Memphis Movie (19 page)

The call was from Mimsy.

“Mimsy!” Eric fairly shouted. Sandy jumped and then left the room, dropping the towel behind her.

“I've been trying to call you,” Eric said. “Your cell—”

“I know. Sorry. Lemme make it up to you and take you to this great new fish restaurant in Cooper-Young. Can you come?”

“Yes, of course I can. Should we meet there—or will you pick me up?”

“Meet there. Can you do it in 45?”

“Yes, yes,” Eric said. He felt like a yeanling.

Sandy reentered the room. Magically she had dressed and seemed to shine with some kind of greedy lust—for something else, something Eric did not have.

“Bye-bye,” she said.

“Sandy, I—”

“Skip it,” she said. “I have other plans, too.”

Eric didn't doubt that she did. His heart sank.

“Sandy, I—well, fuck, I love you.”

“I know, Cabbage. I know.”

45.

The restaurant's interior was bathed in blue light. Eric sat nervously scraping the tines of his fork over his napkin. The nearly invisible rows he was making recalled some movie—what was it? Parallel lines played a part in some poor amnesiac's mysterious past. Was it James Garner? Or Gregory Peck?

Then Mimsy entered. She walked toward him and her body swayed with glittery magnetism. Eric's admiration was palpable.

“Mimsy, finally,” he said, as if they had been parted by the swells of time.

“Hello, Sweet Man,” she said, bussing his cheek.

“God, I've missed you,” Eric said.

“Have you, Eric? I've had you on my mind a lot. I mean, a lot.”

Eric felt the angels hover above them.

“Where—where have you been?”

“Working, you goob.”

Mimsy Borogoves used words like
goob
. It broke Eric's heart. It really did.

“Yes, yes, of course. I thought—well, I guess I thought you'd be around the set and all.”

“I'd love to, believe me. Your project, unfortunately, is not the only thing on my plate.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Eric said. Just holding her hand stilled him.

“How's it going?”

Eric paused. He could be honest with Mimsy. Yet, his knee-jerk impulse was to damn the thing again, throw his hands up in disgust and pour his heart out about his lack of direction. His lack of direction. Then, he changed emotional gears.

“Actually, we had a productive day. I think—just perhaps—that there is an embryonic movie in the middle of all the uncertainty, a movie that's trying to come out of its egg.”

“Well, for God's sake, don't be optimistic.” She smiled.

“I know. I know. It's all felt so muddled, so end-of-career fumbling. Then today, when that bastard Dan Yumont was running Sandy's lines—lines which, I swear, up until today seemed dead on the page—well, I don't know, something
alive
happened. Some kernel of human truth emerged. Is that overstating it?”

“I don't know, dear. But it sounds grand. Just grand.”

“Yes, it is. I guess it is.”

The waiter came and they both ordered some expensive fish. They seemed to settle into a comfort that was balm to them, especially to Eric, whose quest for peace wavered like barometric pressure.

“Tell me about the script. Tell me about your friend, Camel.”

Mimsy had that gift. She asked about what you wanted to tell.

“Oh, I don't know. I don't know.”

Eric fretted for a second.

“You know what I should do?” he asked. “I should let you judge. Would you? Would you mind looking at it and telling me whether it's just crazy meanderings or if there's sense there? I trust you implicitly.”

“You overestimate my abilities, dear. But, sure. I'll look at the pages.”

“Wonderful. Can we do it tonight after dinner?”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said, and patted his hand. Her slim fingers looked like something ripe and wholesome over Eric's
hoary, veined appendage. He would wonder again, and not for the last time, how lucky he was to have her near, to have her during this time.

Back at Mimsy's, Eric took his shoes off and propped them on the coffee table, a mahogany monstrosity that surely came from a yard sale. He was watching a basketball game with the sound off while Mimsy, next to him, glasses on nose, bangs over forehead, was intently studying both the script and Camel's wild addendums to it.

Memphis had become an NBA city since Eric had gone west. He was trying to make out who the star player was on the team. They were holding their own against Detroit and Eric felt a ridiculous surge of pride for his abandoned hometown.

“Stop picking your cuticles, Dearheart. It sounds like flesh tearing.”

Eric looked at his cuticles. They burned red.

“Sorry,” he said, under his breath.

Perhaps that lanky white guy with the beard. Perhaps he is the star, Eric thought. His moves around the basket were deft and sweet. He held the ball like Lady Liberty holds her torch and quickly slipped it over Chris Webber's outstretched hands. Ah, Eric said to himself. Ah, he's the man.

“Eric,” Mimsy said, finally. “Hm.”

Eric waited.

“It's wild, ragged stuff, isn't it?”

She was hedging, waiting for his agreement to see where she should go.

“Is it—is it workable? Does it fit somehow?”

Mimsy tapped her pen against the paper.

“You know, I'd say, if you were able to incorporate these wild thoughts—well, hell, it might just raise a moribund story into another place—a place of invention and wit and mystery. It's
certainly unlike anything else in the movies today. What do you think?”

This was palliative. Eric smiled as if he had just been promised the Oscar.

“Yes,” he said.

“You look like a kid who's just been told about Christmas.”

“Yes,” Eric said again.

Then a beat later: “Can we talk now about these ghosts I've been seeing?”

46.

Just past sunrise. Downtown.

Eric had to meet with Rica Sash and Ricky Lime. They were moving toward a visual style and Rica had asked for the meeting because he had some fresh ideas. Eric thought again that the secret of this film, the thing that might unlock its mysteries, might lie with his esteemed cinematographer.

Eric was also feeling lighthearted and confident. Mimsy's reassurance had bolstered him. He arrived at the Pyramid very early. The air was chill and the sun a white spot behind muslin, clear as a fresh apple hanging over Poplar Avenue. He was unshaved and his mouth tasted of bitter coffee but he was as happy as he had been since coming to Memphis.

He was met in the parking lot by Camel's fay, the light-footed hippie child who ran his errands. In her small fist was a bouquet of blue pages.

“Hi, hi,” she said. “Lorax. Camel's friend.”

“I know.” Eric smiled at her the way he would at a friend of his daughter's if he had a daughter.

“Camel stayed up late over these. I think it's really powerful stuff.”

“Do you?” Eric said. He was honestly interested but his tone must have been awry because the young pixie frowned.

“I do,” she pouted.

“Hey, I really want to hear what you think.”

She brightened. It was like turning on a dazzling light.

“Well, he's a poet, you know. This stuff is poetry. The first he's written in so long. So, like, hey, I really think it's important stuff.”

She smiled as if she had made it all clear.

“Ok,” Eric said.

They stood together awkwardly. The pixie was looking out over the river.

“Would you like to visit the set?” he asked.

Lorax seemed to think this over.

“I guess I would,” she said.

“Come in. I'll introduce you to my assistant and she'll show you around. I've got to meet with my cinematographer. Ok?”

“Yep,” Lorax said.

During the meeting the three men seemed to come to agreement fairly quickly. Ricky Lime was obviously cowed by Sash's reputation and his heavy accent. Lime barely spoke until Rica complimented him on some shots he had done at the Ornamental Metal Museum.

“This has really been a cue for me,” he said, waving one of the photos. “The dark forge—it's given me some thematic ideas that I think will color the whole film.”

Lime grinned as if his own high opinion of himself had been seconded.

Eric thought it quite humorous and he was happy he had not fired Lime. The two men now were talking shop like old pros. The visual style of the film was made clear at this little confab. Eric was praying, however, that Lime wouldn't spill about the ghostly images he'd captured. It seemed as if he had moved beyond his new age predilections and was happy now talking camera work. Sash grounded him, perhaps.

“And here,” Ricky Lime now said, “I've captured something precious, I think.” He was showing Rica the image of Elvis on the sidewalk. “What do you think?”

Eric felt the coffee burn behind his sternum.

“It's Presley's ghost,” Rica Sash said, matter-of-factly. He handed it back to Lime and smiled.

“Right,” Ricky Lime said, and put the photo back in his portfolio case.

When Eric got back to the set the actors were being put in place for another shoot. Sandy was sitting at the big table in deep conversation with Lorax. They both looked up when Eric approached.

“Hello, Baby,” Sandy said. “Lorax was telling me how Camel works. His—what did you call it—
organic
way of working.”

It was hard to tell if Sandy's ironic and sharp tongue was being honed.

“I love your wife,” Lorax said. There was no irony here. One wondered if this child had ever approached irony. She bled sincerity.

“We're not married,” Eric said but he grinned wide to let them both know he meant it with love.

“Oh, well, wow, that's cool. I've not been married either.”

Sandy laughed.

“Listen, Eric,” Sandy said, quickly. “I think this is gonna work. I think Camel's words complement the script in a, well, magical way. I think it's gonna be the Memphis vibe we were looking for.”

What was happening? Eric thought. Everything was blithe and chirpy and they were making a movie, right here in River City. I am blessed, Eric thought. I am one lucky washed-up filmmaker.

47.

They were working out a scene with Dan Yumont and Suze Everingham. The young starlet seemed nervous working with Dan the first time. It was a love scene and the kiss they were practicing was alternately deep and meaningful and awkward. Eric couldn't figure out what was going on between them. Suze Everingham was either deeply involved in the kiss or she was scared shitless.

Here's what Eric didn't know.

The night before, when Dan had brought Ray Verbely back to his hotel room, there was someone already there waiting for him. It was Suze Everingham.

Ray Verbely was nonplussed. She had already ditched a friend that evening. Now, what was this?

“Oh, hi,” Suze Everingham said. She was willowy and blonde and her slim, perfectly proportioned body glowed with heat. She wore a shirt made of some shimmery Hollywood material, hung so loosely on her frame that breast and shoulder and belly were all simultaneously on display.

“Hello,” Dan said, tossing his jacket over a chair. “Suze Everingham, Ray Something. Suze works on the film. Ray, here, works on me.”

Suze Everingham laughed. Ray did not. She crossed her arms over her chest and thought about huffing. She only thought about it.

“Didn't know you were bringing anyone home tonight,” Suze said.

“What's on your mind?” Dan asked. They had never worked together. He knew her slightly from some mutual acquaintances and they had danced once at a party at Jack Nicholson's. Suze had made her name—her minor fame—through a small movie titled
Their Eyes Were Watching Todd
, a gay coming-of-age story, made by a first-time filmmaker who won an Independent Spirit Award for the film. Though Suze won no award she was widely discussed for her portrayal of Todd's girlfriend, who is destroyed by his coming out. She was the hot young starlet for a while, the one everyone was using in supporting parts. She was destined to play only supporting parts for her career, it seemed, if career she was going to have.

“I wanted to practice the scene we're shooting tomorrow,” Suze said, lounging back on the couch so that her body's catlike warmth seemed to fill the room with musk. Dan, who catches on to such things with a preternatural instinct, understood the intention of the young minx. Ray was still on the sidelines, understanding little.