Hollywood Ending (18 page)

‘So what is it exactly that we're looking for?' Jake asked.

‘Number 9860 Easton Drive. It's the house where the movie producer Paul Bern lived with his wife Jean Harlow. He died there from a gunshot wound. They never found out whether it was murder or suicide. When it happened there was a rumour that he shot himself because he couldn't satisfy his wife.'

‘He couldn't satisfy Jean Harlow?'

‘Apparently he was a closet homosexual,' I said, straining to find the place, but none of the houses on the road looked like the pictures I'd seen on the internet. ‘Some people think he couldn't get it up. But there are other people who say he and Jean Harlow were madly in love. I don't think he killed himself. Turns out he had a crazy ex-wife. He hid her in an apartment and never told Jean Harlow. This crazy lady ends up escaping from the apartment, comes to this house to try and reconcile, and shoots Bern when he refuses to leave Harlow. She then runs off to San Francisco, gets on a ferry and throws herself overboard, so no one will ever really know what really happened.'

‘But you think you do.'

‘Jake, would you kill yourself if you were married to Jean Harlow? They were in love.'

‘Does love mean never having to say you're impotent?'

‘Jay Sebring lived in this house too,' I said, ignoring the last comment.

‘The hairdresser? The one who was killed by the Manson Family?'

‘His friends warned him the house was cursed. He was living there when he was murdered up at Sharon Tate's house just around the corner.'

We reached the end of the street. ‘Damn,' I said. ‘Turn around. We might see it on the way down.'

Jake squeezed the convertible around the tiny end of the cul de sac and we started to crawl back down the hill. ‘I don't see it,' Jake said, looking around. ‘I think you imagined this demon house from hell.'

‘Wait, there it is.'

Through the treetops behind the cottages was the jutting outline of a gingerbread house. There was no entranceway and the number was not visible to the street. I couldn't see a way in: no driveway, no gate, not even a walking track. It was as if the house had its back to us. ‘Damn it,' I said. ‘Everything in this town is hidden behind high fences. It sucks.'

‘Would you rather they have an open house for you? Make you some sandwiches?'

‘I just think the public has a right to visit these places. These are historic landmarks. They shouldn't be hidden.'

‘How would you feel if you were murdered and some jerk with a camera came sniffing around wanting to be photographed next to your bloodstains?'

‘I wouldn't care. The public has a right to know.'

‘The
public
? Gimme a break. Vampires more like.'

I slumped back in my seat, annoyed. Something outside moved suddenly. An old man in overalls stood beside the car, a rake in his wrinkled hand. He was wearing a sun hat and his face looked a thousand years old. He gave me a look of suspicion I hadn't seen since the rednecks in
Deliverance
.

‘Oh hi,' I said to him. ‘You scared me.'

‘My apologies,' he replied with a gravelly voice, and I was relieved by his friendly tone. ‘Are you looking for the Bern house?'

‘Yes,' I said, sitting up. ‘Yes we are. Is that all we can see of it?'

‘I'm afraid so,' he said. ‘Many people come round here looking for it, and always go away disappointed. I grew up on this street. I was a little boy when that movie producer died.'

‘No shit,' Jake said.

‘I don't remember much,' the man said, leaning on his rake. ‘Just a lot of cars, commotion, people. It was just one of those things. I was really young. Like I said, I don't remember much.'

‘I guess you get a lot of people coming around here,' I said. It was the first time I'd actually spoken to someone at one of these murder spots, the first time I'd had a conversation with someone who was there when the event actually took place. I was excited but I also felt guilty. Once an angry woman had thrown tomatoes at Benji's car as we sat outside her house taking photos. Later on I looked at pictures of the case on the internet, and found out that the woman who threw tomatoes at us was the mother of the person who'd died there. Even then I hadn't felt bad. If she didn't like it she could move, I thought. Her son belonged to the world now, whether she liked it or not. But now it was different I could feel myself changing.

‘We get a few, but not as many as we used to,' the old man continued. ‘When they see how narrow the road is that usually puts them off. I figure, if you're that interested in what happened up here, where's the harm? It's all history.'

‘Did you ever see Jean Harlow?' I asked.

‘If I did I was too young to remember. Sorry.'

‘Thanks for that, man,' Jake said, putting the car in gear. ‘Sorry to have troubled you.'

‘What gives Jake?' I said as quietly as I could so the old man wouldn't hear. ‘I've got more questions.'

‘No more questions,' he said, and we started to roll down the hill, the man waving at us as we went off. We turned onto Benedict Canyon and headed up the hill back towards the San Fernando Valley.

‘Jake, I wanted to ask that guy more questions. He was there when it happened!'

‘Hilda, enough of this death crap. Look out the window. It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, the smog is, well, not as smoggy as usual. Let's do something fun. I think I know a place you'll like.'

In the San Fernando Valley, off a main highway and behind the Sepulveda Dam, was a beautifully landscaped Japanese garden, complete with artificial brooks, overhanging blossom trees and waterfalls. It took me completely by surprise: I'd never heard of it, and if someone had told me such a breathtaking sanctuary existed in the middle of dirty, grey Van Nuys I wouldn't have believed it. Jake made a dollar-bill donation for us both and we wandered inside. The garden was quiet and instantly made me feel serene. An ibis drank from the lake. The traffic from the freeway was only a hum.

‘This is amazing,' I said. ‘Who would think you could find this in the middle of Los Angeles?'

‘I like to come here to get some peace and quiet,' Jake said. ‘To think about things. Re-centre. I get my best ideas out here. Some days I meditate, go searching deep within for creative answers, let my subconscious dive for ideas.'

‘Oh give me a break,' I said. ‘You sound like a self-help manual.'

‘Why are you laughing? I take my job very seriously. Writing is a quest for truth.'

‘Sure it is,' I said, still poking fun, but from the look on his face I could see he was hurt. ‘I just couldn't picture you meditating, that's all. It doesn't seem like you.'

‘Well, I guess there are still a lot of things you don't know about me yet. Transcendental meditation is amazing. David Lynch does it.'

An elderly couple walked along the path towards us, arm in arm, smiling as they passed. Jake and I walked side-by-side, space between us, a whole world between us. But I had the feeling that the chasm was slowly starting to fill.

We arrived at a hard steel bench overlooking the lake and Jake sat down. The footpath beneath our feet broke into smaller sections of rock, straight lines giving way to a pattern of circles that covered the ground.

‘Are you sure you don't want to sit over there, out of the sun?' I pointed towards an arbor at the end of a log bridge. The bench was small, and we would have to sit close together.

Jake shook his head. ‘Sit here,' he said, patting the space next to him. ‘Trust me. I won't bite.'

I sat. Jake pointed to the ground, to the broken pieces of rock.

‘This is called the Directional Stone,' he said. ‘The way the path is broken up is a metaphor for life. It shows that your destiny is not predetermined. You don't have to do everything that is expected of you. There are other paths to take.'

I carved the outline of the path with my foot, tracing the edge. ‘Is that what you did?' I asked. ‘Choose another path?'

‘Not really. Do I look any different from anyone else in this town? I sold out like all the rest.'

I didn't say anything, not because I felt sorry for Jake, but because I'd heard it all before. Everyone in Los Angeles worked their asses off to get rich, then spent the rest of their lives complaining about it. Most held off the self-loathing by giving some of their wealth to charity, or doing something ‘artistic' like taking up pottery classes. Most just couldn't handle the responsibility that came with the big studio job or the home-based clothing line. I guess they thought once they got to the top all the hard work would be over, when really most of the work was maintaining the lifestyle you already had. ‘Money is just a beast,' I heard Dad say to Mom when the bills piled high and we barely had enough for a bag of lentils. ‘Once you've got it, you have to keep feeding it, and if you don't, it will devour you.' Jake was just another tiger eating his own tail.

‘My mom used to bring me here when I was a kid,' he said. ‘Well, she'd wander off and “re-centre” herself and leave me to feed the fish.'

‘It's really nice, Jake. There aren't many places you can find peace in this town.'

We watched the ibis make its way across the rock pool, extending its long legs carefully on the wet stones.

‘If only—' I started to say, then stopped.

‘What? What is it?'

I traced my finger along the edge of the bench. ‘I just wanted to ask that man more questions about growing up in that street, like the things he saw. He's a piece of living history.'

‘I've got to admit, as freaky as your interests are, they make for some kick ass stories. How's this for an idea? Young boy witnesses murder, comes back to the place where it happened as a caretaker when he's an adult, and sets out to solve the crime.'

‘Everything's just a script idea to you isn't it?'

‘What do you mean, alienated girl who befriends old man and discovers meaning in life through her obsession with death?'

‘That's great. I don't think I've ever had my entire existence distilled into a movie pitch before.'

‘Be thankful. I just saved you tons of money on psychotherapy.'

‘You're very strange, Jake. I'm not sure how to take you sometimes.'

‘Most chicks feel that way at first. You'll come around.'

‘Can I ask you a question?'

Jake put his sunglasses on top of his head, leant in a little closer. ‘Sounds ominous.'

‘I'm just curious—why are you so involved with Hank's life?'

‘Why are you?'

‘I'm trying to help him.'

‘And I'm not?'

‘Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't strike me as the philanthropic type.'

‘You're very quick to judge, Hilda. Can't a guy have a beer with his neighbour every now and then?'

‘I guess, but tidying the place for him? Buying him groceries? There's not a lot of guys your age who'd do that. Well, any age, period.'

‘Maybe you should have a look in the mirror before you start asking questions. Maybe you're asking the wrong person.'

‘How very Buddhist of you.'

He didn't say anything. When the silence became too much I slapped the bench.

‘So what now?' I asked. ‘Disneyland? Shall we put our hands in the cement at Graumann's? All this peace and quiet is freaking me out.'

‘Actually, I should probably head off,' Jake said, looking at his watch. ‘I've got a lot of work to catch up on.'

‘That's okay. I have stuff to do too,' I said, trying to hide my disappointment. I was beginning to enjoy Jake's company more than I realised. It was strange to be around someone with a bit of drive and ambition, someone who thought about more than the best way to chisel a piece of marble off Johnny Ramone's cenotaph.

Jake gave me a thin smile. ‘I'm halfway through a rewrite.'

‘Of course,' I said, standing. ‘Hollywood calls. Don't let me keep you from it.'

TWENTY-FIVE

We departed the Japanese garden, leaving the birds and the fish to their beautiful sanctuary. Jake dropped me off in front of my house. Some of the kids on bikes stopped to stare at his dirty convertible; it looked ugly and dangerous in a suburb filled with station wagons.

‘You have a nice house,' Jake said as I got out of the car. ‘Very cosy-looking. Homely.'

‘More like suffocating.'

Jake threw his head back and laughed. ‘Oh, the angst of youth. “No one understands! No one!”'

‘What about all your “writerly” angst huh? “The words, the words, they do not come!” You have to sit and chant by a lake just to get ideas.'

‘Speaking of which, the muse is calling. Gotta fly.'

He put the car in gear and was just about to pull away when I ran back to him.

‘Jake!' I called, and he leaned out.

‘What?'

‘My parents were hippies too,' I said.

‘Excuse me?'

‘You were saying your parents were hippies. Mine were too.'

‘I guess we have more in common than we first thought.'

‘I guess so.'

‘I'd like to hear more about them,' he said. ‘That is, if you're up to talking about it. Maybe you should come over after one of your visits with Hank.'

‘I didn't think you'd feel comfortable letting me into your place with all my “death vibes”.'

‘I'm not that superstitious.'

‘Many people are. I saw an interview with the LA County Coroner. He said most people were too scared to even shake his hand, in case they suddenly keeled over, like death was contagious or something.'

‘Believe me, I'm sure if you walked into my apartment the plants wouldn't die and blood wouldn't start pouring from the toilet.'