The Extra (18 page)

“Eat your main course before you eat your dessert,” Miriam snapped at her husband.

“I’ll eat what I damned well please, when I please,” he replied.

Miriam shook her head and then sliced off a piece of machine-cut turkey, dipped it in gravy and took a bite.  On the television program, a pretty young anchorwoman sat at a news desk beside a middle-aged movie critic with tousled brown hair.

“Here to talk about the latest crop of Oscar nominees is our very own Myles Wilson.  What do you have for us Myles?”

“Thank you Vanessa.  Well, the Oscar buzz is hot and heavy this year, and perhaps the biggest news is a lack of news,” said Myles.  In the background a picture of Warren August appeared with a superimposed Oscar statuette beside him.  Simultaneously, Miriam and Vernon’s jaws fell open.  Their eyes grew wide.

“Nominated for best supporting actor this year is a man nobody had heard of beforehand and nobody has heard from since,” continued Myles.  “According to director Stewart Kaplan, Warren August simply appeared on the set of
The
South Side
one day, got the part, and then vanished as soon as the film wrapped. Nobody knows a thing about this man.  I’ll tell you, I’ve been in this business a long time and I can’t remember a story as intriguing as this one.”

“But don’t you think this is just another publicity stunt by the studios?” said Vanessa.

“I don’t know, but August definitely deserves the nomination in my book.  For a complete unknown to show that depth of emotion on screen is impressive.  He has the talent and he’s my pick for the Oscar, though I know he’ll never win it.”

“Why not?”

“Politics.  It’s no wonder he was completely overlooked for the Golden Globes.  He simply hasn’t paid his dues.”

“Ok, when we come back we’ll take a closer look at the rest of the nominees and Myles will give you his picks for the Oscar in all of the top categories.”

On screen flashed a toothpaste commercial.  Miriam and Vernon were flabbergasted.  “Honey, that was our Warren,” said Miriam.

“Couldn’t be,” said Vernon.

“It was!”

“Must be someone looks like Warren.”

“But the man said!  The man said, Warren August!” exclaimed Miriam.

“Damn.  He did, didn’t he?” said Vernon.

“Yes he did!”

“Well I’ll be…” said Vernon.

The couple sat in stunned silence.  The phone rang five times before Miriam picked it up.  “Hello?” she answered.

“Hello,” said the voice on the other end.  “To whom am I speaking?”

“Who is this?” replied Miriam, accusingly.

“My name is Rallston.  Sydney Rallston.  I work for the
Hollywood Recorder
.”

“The what?” she said.

“I’m a journalist,” he said.  “I’m doing a story on Warren August.  Is he any relation of yours?”

“I’ll say,” answered Miriam.  She held the phone away from her ear and turned to her husband.  “Some reporter’s on the phone.  Asking about Warren.”

“Give me that!” said Vernon.  He grabbed the receiver from her hand.  “Who is this and what do you want?” he said into the phone.

Rallston started over.  “Sydney Rallston from the
Hollywood Recorder
.  I’m wondering what you can tell me about Warren August?”

“He’s my boy, that’s what,” said Vernon.

“Is he there with you now?!”  Rallston was barely able to conceal his enthusiasm. 

“What’s it to you?” said Vernon with a heavy dose of skepticism.

“Did you know your son is about to become a very famous man?” said Rallston.

“Is this whole thing some kind of a joke?” said Vernon.

“It’s not a joke,” said Rallston.  “Maybe I’ve got the wrong Warren August.”

“You talkin’ ‘bout that movie business?” said Vernon.

“That’s right,” said Rallston, hopeful once again.  “What can you tell me about that?”

“I saw a thing about it on the TV just now.  First I heard of it.”

“Warren didn’t tell you he was in a movie?” asked Rallston.

“We don’t talk so much.”

“When was the last time you did talk to him?” Rallston asked.

“I don’t know.  Been a while.”

“A while, like months?”

“No.  More like years.”

“Three years!” Miriam shouted in the background.

“You haven’t spoken to your son in three years?” said Rallston, trying to hide his astonishment.

“I didn’t say that!” answered Vernon testily.

“Have any other reporters called to talk to you about Warren?”  This sounded like just the break Rallston had been hoping and praying for.  Another background actor he’d spoken with told him that Warren came from New Orleans.  A call to every August listed in the phone book yielded his parents on only the seventh try.  Rallston wondered if any other reporters might have the same idea.

“Nobody else has called,” Vernon answered to Rallston’s huge relief.

“I wonder, would you mind if I came on out there to meet with you?” said Rallston. 

“From Hollywood?” said Vernon, aghast.

“That’s right,” said Rallston.  He knew that he’d have to pay for the ticket himself, and take some of his sick leave to get the time off, but if he could be the one to break this story it was worth it.

“Why the hell would you want to do that?” Vernon continued.

“To talk things over, about Warren.  In person.”

Vernon thought to himself.  He wasn’t sure he wanted some stranger in his house, nosing around with questions.  Then again, maybe Vernon would end up on TV, too.  Wouldn’t that be something?  He might even get some money out of the deal.  “Well, all right.  If you want to, I suppose that’d be ok,” he answered.

“Great.  How about Thursday afternoon?  Will you be home then?”

“Thursday’s fine,” said Vernon.

“Terrific, I’ll call you once I’ve made flight arrangements and we can set a time.”

“Ok, then.  So long.”  Vernon hung up the phone.  Miriam stared at him, waiting for some sort of response.

“Well?” she said.

“The man’s comin’ out.  All the way from Hollywood, to talk about our boy.”

“Well I’ll be,” said Miriam.

They thought about the implications for a moment.  Of course they’d have to clean the house.  Maybe put on some nice clothes.  Get a pitcher of lemonade, or some beer.  They looked back to the TV.  Vernon stuck his fork into his apple cobbler and took a bite.

“What’s our Warren doin’ in the movies?” said Miriam.

Vernon shrugged.  “You think he’s got some money?”

“I’d say so.”

“Wish he’d call more often.”

“We should talk to Dorothy.”

“Yes, we should.”

“We’ll call her in the morning.”

“Right.  You can call her.”

“Ok, I will,” said Miriam.  Vernon nodded and then turned the volume up on the television.

Chapter Thirty-Four

As his plane taxied toward the terminal in New Orleans, Sydney Rallston felt a full range of emotions.  He could hardly wait to get off the plane, to get to the August household before any other reporters beat him to it.  He also felt a sense of pride that he was taking matters into his own hands with this story, mixed with some sadness that he had to.  He knew that he wasn’t respected at his job.  Not by his editor, anyway.  He deserved better.  If he managed to land this story, at least he could go out on a high note.  He could retire with some self-respect, and that was what really mattered.

When they came to a stop at the gate, Rallston waited eagerly for the “fasten seatbelt” light to go off.  As soon as he heard that familiar “ding” he jumped up and took his carry-on from the overhead compartment.  He was one of the first off the plane once the door opened, and he went straight through the terminal to a taxi stand, hopped into the first available cab and gave the driver the August’s address.  “As fast as you can,” he said.

“What’s your hurry?” asked the driver.

“Just drive,” said Rallston, not looking to explain himself.  As they went through town he took out a notebook and opened it to a page on which he’d written some potential interview questions.  There were so many, he wasn’t sure where to begin.  As long as he was the first to talk to them, it didn’t really matter.  The rest would fall into place.

It only took twenty minutes before the cab pulled up in front of the house.  Rallston paid the fare, plus tip, and climbed out with his bag in tow.  As he walked up the concrete path toward the front door he was struck with apprehension.  What if this really wasn’t the same Warren August?  What if it was all a big mistake?  There was no way to be sure at this point.  He’d only had a few brief conversations with these people.  Maybe they were lying.  Maybe they were wrong.  He tried to contain these fears as he reached up and rang the front bell.  Either way, it would all be sorted out soon enough.

When the door opened, it was Miriam August who stood to greet him.  She was a medium-sized woman with wavy brown hair.  She wore a flower-print dress that came down to her calves.  “Hello, you must be Mr. Rallston,” she said.

“And you must be Miriam,” he answered. 

She pushed open the screen door and held out a hand.  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Rallston.”

“Please, call me Sydney.”

“All right, Sydney, come on in.” 

She seemed nice enough, in an easy-going kind of way.  He followed her into the house, leaving his bag by the door.  In the living room her husband sat on a worn brown couch watching television intently.  On the screen, two men writhed on a mat inside a steel cage.  “Yes!  That’s what I’m talking about!” shouted Vernon August as a referee called the fight.

“Honey, this is Sydney Rallston, the reporter,” said Miriam.

Vernon hit pause on his remote and rose to his feet.  “Hello, Mr. Rallston!” he said, reaching out a hand.

“He’d like us to call him Sydney,” said Miriam.

“I’m Vernon.”

“Very nice to meet you,” said Rallston.  He shook Vernon’s hand and then took a look around the room, searching for clues to the life of Warren August.  Beside the couch was a matching easy chair.  A coffee table was bare but for a set of coasters and a half-full bottle of Budweiser.  On either side of the TV were glass cases filled with ceramic figurines.  On one shelf was a wedding photo of a young Vernon in an army uniform with his bride, Miriam, in a white dress.  Beside that was a photo of two teenagers; a girl of about eighteen and a boy a few years younger.  This piqued Rallston’s interest.  He recognized the boy.  It was Warren August.  Rallston felt a wave of relief wash over him.  He was in the right place after all.

“Can I get you a beer?” Miriam asked.

“No thank you,” Rallston answered.  “A glass of water would be nice.”

“I have some lemonade if you’d prefer.”

“That would be perfect.”

When Miriam left the room, Rallston approached the cabinet to get a better look at the photo.  Warren’s hair was medium-length and hanging in his face.  His smile was a bit loopy, with braces showing on his teeth.

“You came an awfully long way to talk to us,” said Vernon, his own skepticism painfully obvious.

“I’m very happy to be here,” Rallston answered, understating the point.  The truth was, he felt as though he’d hit the mother lode.

“That’s Warren and his sister Dorothy,” said Vernon.  “Back when they were in high school.”

“Here in New Orleans?” Rallston asked.

“That’s right, we’ve been here going on twelve years now.  Before that we moved around quite a bit.”

Rallston looked at the wedding photo.  “You were in the service, I see?” he said.

“Uh, huh.  Put in my twenty and got out.”

“Army?”

Vernon didn’t answer right away.  Instead he looked Rallston over, sizing him up.  “That’s right,” he said finally.  “PFC to Master Sergeant.”

Miriam came back into the room holding a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses filled with ice.  “Here we are.”  She put the tray on the coffee table, poured two glasses and handed one to Rallston.  “Please, have a seat,” she said, taking a spot on the couch beside her husband.

“Thank you,” Rallston replied.  He sat in the easy chair.  From a pocket he took out his notebook, a pencil, and a digital recorder.  “I appreciate your taking the time to see me like this.  I hope you don’t mind if I record our conversation; just to make sure I get it all down right.”

“Go ahead,” said Vernon dismissively, just wanting the whole thing to be over with already. 

“Thank you.”  Rallston turned on the recorder and placed it on the table.  “So tell me, how long has it been since you’ve seen Warren?  Was it three years, did you say?”

Vernon and Miriam looked at one another; she with an expression of shame, but Vernon with a flush of anger.  “I don’t rightly see what difference that makes,” he said.

“Yes, well, I just wondered if perhaps you’d had some kind of falling out?  Maybe you could tell me about that?”

“We ain’t had no falling out.  He’s just an independent sort, that’s all.”

“I see,” Rallston answered.  He was going to have to tread carefully.  The last thing he wanted was to upset these people; the only lead he had.  “Maybe you could tell me what he was up to the last time you did see him.  Did he always have an interest in acting?”

“What magazine did you say you was from?” said Vernon.

“
The Hollywood Recorder
.”

“Hmmm.  Ain’t never heard of that before.”

Miriam perked up.  “I could show you some photographs of Warren, if you’d like.  From when he was a child,” she said.

“That would be wonderful,” said Rallston, grateful for anything he could get.

Miriam stood from her place on the couch and walked across the room to the cabinet on the right hand side of the television.  She opened a drawer at the bottom and pulled out some photo albums, reading through the text scrawled on the covers before she brought one of them back over.  “Here we go!” she said cheerfully.  Miriam sat again and opened the album, placing it on the table between them.  She flipped through a few pages of baby photos and then paused on an elementary school picture of Warren with wavy blonde hair and a big smile on his face.  He wore a blue velour shirt and a gold chain around his neck.