the Plan (1995) (9 page)

"What are you talking about?"

"There're these guys. We do a little business sometimes, and they're miming a guy for President of the United States. . . . I was talking to my friend and he said they needed somebody who could produce a documentary. I know that's chickenshit stuff to a guy like you, with Emmys and everything, but if you're looking to get a little air between you and these L
. A . hairbags, I could make a call."

"Documentary?" Ryan said. "I never did a documentary." His heart was racing. Something irrational told him to take it . . . to get the hell out of here. All the memories, the shadow dreams. The self-centered sameness of his life was crushing him. He'd been heaping one lie on top of another to stay afloat, hoping everyone else he knew failed so he might win. He'd never been that way before. He knew that he had somehow poisoned himself. . . .

"You still with me?" Mickey asked, bringing him back. "Like I said, it isn't my boogie, but I know I could set it up. Tell you what . . . I gotta stay out here for a day and fix some things for Pop. I can set it up tonight and we'll fly back to New Jersey tomorrow. I'll introduce you to these guys."

Ryan was frozen with indecision. Mickey read him.

"What happened to you, man? What happened to the guy who used to run fucking Z patterns in front of rabid linebackers? You're sitting here with a complexion gray as spoiled meat. The Mick has gotta pump some voltage in t' you."

Something about Mickey's energy stirred old feelings.

"Why not," he finally blurted. "Make the call."

"I can tell you, now you've said yes, you're saving my ass on this, buddy." Mickey grinned. "I promised these guys I'd find somebody to do this film, and here I end up with Emmy-winning Ryan Bolt. . . . They're gonna shit."

Ryan felt himself blushing, and Mickey looked at his watch.

"I gotta go. Could you do me a favor? I promised Lucinda I'd take her to dinner before this came up. Would you get me off the hook and take her for me?"

"Sure."

"Tomorrow, you and me and Lucinda fly on my dad's jet back to Jersey. It'll be old times."

It was happening so fast, it was all Ryan could do to hang on.

They were sitting on the porch of the bungalow in the yellow sunset. She had changed since her tennis lesson and was wearing shorts and a silk blouse. She was breathtakingly beautiful. There was something so sweet, so simple about her that Ryan felt he was in the presence of royalty. He felt recharged by the light in her green eyes.

Without warning, he heard himself say, "I've been having a terrible time lately. I've been acting irrationally. I'm having . . ." He stopped. Why was he telling this gorgeous girl this? He sounded like a complete head case.

"You have anxiety attacks?" she said, finishing his thought.

"Yes, dreams where I'm chased by dark, evil presences that I can't identify."

"You've pushed your shadow away."

He looked at her. She was staring into his eyes, completely invested in him.

"Whafta you mean?"

"I'll give you a book . . . it's called Meeting the Shadow. It's a lotta Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell, but it's fascinating. What it says is, if you deny your dark side, you will stifle yourself. Everybody has a devil in them. These kids I'm working with are so angry, they could almost kill. I try and get that darkness out. I try and get them to confront it. Maybe you have something in your past that you've repressed. If you could find out what it is, it would fire you."

"Repressed, you mean something in my past that I don't even remember . . . ?"

She nodded.

"And it has something to do with Matt?"

"It could, but Matt is in your conscious. The shadow is in your subconscious. Losing Matt could be stirring it up . . . like sediment coming up from the bottom."

He looked at her for a long beat. They were sitting here in this artificial lily pond with white swans, in the middle of a riot-plagued city, breathing smog and talking abou
t h
is psychotic tendencies, yet somehow it seemed perfectly normal.

"Will you marry me?" he joked.

"If you'd asked me when I was seven, the answer would have been yes."

They sat in silence for a long moment.

"Do you ever think of Rex?" she asked suddenly, her face strangely blank.

"Yes, occasionally." He wondered why she had asked. "That was the weekend we met," she finally said.

Chapter
11.

THE LEAR WAS ALREADY OUT OF THE HANGAR WHEN
Elizabeth pulled her Ghia through the gates that were manned by a field attendant.

"I still think you should stick around," she scolded Ryan. "Just 'cause Marty Lanier didn't like the rough cut doesn't mean you can't get an order. What am I supposed to tell Freddie Fredrickson when he calls?"

Fredrickson was the president of the TV Division at Universal. He and Ryan had been allies until the roof caved in on Ryan's career and now Fred glowered at him like temporary office furniture.

"They're not gonna call. I'm dead, Elizabeth. They just haven't put the headstone up yet.* You know it, I know it.

She had parked in the heat by the side of the hangar.

"Look, Ryan, I got an offer from Mel Thomas. He's doing the new Judd Hirsch series. They want me to start next month. I told them I couldn't leave you, but . . ."

"Liz, take the job," he instructed her. "We shouldn't go down together."

"I feel like I'm deserting you."

"I deserted myself, hon. You gotta look out for yourself."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

"You know how much I care for you?"

"Me, too. Take the job, Elizabeth. It'll make me feel better."

Lucinda was seated in the back of the plane, her feet up on the gray upholstered seat, as Ryan came aboard smiling.

"Hi," he said, waving at Milo, the pilot, and moving back to join her. She was wearing jeans and a work shirt; a blue blazer lay on the seat next to her. He moved her jacket and sat down.

"Where's Mickey?" he asked, looking around. "He has to stay over two more days."

She reached into her purse. "I got something for you," she said and pulled out a paperback book. The title was
"
Meeting the Shadow.
"

"You remembered."

"Yep."

"Look, about yesterday . . . I think I came off sort of like a head case. I'm sorry. I don't want you to think I'm out of control."

"Vulnerability is more attractive than invincibility.' "Is it?"

"For me. Somebody who isn't afraid to show his weakness is always more interesting than some showboat with all the answers."

Soon they were in the air, heading out over the San Gabriel Mountains, leaving the L
. A
. nightmare behind.

Ryan looked at Lucinda, struck by her composure and beauty. He tried to see Mickey in her, but there was absolutely no family resemblance. Silence hung like a velvet curtain between them.

"So you're working on your doctorate," Ryan said, pushing it away. "What's it on?"

"Bereavement. Guess you know a little about that." "More than I need to, I think."

Suddenly he was very, very tired. Something about being here with Lucinda relaxed him. Within a short time, he fell asleep.

He awoke some time later and saw that she was looking at him. He turned his eyes away and thought, "God, could I be getting this lucky?"

The answer was waiting in New Haven.

Chapter
12.

AT FIRST, IT WAS JUST A VOID, AN ALL-CONSUMING NOTHingness, and then the dark shape passed him--bigger than
before--evil and deadly, trailing pieces of Matt's clothin
g i n the currents behind it. The Florida Sea World T-shir t f rom the trip last summer, curling in the blackness, waftin g i n emptiness. Matt's shirt, then his tennis shoes caught o n s omething. The shape went by him in silence but the roa r t hat followed was the blood pounding in his ears. A simia n e ye swept past, seeing him, seeing the shallow desires tha t g uided him. He didn't think he could stand another pass , another look into that eye, but the shadow turned and cam e b ack.

"Are you ready, Daddy? Here we come."

Ryan bolted up out of a sound sleep, his heart racing. He didn't know where he was but finally put his thoughts in order. Pool house. The guest room. He was at Mickey's father's New Jersey estate. It was eleven-thirty in the evening.

He got up and moved slowly to the bathroom to loo
k a
t the now-familiar mask that greeted him after bouts wit
h t
he shadow--hollow eyes, tight lips, a look of desperation.

He dressed, left the pool house, and went wandering ou
t o
n the grounds. It was cold, but at least the chill made him feel alive. A full moon turned the landscape silver. And then he saw her by the garden. She sensed him before she could have known he was there.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, as she turned.

"Me neither."

They stood in silence.

"Isn't Rex buried around here someplace?"

"He's over there." She pointed to the right.

"You warm enough?" he asked.

"I don't get cold. It's a family trait. Good circulation or something."

"Whatta you doing out here?"

"I was . . . I was talking to God." It had never occurred to him that she was religious. Ryan had no formal religion. He believed that something out there governed things, but he found his church in a field of flowers or a beautiful star-filled night. Ryan had never felt close to God in formal settings.

"What were you telling Him?"

"None of your business." She grinned. "Come on, let's go inside. You look frozen."

They moved through patio French doors into the living room. She turned on one light, and they sat down on the couch in front of the unlit fireplace. She picked up a pillow and put it in her lap. It was funny how comfortable he felt with her. He didn't have to be anybody. With Linda, he always had to help create an image of perfection for others. Only occasionally were they focused on something else, like the night they found the bird in the house.

"You look sad," she said, reading him again, perfectly. "I guess."

"What are you thinking?"

"Nothing, really."

And then suddenly he wanted to tell her--share it with her--even though it made very little sense.

"It will probably sound odd."

"How will I know unless you tell me?"

He smiled and let a long-protected thought go free. "In our Bel Air house, Linda and I were about to go to bed when we heard this chirping sound," he started slowly. "I walked into the entry and there was a robin sitting on the chandelier. Linda and I knew we had to get it out. We had to save that bird. It became the most important task on earth. So we opened the doors and all the windows and we tried to flush it out . . . Linda waving a towel at the poor thing, me swinging a broom, and then it would take off, flying into walls, landing on the floor. Every time we'd almost get to it, the bird would take off and fly into another room."

"What happened?"

"Finally, after at least an hour, she caught it. The robin was so tired, it just let her pick it up. She carried it outside and set it on the ground. We watched for an hour, but it wouldn't fly. Finally we went to bed. In the morning, it was gone."

"Was that before or after Matt died?"

"It was the night he left. The next day, we went to Santa Barbara and he died. How'd you know that?"

"Because of the way you said it."

"It was like an omen," he said. "He was in our life. We put him out and the next morning he was gone."

"It will get better, Ryan. All things change and become something else. Pain often forces us to grow."

She reached out and took his hand.

"I'll see you in the morning." He stood as she got to her feet. And then he kissed her. It was a quick kiss and not quite on the mouth.

"Don't leave without saying good-bye," she said as she turned out the lights and started up the stairs. He walked back to the pool house and stood there in silence. Something was different. It took a moment before he could identify what it was. It was a sense of calm, the first peace he'd felt in months. He turned off the light and stretched out on the bed. He thought about the shadow. He would fight it. He felt some of his confidence return. Like i n c ollege when it was third and long and they called his number. Back then, he knew if the ball came near him, he would catch it. For the first time since Matt died, he looked forward to what tomorrow would bring.

Chapter
13.

THE DOOR OPENED AND RYAN WALKED INTO A FLURRY of activity. Twenty people were milling on the small concrete floor, which had few offices, little furniture, and no carpet. A volunteer was pulling campaign fliers of Haze Richards's last gubernatorial election out of a box. The Haze Richards Presidential Campaign Headquarters in Rhode Island was a study in organized confusion. Ven and Van were on phones trying to get airline schedules to Iowa.