Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

• • •

VIV ASKED BECCA to bring her a cigarette and brew a pot of decaf green tea. She had just begun Day One of the Vogue cover interview.

She hadn’t done any real press since the attack. Her publicist said Vogue would “only be lightly touching on Kit” and mostly focus on other things, “forward-moving things,” such as the usual rumor that Together was in its final season. The writer also told the publicist she was anxious to learn more about Viv’s just-signed costarring role in the new Nicole Holofcencer with the heartthrob Alf Lanier.

“I would like — and I know this is difficult — to briefly talk about the terrible, and very public events surrounding your fiancé.”

Viv felt blindsided, even though she knew it was coming. The journalist had merely wanted to get it out of the way, thinking that would be better all around.

“You know, that’s not something I’m really prepared to talk about,” she said reflexively, with an impenetrable smile.

Becca listened from around the corner. (I wonder if she’s prepared to talk about Alf fucking her in the ass while I watch.)

“I completely respect and appreciate that,” said the interviewer, realizing she’d made a misstep by blundering in. Now there was no turning back.

“And I know you’re trying to do your job,” Viv added, salving the sting. Showing class.

“Are you still engaged?”

She smiled again and took a yoga breath. “All I can say is… we’re both recovering from this — and I don’t want that to sound any way other than it sounds—”

“I totally understand,” said the writer, almost chummily. They’d entered the land of Soft Lob.

“—and that we’ve agreed for now to take things very slow. And that it’s hard to go forward in the way that we were, not only in a world where people can do the kind of… horrible thing they did to Kit — but in a world that’s incredibly…” She trailed off. A tear welled up, elegantly dispersed by a bent, Bulgari-sapphired knuckle. “But he’s very strong. He’s a Buddhist and was, I think, actually, much better prepared for something like this — if anyone could be — than the average person. He’s amazing that way. So he really has this amazing faith, and amazing path, something that I definitely sometimes lack. I have so much faith in him. So much faith that he will come through this.”

• • •

THAT NIGHT, BECCA, Annie, and Larry Levine went to a party with a Kiss cover band whose members were all midgets. It was funny for about a minute.

Afterward, they cruised the Chateau. Annie recognized Paul Schrader sitting on one of the epic couches of the cavernous living room — style lobby. Larry was excited, but Becca didn’t know who Paul Schrader was. They were a little drunk by then and went over to introduce themselves. Larry went on about Raging Bull and Annie said how much she loved Auto Focus. Mr. Schrader was cordial and told Becca that she looked like Drew Barrymore. Annie of course spewed that Becca was a professional look-alike, and Mr. Schrader seemed all interested in that. Mr. Schrader keenly referenced the Spike Jonze movie, in which Becca said she had a small part. Then Larry spewed that Becca’s boyfriend was in it too and that he was a Russell Crowe “body snatcher.” Mr. Schrader, himself a bit tipsy, really got off on that. Becca gave Larry a little frown while telling Mr. Schrader that she didn’t do look-alike work anymore and that she also worked for Viv Wembley as her personal assistant. Mr. Schrader said he knew Viv and that he was supposed to have done a movie with her and Kit Lightfoot that was a kind of sequel to American Gigolo . Larry said that he’d auditioned for the Aronofsky movie that Kit was about to star in before he got brained. Mr. Schrader knew all about the Aronofsky movie too and said that, as far as he was aware, the project had been completely scrapped. (They weren’t going to recast.) Annie said that Larry was written up in the L.A. Times a few months ago because he got a job at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf posing as a retarded person as research for his role in that very film. Mr. Schrader, who really did seem to know about everything that was happening in the world and especially in Hollywood, burst out laughing and said he actually remembered reading something about that on-line. He couldn’t stop chortling about Larry’s I Am Sam bit. Then Mr. Schrader’s friend returned from the rest room, and Becca instantly recognized him from the set of Six Feet Under —the “other Alan,” Alan Poul. (Alan Ball was the creator, and Alan Poul was, according to Mr. Ball, “the engine.”) On inebriated impulse, Becca spoke of her not entirely satisfying, semirecurring role as a cadaver, and Mr. Schrader, deeper in his cups, tried to cajole Alan into giving Becca a short monologue to deliver on the next show. “You’re wasting her talents,” he said. “Have the writers give the stiff a few lines — that’s a no-brainer. Doesn’t Alan Ball go for all that pretentious, surrealistic shit?” “No,” said Mr. Poul, gamely, “that would be you.” “You could have a dream sequence of nude, talking corpses,” suggested Mr. Schrader indomitably. “Only if we can insert Bob Crane,” said Mr. Poul.

Buddhism for Dummies

WHAT HAD HAPPENED to him?

An untold time, staggered by pain and fear. Drowning: cyclonic; then, a battering of seawalls in his head. The nurses said that for a while he kept asking if he’d been struck by a big blue bus.

There was the period he thought he’d been shot. That someone had abducted him, and stuffed him in a car trunk.

Then he thought he had a bad flu that migrated to his head.

• • •

CEDARS TIME: aside from medical staff, the Quiet People came to sit in chairs by the bed. It seemed like they came just to close their eyes. Nothing ever disturbed them. Others visited, familiar imprints — Agent, Friend, Fiancée — now he could summon their genealogies, but in Cedars Time, he could not. Impossible to trace ancestries. The only faces he knew were those of his parents. For a week, R.J. hovered before him, changing sheets and soiled bedclothes. She comforted him in the night when he cried out. So beautiful. R.J. told him she had learned to live with the cancer and that it was a stern but thoughtful companion who would never leave her like his father did. She said not to be angry with Burke for he was doing the best that he could. It was true: he had been so tender. Sometimes when he sauntered in with that Dad-aftershave and a horny word for the nurses (they loved it), Kit was so happy to see him that he burst into tears — Burke daubed his cheeks with a custom handkerchief reeking of piquant fatherhood regained. He left the handkerchief behind, and Kit held it through the night, burying his nose in the softness like a glue sniffer when he woke up terrified. His father grew fiercely protective; hospital security did a fine job, but it wasn’t enough. He hired a gentle giant, a bodyguard from Fiji whose life Burke had saved in South Vegas, to sit at the door and make sure no one trespassed because there were wily, fucked-up people who’d become distraught and obsessive since the incident, who meant well but were determined to lay hands on Kit for a healing. The nurses told Kit he was a famous star, and he took their word at face value even if it couldn’t be processed. A large plasma screen was installed in the Cedars suite, and Tula and Kit and the Quiet People (later to become the Shaved-Heads) watched DVDs. Burke fired an R.N. when he found out she’d brought in a stack of Kit’s movies. He watched one but didn’t recognize himself. Why was his father so mad.