Migrators (13 page)

Something else occurred to Alan. “Wait, and Nigel? You mean Nigel Devons? Are you kidding? I didn’t even realize they were ever in a movie together. Talk about Hollywood elite. You discovered both of those actors?” Alan said. He lowered himself slowly back down to the rock. He sat facing Bob. Bob looked off into the woods.

“Yeah. Like I said—it was working out better than my highest hopes. Neither of them had ever had a starring role in one of my movies, but they were both there. A few scenes here and a few scenes there—the footage is out there. I was going to start
Gaucho
next year. It was going to be Hope and Nigel’s first real movie together as leads, and I’ve got a third of the story already filmed. It’s all in that extra footage from
Summary,
and
Getaway
, and
Cry Under
, and the rest. They were basically going to play themselves in
Gaucho
—how they met and grew up. Some of the scenes from Gaucho were filmed at the same time as scenes from the other movies.”

“Really?” Alan asked.

“You remember that car crash in
Getaway River Drop
? It’s near the beginning.”

“Yeah, that guy just had sex with his aunt’s friend in the back of the the YMCA. He’s late for his daughter’s recital or something?”

“And he hurries through the stop sign and hits Gretchen’s minivan,” Bob said.

“Yes,” Alan said. “That’s when we first see the kids from the cabins, right?”

“Yes, pretty much. You can see them in the title sequence, too, but that’s the first time they’re legitimately characters,” Bob said. “Behind those cabins, we had a second crew filming the kids from a different angle. They were doing a simultaneous scene about being child actors. They were told to play and act natural. During their dialog, you can see Gretchen’s minivan go by, driven by a stunt woman, and then you hear the accident.”

“So you see that whole iconic scene from a totally different angle? Like a behind-the-scenes view?” Alan asked.

“Yeah, exactly. And Hope is credited with her old name in that one. Devons was uncredited—he didn’t even speak and he slipped through without getting a mention in the credits. Some movies we filmed the kids as if they were working as actors, and others we filmed simultaneous scenes that are supposedly real life.”

“That’s crazy complicated,” Alan said.

Bob nodded. “It was ambitious to say the least. It’s the kind of thing that only a twenty-five-year-old director would attempt, but once it’s rolling, you can’t bear to let it go unfinished. And I kept it quiet, too. I used different crews as much as possible for the extra footage. I hid expenses and snuck around. I had one lawyer negotiate all the contracts so I could use the footage in the future. I think only ten people in the world know what I was up to. Eleven now.”

“Wow,” Alan said. “What a story. You should make a movie about that—about the process.”

Bob sighed. “I am. Or I was. I’m not sure. My wife said the same thing when we started, so we filmed a video diary of the process through the years. I was going to release that a few months after
Gaucho
and pull back the curtain. I wanted
Gaucho
to stand on its own first. I wanted startle everyone and make them guess at how I had put that movie together. I swore everyone to secrecy.”

“And then Ophelia overdosed?”

“Yup. Hope passed away. She was a bright young woman. You’d think I would have gotten to know her better after all these years, but I barely knew her. We started with sixteen babies for
Summary
—eight girls and eight boys. I swear, if you go back to that movie you can spot her. She pops off the screen like a beacon. Even that young you can see how compelling she’s going to be.”

Alan shook his head. Until that day, Bob hadn’t talked all that much. One of the things he liked about hanging out with Bob was that the two of them shared silence so well. But that story was so incredible. Bob’s quiet simplicity never suggested such depths.

“Sorry to burden you with all that,” Bob said.

“No—it’s no problem at all. That’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard in weeks,” Alan said.

“It’s hard to think about,” Bob said. “I end up feeling sorry for myself—all the time and effort I wasted—and then I feel guilty because I’m worried about myself when such a bright young life has been snuffed. What difference does my stupid movie make when her life was wasted like that?”

Alan thought of things to say, but he kept his mouth shut. Bob didn’t need any platitudes. He needed time to grieve for the young woman and for his own project.

Bob stood up and dusted off his pants.

“I’ve got a couple more hours,” Alan said. “What else is on your list today?”

O
CTOBER
9

A
LAN
HAD
his flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows. The old rake handle was carving sore spots in his hands as he pulled at the leaves. He heard the bus down the road winding its engine and beeping as it turned around in Gates’s driveway. Alan bunched up the last stragglers, and swept the pile of leaves out towards the center of the lawn. He would enlist Joe to drive the riding mower around, pulling the leaf sucker attachment.

“Hey, Joe,” he said.

Joe walked up and slowed as he approached the lawn. He had ditched his sweatshirt and jacket somewhere and only wore his t-shirt. That was fine this afternoon—it was almost hot out—but tomorrow morning would be cold.

“Where’s your jacket, Joe?” Alan asked.

Joe didn’t answer. He was looking up at the house. The sun reflected off the upstairs windows. Joe shielded his eyes.

Alan glanced up to where his son was looking. The sun dazzled his eyes.

“Who’s that?” Joe asked.

“Who?”

Joe pointed at the house.
 

Alan walked down the slope of the lawn to where Joe stood. He put his hand up to his own eyes and looked at the house. The big black front door was open to let in the afternoon air, but the screen door was closed.
 

“Where?” Alan asked.

“On the stairs,” Joe said. The house was fronted with wide stairs made from slabs of granite.
 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Last week you lost your hat. Then, somehow, you came home in gym shorts the other day because you’d lost your jeans. Did you leave your jacket at school, Joe? It’s going to be forty tomorrow morning. Are you going to wait for the bus in your t-shirt?”

“Dad,” Joe said. “Who is that?”

Alan looked at his son. Joe’s eyes were welling with tears.

Alan moved a little closer to the house. He could see better as he moved closer. The reflection from the windows wasn’t hitting his eyes. Through the screen door, he saw the house’s staircase that led up to the bedrooms on the second floor. Alan stopped. Halfway up the interior stairs, someone stood. Alan moved closer to the house.

He got to the granite steps and glanced back—Joe was still standing on the lawn, watching.
 

“Hello?” Alan called. “Can I help you?”

It was a woman on the steps. Alan could see the outline of her dress. She reached her hand for the bannister to steady herself. He couldn’t see her face. The sun streaming through the upstairs windows was lighting her from behind, leaving her face in shadow.

“Excuse me—this is a private residence,” Alan said.
 

He reached for the handle to the screen door. It was locked from inside. That afternoon the front hall had felt stuffy, so Alan had opened the front door to let a breeze in, but he’d never bothered to unlock the screen door. Somewhere in the mechanism, a little piece of metal was keeping Alan from confronting this woman.

Alan looked back at Joe and considered his options. He could run around the house and go in through the shed, but the woman might run away. He could send Joe around, but what if the woman was some crazy murderer? His cell phone was on the charger in the kitchen.

“Answer me, or I’m calling the police,” Alan said. The woman came down one step. Alan thought if she just came a tiny bit closer, he might be able to see her face. He collected the other details so he could relate them to the authorities. Her hair was fairly short, making a backlit halo around her head. The dress came down to the stairs and the sleeves down to her wrists. It was pink, or maybe rose, and had lace at the neck and wrists. He still couldn’t see her face.

Alan clamped his teeth and tugged at the screen door. The latch held, but it felt weary. Alan tugged again, hoping that the handle would outlast the catch. The woman on the stairs raised her free hand to her mouth. Beneath the groan of the screen door’s latch giving out, he thought he heard the woman gasp.

The screen door pulled free and Alan swung it open.
 

He stepped up and through the door as his eyes darted up and down the stairs—she was gone. Alan reached out for the door frame to steady himself. The screen door banged shut behind him.

“Where’d you go, lady?” Alan called. “Hey.”

“Dad?” Joe asked from the lawn. “Dad come out here.”

“Hold on, Joe. Lady! Crazy lady in the dress? Come out here. The cops are on their way.”

“DAD!”

Alan backed through the screen door. He shut it and pressed his hand to hold it shut. When he turned, Joe was pointing.

“What?” Alan asked.

He turned slowly. Alan looked through the screen door again and saw her. She was crouching, still halfway up the stairs, and she was hiding her face in her hands.

“What the hell?” Alan whispered. He kept his eyes glued on the woman as he opened the door. As the metal door frame passed before his eyes, the image of the woman disappeared. It was like the screen was a magic lens, and without its aid, he couldn’t see the woman.

“Call Mom, Joe,” Alan said. He threw open the door and walked in. There was nothing on the stairs, but Alan strode up the stairs and swiped through the air. He expected to meet resistance. He found only air. There was no woman, no dress, nothing. Alan backed away. He stepped back through the screen door and closed it again. He looked through the screen at the stairs. There was nothing.

“Do you see her, Joe?” Alan called. He didn’t take his eyes off the stairs. “Joe?”

“She’s gone,” Joe said from right behind him. Alan jumped.

“You don’t see her anymore?” Alan asked. Joe took his hand.

“No, Dad. She disappeared when you went up the stairs.”

“Disappeared how? Did she go upstairs or something?”

“No,” Joe said. “She just disappeared. Like evaporated or something. It was weird.”

X • X • X • X • X

Alan and Joe stayed in the kitchen. Joe worked on homework and Alan started some leftovers heating for dinner. All the doors were closed and locked, and Alan had searched the house. He was sure they were alone, but every time they heard a noise, they froze. Alan, with Joe at his back, returned to the stairway several times. He was armed with a long piece of wood he’d found in the shed. They found nothing.

Liz came up the drive and left her car outside the shed.

They heard her banging on the door.

Alan and Joe went down the hall and let her in.

Liz hugged Joe. “Are you okay?”

“We’re fine, Mom,” Joe said.

“Tell me what happened. There was a woman here?”

“Come inside,” Alan said. He closed and locked the door behind her.

Alan herded his small family to the kitchen table. He and Joe told their story. She held her hands to her chest as they spoke. Alan couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering to the dining room doorway as he spoke.
 

After they finished the story, Liz didn’t speak for a full minute.

“Did she say anything?” Liz asked. She sounded choked up. Her eyes were still dry.

“No,” Alan said. “Like I said, I thought I heard her make a noise, but she didn’t say anything.”

Liz pushed back from the table and turned. She was through the dining room before Alan could object.

“Liz!” Alan called. He grabbed Joe’s hand and led him after her. They saw her pounding up the steps. Alan paused at the bottom, looked at Joe, and then led his son up the steps after Liz. All the lights were on up there—they’d turned them all on when they’d searched the house earlier. They both sidestepped the middle of the stairs, sticking close to the bannister. The door to the master bedroom was open. Alan and Joe went through. They looked in the big closet, the bedroom, and the bathroom. Liz was gone.
 

“Liz!” Alan called.

They heard feet clomping down steps and she appeared from the closet.

She had a shoebox in her hands.

“Where were you?” Alan asked.

“I’ll show you later,” Liz said. She sat on the edge of the bed and put the shoebox down on the bedspread. Liz tucked her stray hair behind her ears and then lifted the lid.

Alan sat on the edge of the bed on the other side of the shoebox. Joe sprang to the middle of the bed. Alan noticed that his son was careful to not step too close to the edge of the bed where something might reach out from under the bed skirt.

“What is that?” Alan asked.

“I’m looking for something,” Liz said. She was setting aside little metal boxes. She handed a small cardboard box to Alan. He opened it and recognized the thing immediately. It was a little plastic slide viewer.

Liz opened one of the metal boxes of slides and flipped through them. She stopped at one with pencil writing on the white margin. She handed the slide to Alan.

The pencil marks read “Emily.”

Alan slid it into the viewer and held it up to the light.

The scene was of their own front porch—the three granite slabs that made their front steps. The white house with the year 1852 above the door was unmistakable. There was a woman sitting on the porch. She had short hair and was looking away from the camera with a sly grin on her lips. She wore a red patterned dress with lace at the neck and wrists.
 

“Can I see?” Joe asked.