Elin Hilderbrand - Barefoot - A Novel

sex, grade inflation, vandalism—would have been blown up and distorted, told and told again until they reached cinematic proportions. What did Amy Feldman think of Brenda now? Would she pass the screenplay on to her father, or would she throw it into a Dumpster? Or burn it, in effigy, on Champion’s campus?

Brenda typed until her back was stiff, her butt sore from sitting.

Occasional y, the other people in the cottage checked on her. People passing to and from the outdoor shower, for example.

TED

How’s it going?

BRENDA

Fine.

BRENDA stops, looks up. She is eager to get some of her eggs out of Amy Feldman’s basket.

Hey, do you have any clients who are in the movie business?

TED

Movie business?

BRENDA

Yeah. Or made-for-TV movies?

One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, BRENDA thinks. She can’t be picky about medium.

Or just regular TV?

TED

Mmmmmmmmm. I don’t think so.

VICKI

(touching BRENDA’s back)

How’s it going?

BRENDA

Fine.

VICKI

Can I bring you anything?

BRENDA

Yeah, how about a pile of money?

BRENDA clamps her mouth closed. She hadn’t said anything to anybody about the money and she won’t until she is desperate. She isn’t desperate now; she is working.

VICKI

(laughing, as though what BRENDA said was funny)

How about a sandwich? I can make tuna.

BRENDA

No thanks.

VICKI

You have to eat.

BRENDA

You’re right, Mom. How about a bag of Oreos?

MELANIE

How’s it going?

BRENDA

BRENDA stops typing and looks up.

Fine. How’s it going with you?

There was the outlandish assertion by DIDI-from-admitting on the day of VICKI’s CT scan—BRENDA, unbeknownst to anyone, had cal ed the hospital administration to complain—and ever since then, BRENDA had been watching MELANIE closely, especial y when JOSH was around. But she saw no interaction between them. They barely spoke. When MELANIE walked into a room, JOSH walked out.

MELANIE

(taken aback by BRENDA’s sudden interest)

I’m okay.

MELANIE’s voice is melancholy. It harkens back to their first days in the house, when MELANIE moped al the time. There had been some recent phone cal s from Peter, but MELANIE spoke in a clipped tone and ended the cal s quickly.

I’m bummed about the end of summer.

BRENDA

Wel , that makes two of us.

MELANIE

What are you doing after we leave?

BRENDA

(focusing on the computer screen, ruing her decision to engage MELANIE in this much conversation) That remains to be seen. How about you?

MELANIE

Ditto.

There is a long pause, during which BRENDA fears MELANIE is trying to read the computer screen.

MELANIE burps.

MELANIE

Sorry, I have heartburn.

BRENDA

You’re on your own there.

JOSH

How’s it going?

BRENDA

Fine.

JOSH

Do you think you’l sel it?

BRENDA

I have no idea. I hope so.

BRENDA thinks, Hell, it can’t hurt.

You don’t know anyone in the business, do you?

JOSH

Wel , there’s Chas Gorda, my creative-writing professor at Middlebury. The writer-in-residence, actual y. He had his novel, Talk, made into a film back in 1989. He might know somebody. I could ask him when I go back.

BRENDA

Would you? That would be great.

JOSH

Sure.

BRENDA

When do you go back?

JOSH

Two weeks.

BRENDA

Are you looking forward to it?

JOSH

(staring into the cottage, where—by chance?—MELANIE sits at the kitchen table reading the Boston Globe ) I guess so. I don’t know.

BRENDA

(thinking, Horrible Didi was right. Something is going on between them. Something the rest of us were too self-absorbed to notice .) BRENDA smiles kindly at JOSH, remembering back to when he lent her the quarter at the hospital, remembering back to when they kissed in the front yard.

Maybe someday I’l be adapting one of your novels.

JOSH

(looking at BRENDA but diverted by something—someone?—inside the cottage)

You never know.

BLAINE

(eating a red Popsicle)

Popsicle juice drips down BLAINE’s chin in a good approximation of blood.

What are you doing?

BRENDA

Working.

BLAINE

On Dad’s computer?

BRENDA

Yep.

BLAINE

Are you working on your movie?

BRENDA

Mmmhmm.

BLAINE

Is it like Scooby Doo ?

BRENDA

No, it’s nothing like Scooby Doo . Remember I said it’s a movie for grown-ups?

BLAINE reaches out to touch the computer.

Ah, ah, don’t touch. Do not touch Dad’s computer with those sticky hands. Go wash.

BLAINE

Wil you play Chutes and Ladders with me?

BRENDA

I can’t now, Blaine. I’m working.

BLAINE

When you take a break, wil you play?

BRENDA

When I take a break, yes.

BLAINE

When’s that—

BRENDA

I don’t know. Now, please . . .

BRENDA checks the cottage. She wonders, Where’s Josh? Where’s Vicki? Where’s Ted?

Auntie Brenda has to work.

BLAINE

How come?

BRENDA

Because. (in a whisper) I have to make money.

Brenda finished typing in the screenplay for The Innocent Impostor on the third day, in the middle of the night. She was sitting on the sofa with Ted’s computer resting on Aunt Liv’s dainty coffee table. There was a breeze coming in through the back screen door. ’Sconset was quiet except for the crickets and an occasional dog bark. Brenda typed in the last page, the scene where Calvin Dare, as an older gentleman with his career behind him, enjoys an afternoon of quiet reflection with his wife, Emily. Dare and Emily look on as their grandchildren frolic in the yard. The scene was taken directly from the last page of the book; it was the scene that gave critics pause. Was it right for Dare to enjoy such bliss when he had al but coopted the life of the man that he had al but kil ed? Brenda meant to include some kind of questioning imagery in her cinematography notes—

but for now, dialogue and direction were . . . DONE! She stared at the computer screen. Fade out. Rol credits. DONE!

Brenda pushed Save and backed up the screenplay on a disc. It was twenty minutes after one, and she was wide awake. She poured herself a glass of wine and drank it sitting at the kitchen table. Her body ached from so much sitting; her eyes were tired. She cracked her knuckles. DONE!

Euphoria like she thought she would never feel again. This was the way she’d felt when she finished her dissertation; this was the way she’d felt when she finished grading final papers her first semester at Champion. Job completed, job wel done. Tomorrow she would worry about what to do with the damn thing; for tonight, she would just savor the euphoria.