON, SHE accompanied Tiff and his wife to a luncheon at a house in San Marino. The Loewensteins were being honored as the most generous of the American Friends of the Salzburg Festival. She’d been invited by Tiff before the couple had reconciled but they insisted she come. Roslynn had always been kind to her and was grateful for the neutered companionship she provided during Mr. Loewenstein’s sundry postmidlife freak-outs. As a reward, she invited along “a catch” to be Lisanne’s date.