The Right Thing to Do (5 page)

“They’re great,” said Malcolm. “I mean that.”

“Specially the kid bit, right? You’re into that. The psychology. Pops and Moms told me it’s all you talk about. So how come you’re not becoming a shrink?”

“I figured law made more sense.”

“More sense?” said Steve. “How so?”

“Financial stability and all that.”

“All that,” said Steve. “What, shrinks don’t eat? Freud didn’t have a fancy office?”

Malcolm didn’t answer.

“Psychology, baby bro. I’m hearing how interested you are in it, that’s why I got you all those
Playboy
s and
Swank
s for the bathroom. Like a lab experiment.”

Malcolm cracked up.

Steve said, “Doing my bit for God, country, and psychology. What do you dig about law?”

“It’s flexible.”

“Meaning?”

“If you change your mind you can do something else with it.”

“You haven’t started and you’re already figuring on quitting?”

“No, I’m just saying—”

“Sorry, don’t mean to bug you,” said Steve. He fiddled with a knob on the dashboard. “You’re a genius, way I see it, you could get a Nobel Prize for shrinkdom, anything you felt like. But sure, if law’s your thing, go for it.”

Malcolm shrugged. Steve placed his hand on that of his brother. “Lord, that’s a baseball mitt you’ve got there. You’re not worried about what Moms and Pops think, right?”

A beat. “Right.”

“I mean they’re gonna think you’re a genius, no matter what. Maybe you don’t know that because you probably haven’t talked to them much since you left. It was the same for me after I split for the Left Coast. You get cut off, but that’s not bad. It’s what a guy does when he leaves. You
leave
. Up
here.
” Tapping his temple. “Right?”

“Right.”

“We’re not that different from each other, bro. We each wanna make our own way in the world—why give a damn about what anyone wants, Mal? I know you’ve got twice my brains but I’ve lived a bit and now I’m gonna marry a woman who should be a mom and can’t be. Point is, you never know how life’s gonna turn out so for God’s sake, do whatever the hell you want. Least, that’s how I see it.”

Rapping on the driver’s door drew their attention. A young woman with a clipboard and a
Production Assistant
name tag had run up to the car. “Good you’re here. Mussolini’s foaming at the mouth.”

“Is he?” said Steve, getting out, taking her in a tango stance, dipping her low, and kissing her on the cheek. As she spun away giggling, he held out steady hands. “Notice how I’m quaking.”

Inside the trailer, Flo the makeup lady was smoking and reading
Photoplay.
She said, “Time for the magic. Not that you need much, darling.”

“My kind of gal,” said Steve. “Hey, Ivy League, want to know what pancake feels like when they slap it on your face?”

At two thirty p.m., after sandwiches with Steve during lunch break, Malcolm admitted Ramona had been right: He should’ve stayed in L.A., this was boring—mind-numbing, really. How did actors stand it?

Rather than stand around for the remainder of the afternoon shoot, he returned to Steve’s trailer, picked up the
Photoplay
that Flo had left behind, and gave it a try. Imagining what his suite-mates would think to see him immersed in studio flackery disguised as actual articles. Same for the abstract-art-loving Cliffies in their sweater sets, the girls on the Wellesley bus.

Especially Sophia Muller; no one more sophisticated than her, she’d lose whatever respect she had for him.

Assuming she had any to begin with.

Maybe he’d chance calling her when the semester began. Nothing ventured and what was there to lose other than a bit of self-esteem?

He wondered what being Steve was like, drawing upon a seemingly endless store of confidence. He supposed you needed that in order to hitchhike across the country at barely eighteen, somehow make it in the most improbable of professions.

And here his brother was, still a young man, talking about retiring in comfort. About to settle down with a woman who adored him. To help kids.

Malcolm had never risked anything. At eighteen, he’d been a dutiful grind at Stuyvesant High. At twenty-one, what he had to look forward to was three years of sitting on his ass, pretending to care about torts.

Suddenly he felt closed in, short of breath, the trailer a coffin about to slam shut. Heaving his massive self toward the trailer door, he flung it open and hurled himself into the cooling desert air.

He set out in the same direction he had yesterday. No chance of losing context, evening was hours away.

There you go, Cautious Boy. Propelled along.

He tried to shake things up by trotting, then running. Telling himself he didn’t care when his brand-new Florsheims picked up rocks and grit and each footfall smarted. Picking up his pace even further, he pushed himself harder than he ever had, rasping, feeling his chest grow tight.

Clenching his eyes shut and chancing a single blind step. Then two, then three.

Using every inch of the giraffe legs that had so often betrayed him as puberty set in. Propelling himself forward into nothingness, arid air searing his lungs.

When he returned an hour and a half later, he felt ragged and joyful. He hadn’t been alone, the desert revealed companions as he covered ground: fearful lizards, antsy jackrabbits, scattering fire ants, an unmistakably hostile rattlesnake. A mangy coyote that regarded Malcolm balefully before slinking off behind a Joshua tree.

As he neared the clump of trailers, his eyes shifted to Randolph Eddowe’s unit. No sign of the old sot. But then, several steps later, he heard the creak of a door and ducked to the side and saw someone emerge from Eddowe’s trailer.

The sour-faced horse-trainer, again in those jodhpurs that were kind of ridiculous when you thought about it. The woman hurried the same way Eddowe had last night.

The same furtive look as in Eddowe’s eyes.

Something going on in there? Eddowe making himself scarce because he had some sort of racket going?

None of his business.

But as he thought about it, it began gnawing at him and now his boredom was gone, replaced by uneasiness.

He turned to leave.

Steve’s monologue ran in his head.

Do whatever the hell you want.

Waiting until the trainer had gone, he reversed direction, walked to Eddowe’s door, and rapped twice.

From inside came a baritone growl—like a big dog warning off an intruder.

Definitely
none of his business, he’d better get out of there before he messed things up for Steve.

Just as he turned, he heard another voice. High-pitched, keening.

The unmistakable timbre of a child.

Moaning?

He tried the door. Latched. But a flimsy construction, some kind of plastic, and Malcolm’s “mitt” barely stung when he used it to shove the door open.

A chorus of odors hit him: makeup, booze, body odor. Something else he hoped he was wrong about.

A wall of noise accompanied the smells.

The melody, outraged howls from Randolph Eddowe.

The actor’s pants and undershorts lay puddled at his ankles. His pink, flabby lower body was exposed. He’d whipped his head around at the intrusion, was cursing and ranting at Malcolm.

But the rest of him hadn’t budged. One arm was angled around his own back. The hand of the other rested atop the chestnut hair of a girl—a child. She was perched on a table, facing Eddowe.

It was her mewling that supplied the harmony. A little girl in a pink blouse and jeans. Eight or nine, oh God, now she was looking straight at Malcolm in terror and her sobs had kicked up to screams and Malcolm wondered if part of that was shame that he’d brought on.

No, no, she needed no help with shame. Not with Eddowe holding her like that, his belly exposed…Malcolm’s mind camera flashed.

Not one of the schoolkids in the movie.

A child Malcolm hadn’t seen before. Because she’d been reserved for…this?

He charged toward Eddowe. The little girl’s face crumpled and a bolt of resemblance struck him.

Child-version of the horse trainer. A mother slinking away? Training her own daughter for
this
?

Eddowe had shifted his hand from behind his back, lifted the other from the girl’s head. Now he was waving fists at Malcolm, cursing, bellowing, but Malcolm’s roar was louder as he took hold of both Eddowe’s wrists and pulled hard, causing the two of them to stumble.

Malcolm managed to remain on his feet, shoved Eddowe hard, and the bastard, encumbered by his crumpled pants, reeled and landed hard on his back.

Now he was silent. Staring up at Malcolm, paralyzed with terror.

“I…I…go away.”

Malcolm placed a Florsheim on the pervert’s chest and bore down ever so slightly.

Eddowe’s eyes popped. He gasped. “Please. You got it wrong.”

Malcolm, unprepared for the unimaginable, found no words. He turned to the girl. Her head was lowered and she was hugging herself.

He said, “You’re okay.”

The girl didn’t move.

He said, “You can get off there, now,” and she climbed off the table. Complying far too easily. Trained.

Working in Roxbury, Malcolm had heard about terrible things. Children who showed up bruised, the occasional broken bones. But no one ever proved anything—no one really tried because what was the point? Call the cops and they talk to the parents and the parents stop bringing the kids?

A terrible system but as a student volunteer, what was his clout.

Propelled…

Now
this
?

The little girl stood there. Malcolm smiled at her, his foot still on Eddowe.

He said, “You’re okay.”

She let out a cry and ran out of the trailer, leaving the door wide open.

“Look what you’ve done,” said Eddowe.

Malcolm hauled him to his feet, wheeled him so they faced each other. Eddowe gasped and Malcolm realized his fist was an inch from the bastard’s face. Rage had inflated within him.
So
easy to just…

Eddowe knew what he was thinking. He blubbered. “Please.”

“What the hell’s the
matter
with you!”

Eddowe shook his head and began crying. Malcolm lifted him so that only the toes of his shoes touched the floor.

The asshole felt weightless.

“Don’t hurt me,” said Eddowe. “It was a deal. I paid fair and square.”

Inhaling slowly, Malcolm lowered him. Eddowe sagged, not wanting to stand on his own. Malcolm said, “You’re coming with me. If you pull anything, I’ll stomp you like the shit you are.”

“Okay,” said Eddowe. “You’re the director.”

No one was around. A wave of nausea swept over Malcolm as he propelled Eddowe toward the only place he was familiar with.

Miraculously, Steve was in the Airstream, stretched on a narrow mattress, snoring lightly.

He got tired, like everyone else. Reassuring to know.

Eddowe was now beyond speech. His eyes had taken on a dreamy look—self-anesthesia.

Malcolm prodded Steve’s elbow gently. “Wake up.”

One of Steve’s eyes opened, then the other. He saw Eddowe and sat up sharply.

“What the—”

Malcolm said, “This is what happened.” Still unable to phrase what he’d seen in a way that didn’t make him want to vomit, he managed to communicate.

Steve’s expression went from surprise to the look he had when he shot people on the set. He got up, took Eddowe from Malcolm, and wordlessly pushed Eddowe outside and over to the Caddy. Popping the trunk, he shoved Eddowe in and slammed the door shut.

“He’s got no more scenes, so no problem.”

“The girl,” said Malcolm.

“You bet the girl. C’mon.”

They found the trainer with her horses, but paying no attention to the animals. Instead, she was standing over her daughter, legs akimbo, hands on hips.

Scolding?

When the child saw Malcolm, she froze. Then she ran to him and threw skinny arms around his legs.

The woman said, “Amy! You come right back here this minute!”

Steve marched up to her. “Shut the fuck up. You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me, you’re not the director.”

“Think so?” Steve snarled. “Guess what, bitch: I’m directing
you
.”

Malcolm waited outside Steve’s trailer with Amy while Steve took her mother inside. No sound from the trunk of the Caddy.

Malcolm said, “It’s okay, Amy.”

The child had her back to him. She stepped away, walked slowly to a wall of the trailer and faced it. As if she’d misbehaved and been sentenced to stand in the corner.

Malcolm knew he couldn’t touch her, what would touch mean to a child like her?

But he should say
something.
Professor Fiacre would know what to say but he sure as hell didn’t.

He’d never felt more hopeless so he just stood there and so did Amy.

Steve emerged with his arm on the trainer’s elbow. The sour look had slipped off her face. She looked hollow.

Steve said, “Finally got that stupid phone working, a sheriff’s coming by for Mrs. Moseley, here.”

The woman said, “I had no idea.”

Steve silenced her with a terrible, perfect-tooth smile. If Dr. Markowitz only knew how versatile his art was.

They waited for over an hour, Steve removing Eddowe from the trunk as the squad car’s headlights came into view. The deputies who showed up seemed baffled. Questioning Malcolm over and over if he was sure of what he’d seen.

“Because,” said one of them, a rawboned, mustachioed man, “I never heard of nothing like that. Even for these Hollywood types.”

His partner, heavy and sandy-haired, questioned Steve, Mrs. Moseley, finally Eddowe, who’d regressed to glassy-eyed silence. No one talked to Amy. She kept edging farther away from the adults.

Finally, Mustache said, “Okay, we got our report, let’s see what the captain has to say.” Pointing a finger at Moseley, then Eddowe. “You two stay out of trouble.” A glance at Amy, pressing her brow to a trailer wall. The deputy seemed to be weighing his words. None followed and he turned to leave.