Sugar Valley (Hollywood's Darkest Secret) (92 page)

Carol developed a small, lingering, cold tear
that hung from her left eye being afraid of releasing itself onto
her face, like it didn’t want anyone to know of its existence. But
it fell anyway, took that jump, that leap into reality of now, with
Carol whispering, “They look so happy, especially my baby,
Jose.”

A man entered the room—Jose’s father—and
announced with honor, “That’s because they are happy.”

All of them turned toward the recognizable
voice, and smiled, while Jack got up and shook his hand. “How ya
doing, Antonio?” Jack released his hand from his and sat down in
his brown, silken, fluffy chair, watching Antonio gleaming his eyes
toward the screen, seeing Jose’s face for only an instantaneous
flash before the camera switched to the stage.

“Okay, how about you?” Antonio went up to
Carol, and gave her a fresh kiss, touching her cheek timidly,
gently, and softly.

“I’m doing great,” Jack replied. “Hey,
where’s little Jessica?”

“Oh, I left the baby back at Maria’s house,
she’s babysitting her tonight.” Antonio then sat down next to Jack,
took out some chewing tobacco from his blue overalls, and placed it
in his front gums.

As soon as they heard that name “Maria,” a
name that they’d tried to avoid ever since their boys left, a name
that they were uncomfortable with when hearing, Jack suddenly knew
he had to say something about her, to avoid the uncomfortableness
of knowing that they’re trying to refrain from discussing it. Jack
turned to Antonio, watching him chewing his tobacco loudly, and
questioned in sincerity, “Um, so, um, how is Maria doing, I haven’t
seen her in awhile?”

“Well, ever since the boys left, she doesn’t
come out as often,” responded Antonio, showing disappointment
through his black eyes.

“She used to be so close to our sons. It’s
sad, but at least you have little Jessica,” stated Jack with a
smile, feeling the gawks of the women, the mothers that didn’t want
to speak in this specific conversation. Even Darell’s father stayed
out of it, like he always did with any conversation that held
seriousness to its borders.

Antonio spit his tobacco-filled saliva into a
garbage can, to the right of him, and spoke, “Yeah, I guess I’m
lucky for that. My son left us at the perfect time, because that’s
when Jessica came into our lives.”

“She looks more like you than Carol,”
Darell’s father finally mentioned, getting up from his seat and
sitting next to the men.

“Oh, thank you, Pete.”

“Does Jose know about Jessica yet?” Jack
asked.

“No, not yet, but as soon as he comes home,
Carol and I will tell him.” Carol then looked at Antonio and smiled
toward his past words.

Darell’s mother, Martha, eyed heavily at the
television, got up from her seat, and turned up the volume on it,
speaking, “Come on, guys, let’s concentrate on watching this
show.”

“Okay, Martha, we’ll be good little boys,”
laughed Pete, triggering the rest of the fathers to laugh out loud,
making the mothers grin toward their childish humor.

“Oh, I’m so excited about this,” said Karen,
her nerves beginning to travel to her stomach.

Carol could sense Karen’s nervousness, as
well as her own, and also spoke with terrific acceleration to her
voice, “I know, me too.”

“Me three,” Martha proclaimed, popping a few
kernels of popcorn into her mouth.

They were all once enemies, enemies that were
torn apart by their sons running away from them, leaving their
existence and binding them with guilt. But, as the time passed, day
after day, month after month, they became close, tied by one single
bond that they all possessed; their sons’ ambitions. Every movie or
magazine cover that one of their sons were in, meant a new memory
for them all to share together, a new page in their book of
photographs that hung in their minds, crying out tears of happiness
and honor, but also craving for these photographs to be real, and
having their sons home.

As the parents sat there, overwhelmed with
pride, Jack thought in his mind, chanting it over and over again
with anxiety injected into each word,

Please let my son win. God, please give the
Oscar to Damen.

Yet, when Antonio came to the point of hoping
for his son, Jose, to win, he didn’t speak it in his mind, he spoke
it verbally.

Everyone waited for Jose and Damen’s category
to come up, seeing each actor, wining that golden man or woman,
standing straight on its pedestal, and the time was begging to pass
quickly, going by very slowly. Antonio looked at the clock and saw
it read 8:00 p.m., but it felt like it was much longer, and they
were starting to get frustrated toward this screen. The pressure
was beginning to build up in Antonio’s mind, when suddenly, by
accident, he said out loud, “Please, God, let Jose win.”

The parents turned to face Antonio, with
looks to kill, shocked engraved in their pupil, and even Carol
showed this to him. Being that she was hoping the same thing, maybe
deep in her subconscious, but still it was there, she had the same
look, only because she was shocked that he mentioned it out loud,
knowing that it would begin an argument with Damen’s parents.

Jack took it as an accident on Antonio’s
part, but still wanted him to know that they all heard it. So, Jack
turned back to the screen, and laughed in a highly witty, joking
manner, “Well, I hope that my son, Damen, wins.”

Of course, being that Antonio was tough,
cynical, and didn’t really have manners of his own, he turned to
Jack right away and laughed, “He won’t win, he stinks at acting. I
saw his movie, and he did a poor job in it.”

This, to many people, would be considered as
going way too far with laughter, humor, and a normal person, that
this was triggered to, would become upset. Yet, Jack didn’t get
upset, instead, he got angry, aggravated, and distraught toward the
fatigue of his fury. He turned away from the screen, faced his eyes
toward Antonio’s side of the face, and defended Damen by saying,
“Well, I saw Jose’s movie last week, and he didn’t do such a good
job in it either. As a matter of fact, he did a horrible job at
acting in it, it was like he was a chicken, or a dead cow, all
stiff like, a mime.”

Antonio placed his hand inside of his
overalls, or trousers, and pulled out a one-hundred-dollar bill,
slamming it hard on the coffee table. Everyone was wondering why he
did that, feeling the breeze rushing in from the outside, and
feeling their own breeze of confusion colliding with their
thoughts, the whole ordeal was growing in intensity, these three
families, all proud and competitive about their own children.
Antonio then explained with fury, “Alright, tough guy, I bet you
one-hundred dollars that my Jose will walk away with the Oscar
trophy,” Antonio said as he placed a one-hundred-dollar bill on the
brown, shiny coffee table.

“You’re on,” Jack shouted, vigorously pulling
one hundred singles out from his coat pocket that was hanging on
his chair.

Karen got up from her seat, yelling out in a
calm fashion, “Boys, boys, could you please be quiet, we’re trying
to watch the show.”

Antonio and Jack looked at her in an appalled
manner, but before they could speak any words to her, the subject
got changed by Pete asking, “So, Jack, where is your other son,
Greg? Wasn’t he supposed to come home today?”

“Yeah, he was, but I guess he isn’t going to
make it. Ever since he left home, we only heard from him once. At
least with Damen, we could see him anytime we want. All we have to
do is go to the movies,” responded Jack, giving out a small
grin.

Carol, with her kind ways, and etiquette of
an angel, became vicious, trying to hear the television, but
instead hearing the sound of men to her ears. Karen got up again,
turned up the volume full blast, while Carol roared toward the
fathers, “Would all of you please be quiet, their category is
coming up soon.” They silenced themselves, turning toward the
screen, and waiting to see the destinies of their boys come into
reality; the only difference was, their fate was somehow changing
directions.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Anxiety building, nerves colliding, darkness
of fear revealing its most treacherous self; everyone felt
butterflies rising to a higher number, and hitting their stomachs
as Damen’s and Jose’s category came closer. While this strange
fear, an intangible fear, built up in their parents’ minds, the
adrenaline was reaching zenith proportions in Mark’s head as the
first hour past of the ceremony. He looked at Curtis’ watch and saw
it read 8:55 p.m., showing shock to his eyes, as he thought that it
was later; more like three hours past by. His inebriated body
walked up to the center of the bridge and looked into the scope of
the gun. He realized he was too drunk to shoot anything, but Curtis
wasn’t. During this time, they both finished the vodka bottle,
waiting for the moment to come up, and before they knew, they
finished the last drop of it, but Mark finished the most. His fears
and anxiety built up in the center of his mind, comprehending, in a
tiresome way, that his abilities were impaired, the alcohol had
gotten the best of him. He knew a lot of money was at stake for the
completion of the job, yet he realized his own freedom was at stake
if his drunkenness caused him to get caught by the police. That’s
when he walked up to the corpse-filled box and saw Curtis sitting
and looking out at the stage. He just looked at Curtis, feeling the
heat, from the stage lights, still radiating toward him and
creating warmth to his clothes, and still absorbing the humidity
that was in these dirt-filled rafters, being so hot, that he
thought he was breathing through a skinny straw. As Mark glared at
him, he knew what he had to do, even though he didn’t want to do
it, but had to. Mark blinked his eyes once, and slurred with his
drunken voice, “Curtis, do you still want to ... finish off the
main person?”

Before answering, Curtis gleamed his yellow
teeth through his smile, shot up like a bomb exploding underneath
him, and ran to the gun. He grabbed it, like a little child,
pretending he was in combat, and looked through the scope,
responding in a speedy way, “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“Wait, wait, hold on, not yet. Listen, in
about five minutes, the Best Actor category will be coming down, I
mean coming up. When it does, I want you to listen for the winner.
If Damen Schultz’s name is called, I want you to shoot him in the
head when he reaches the podium on the stage. But, if his name
isn’t called, then, then.” Mark paused his alcohol-absorbed vocal
cords, causing his voice to become raspy, not to mention his memory
was fading, like temporary amnesia. He couldn’t remember what
Julienne told him to do if Damen’s name wasn’t called.

“Then what?”

“Didn’t I tell you what she said already? Oh,
oh, I remember, then after the awards are over with, we take care
of him while he’s walking to the door of the building. Julienne
said that he was most definitely gonna win, that’s why I didn’t
really depend on this second method. But, um, for right now, I want
you to shoot Damen, and that other guy. You know what, better yet,
even if he doesn’t win, just try and find him through the scope,
and then get rid of him, only if his name isn’t called,” Mark
explained. He sat down on the bridge with dizziness beginning to
hit him when he looked down at the people, realizing he was about
seventy feet up in the air.

Curtis was confused, looking out at the
people below, seeing hundreds of heads to choose from, he was
puzzled by Mark’s words. “Mark, what’s the other guy’s name?”

“I don’t remember, that damn vodka is really
getting to my brain. Um, all I know is what he looks like and where
he’s seated at.” Mark slowly began to get up from his seating
position, and started to walk toward the gun with the scope on
it.

“Well, then tell me where his seat is so I
can get the scope prepared,” said Curtis in a low and excited
expression.

Mark finally came up to the gun, in the
center of the bridge, saying, “No, you first have to kill Damen.”
He looked through the scope of the gun in a treacherous fashion,
holding onto it heavily because he was dizzy from the alcohol, and
from this terrific height. “Now, the second guy is seated in row A,
seat number 23.”

Mark allowed Curtis to look into the scope.
The moment his eye was focused in on the crowd, he spoke, “Yes, I
got him in my sight already.”

Mark hit him on his head again, being angered
at his excitement, his happiness, and also because he was a mean
drunk. “Would you please not do that? Your excitement is making me
ill.” Curtis started to get aggravated toward him; he was sick of
Mark always hitting him, and pretty soon, enough would be enough,
and Curtis would have to take action to defend himself toward
Mark’s abuse.

Yet, Curtis had to let it slide for now, and
instead he had his own plan of action. As he looked through the
scope’s eye, he traveled the lens, looking for Miss Wells, knowing
that under her seat would be their payment. Curtis then looked at
Mark, asking in a suspicious voice, “Hey, where did that Julienne
lady say she was going to place the money?”

Mark was too drunk to realize any suspicion,
he was too busy trying to desperately hold down his vomit that was
creeping up to his lungs. “I thought I told you already? Listen,
she said after we do the job, when the people are running around
screaming, we should sneak down to the third row and pick up the
check from under her seat.”

“What seat is she sitting in?” Curtis
asked.

“Listen, I told you that already too. Don’t
worry about it right now, just concentrate on the ceremony. Also,
please aim the gun correctly, I know you’re a little drunk
yourself, and I don’t want you shooting and missing the target,”
Mark explained, slapping himself in the face to make the
drunkenness go away.