Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

“Oh, he’ll do the movie,” said Darren, with that unsinkable old-fashioned brio only a film director can muster. The agent found his remarks vastly comforting.

“I have never seen him more passionate about a project,” she said. “I mean, it’s amazing. ”

“And he’ll be amazing in it,” said Darren. “We’ll push the start date, that’s all.”

“It’s a wonderful thing,” said a manager, “for him to know — even if he doesn’t know today —that the project’s waiting for him.”

An uncomfortable pause in the wake of those absurd, well-meaning sentiments; the agent began to cry again.

“It’s just so… weird. Darren! — your film — I mean, that’s what it’s about —in a sense. No? Special Needs? I mean, has anyone even thought about how weird that is? That the story line mirrors—”

“That’s where the press is going to go,” said the publicist. “Just a heads-up: that’s straight where they’re going to go. You know, ‘Life imitates art.’”

“All we can focus on now,” said Darren, keeping it real, “is Kit getting on his feet, ASAP.”

“I know. I know. I know,” said the agent, centering up. Regrouping. Steeling herself. Blotting her eyes.

“He’ll kick ass,” said Alf, rallying the troops.

“Oh, absolutely,” said a manager.

“It’s going to be a battle,” said the attorney re the epic, looming litigations. “But let me tell you something. There will be serious casualties on the other side.”

“Jesus,” said a manager, with sudden emotion. “Has anything like this even ever happened before? Has a major film star ever been attacked ?”

“Sharon Tate,” said the publicist.

“I’m sorry, but Sharon Tate was not a major star!”

Vigil

LISANNE WAS AT the Coffee Bean when she heard. The washroom was occupied, so she dashed to the parking lot and threw up. She got in her car and went to the hospital.

Barricades held a crowd of fans and bystanders at bay. Media vans sprouted tall white antennae. Nasty policemen banished drive-through traffic. She valet-parked at Jerry’s Deli and crossed the street.

She scanned the upper floors of the building, wondering if he was out of surgery. Her eyes wandered back to Beverly Boulevard, in vague lookout for Tiff Loewenstein’s Bentley. Too soon, she thought. A visit from Tiff would come later in the week, if at all.

She felt like she might faint. She called the office to say she had the flu. She was talking to one of the girls when Reggie jumped on. He asked if she’d heard what happened, and Lisanne pretended that she was too sick to talk.

On impulse, she drove to the Loewensteins’.

• • •

WITH GREAT KINDNESS, the housekeeper led the ravaged woman in. She knew why Lisanne was crying.

Tiff was talking loudly on the phone, in a faraway room. Roslynn appeared on the stairs in her robe, looking so frail and everyday that suddenly Lisanne thought she’d made a grievous error by coming and burst into tears.

“Roslynn, I’m so sorry!” she said, face distorted. “I went to the hospital — I thought you might be there…”

They embraced and Roslynn asked the housekeeper to please bring them some tea. She led Lisanne to the living room and sat her on the divan.

“Darling, you look awful!”

“It’s just so terrible —”

“I know.” She put her arms around her, gently rocking as Lisanne wept. “We’ve been watching CNN all morning. We know a muck-a-muck at Cedars, Mo Biring. Mo says Kit’s still being operated on — could be hours. Our spies are working on it. We know lots of people at Cedars.”

Tea was served. Tiff came in, completely dressed, and regarded Lisanne oddly — again, she felt a trespasser’s twinge. When he tenderly touched her head, Lisanne sobbed anew, throwing herself on the mercy of the cruel cosmos.

“He’s out,” said Tiff. Lisanne didn’t know what he meant. “Of surgery.”

“Is that what Mo said?” asked Roslynn.

“I just talked to him.”

“Is he all right?”

“They don’t know— won’t know — not for a while. They think there may be some damage.” He hesitated to say it but thought he’d better. “Brain damage.”

Lisanne seized up and stopped her crying as if doused with cold water.

“My God!” said Roslynn, hand rushing to mouth. “My God.”

“They still can’t find the sonofabitch who clobbered him,” said Tiff. This time, it was his wife’s head he caressed. He nodded at Lisanne and said, “Got the fantods, huh.” He said to Roslynn of their guest, “This one’s got the fantods.”

“He was just so wonderful when I brought him your gift,” said Lisanne, from the heart. “So smart and so sweet. ”

“I had her bring him the Sotheby’s Buddha,” Tiff explained. “To the set.”

“He’s so young and so talented and it’s— just — so — unfair and so terrible !” The Loewensteins drooped their heads in sorrowful affirmation. “So kind, so unaffected. ” She fought for breath. Roslynn touched her arm. “I just had the feeling — I mean it was so obvious —that he was such a warm and generous person. ”

“That he was,” said Tiff absentmindedly, as if in eulogy.

“For someone to just do that to him—”

Annoyed with himself, Tiff quickly amended: “That he is. ” Thinking aloud, the executive said, “We’ve already wrapped, but that’s a ninety-million-dollar summer movie. We’ll need someone to loop his voice — that’s done a helluva lot more often than people imagine.” He scratched his ear and stared through the Cézanne, cogitating arcane postproduction stratagems. “You two should play hooky today,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “Go see a movie at the Grove. Go to the beach house. Hey, we heard you had a few dates with Phil Muskingham.”

“He’s sweet.”

“He’s really smitten with you,” said Roslynn.

“You could do worse than marry that one. I’ll be working for you one day.”

“Are you going to see Kit?” asked Lisanne.

“No,” he said adamantly. “No point in sitting vigil. It’s gonna be a circus over there. I’ll wait till he wakes up.”

“Do you think we should bring him the Buddha?”

“What?” said Tiff, nonplussed.

“Maybe it would be something he… his assistant could bring it from the house. He’s a Buddhist and maybe—”

“Let me ask you something, Lisanne. Where was the Buddha when he got whacked on the head? The Buddha didn’t help then, and I sure as hell don’t think it’s gonna to help now. ” Roslynn gave him a look. “Roll your eyes, Roz, but that’s why I’m agnostic. Besides,” he added. “Too expensive to have laying around a hospital room. It’d be gone within the hour.”

“What about the Courage Awards?” Roslynn called after, as her husband turned to leave.

“Sunday,” said Tiff. “What about ‘em?”

“Are we still going?”

“I’m not understanding you,” he said combatively. “Of course we’re still going. Why wouldn’t we be still going?” She regretted her remark. “You mean, because of the bad thing that happened to Kit Lightfoot? Who are they going to give the award to if I’m not there, Roslynn?”

“I don’t know, Tiff,” she said, turning inward.

“To one of the waiters? To Suzanne Pleshette? Or how ‘bout ‘Frasier’? I’m getting the Courage Award, right? There’s a shitload of people who worked their asses off organizing that — months and months of hard work. They’re gonna raise three million dollars. That’s their goal. And you know how? From the people who are in business with me who buy the fucking tables and spend money at the fucking silent auction. So I don’t understand you, Roslynn. You think they’re gonna not raise three million dollars because of what happened to Kit Lightfoot? It’s a terrible thing, kids, but it ain’t the Twin Towers.”