Shallow Graves

3

"Where'd you get that scar?" Pellam opened his eyes. Thinking only that he wanted to throw up.

He told this to the white-jacketed man standing above him, muscular, in his forties. And, as the doctor was telling him that it was normal, Pellam started to.

A bedpan appeared just in time and, while Pellam was busy with it, the doctor continued his calm monologue. "You wake up from a concussion, you always see regurgitation. I don't mean stunned but actually knocked unconscious. Yep, completely normal reaction."

He looked like a veterinarian Pellam had taken a dog to once. A standard poodle, he thought, but he couldn't remember for sure. He liked standard poodles but he didn't think he'd ever owned one. That bothered him, not remembering. Maybe he had amnesia. Or brain damage.

He groaned. After the completely normal regurgitation, he felt burning stomach muscles and a fiery throat join the agony that swelled inside his skull, a balloon that wouldn't stop expanding until the bone cracked and the pressure hissed out like steam from a burst pipe.

He took a mouthful of water, rinsed, and spit into the bedpan. There was no nurse and the doctor disappeared with the pan. He returned with a clean one and set it on the table next to Pellam.

No, it wasn't a poodle, it was a terrier. One of Trudie's he believed (Trudie, Trudie… had he called her?).

"That should be about it," the doctor said and didn't explain any further.

Pellam did a self-exam. He wore just his Jockey briefs under a blue cloth robe. He lifted the sheets and checked body parts in descending order of importance. The only sign of damage, apart from the bandage on his head, was a bruise on his thigh the color and shape of a mutant eggplant.

"I wouldn't drink anything for a while," the doctor said.

Pellam said he wouldn't. Then added, "I got hit by a car." He was disappointed that this was the most significant thing he could think of to say.

The doctor said, "Uh-huh." Mostly he seemed curious about the scar. It was a foot long, a gouge of glossy, indented skin across Pellam's right biceps and chest. It was a memento of the time an arms assistant got the charge instructions wrong during a car chase gag and used dynamite instead of smokeless powder in rigging the Oldsmobile Pellam was driving. When the car exploded, Pellam got an eighteen-inch auto part in the chest. The medic told him that if it'd been going straight it would've pinned him to the wall. "Lahk a stuck piyag, Pellam. You a lucky somvabitch."

"Used to do stunt work," he now said to the doctor.

"Oh, you're the movie man, huh?"

Pellam focused on him. He really looked like he should be treating fuzzy terriers and poodles and mending tipped cows.

"I'm the movie man."

"Don't do stunts anymore, I hope."

"Life's exciting enough."

"I hear you," the doctor said.

"How am I?"

The doctor said, "Nothing serious. Concussion but no cracks. You fell good-I guess because you're used to stunts. That scrape on your head is wide, it can get infected pretty easy, so keep an eye on it. I'll give you some Betadine."

"This a hospital?"

The doctor laughed. "It's got me, a mini lab, a podiatrist, an OB-GYN. If that's a hospital, this is Cleary General."

"Can I leave?"

"Nope. You'll have to stay here the night. You'll be pretty dizzy for a while. I wouldn't want you to fall. I've got plenty of magazines. Reader's Digests. Some National Geographics. Good things like that. A bible, if you're interested."

"I've got to get a message to somebody."

"There's a phone in the lobby. I can make a call for you. If you-"

"No, not a phone call. Somebody'll be waiting for me back at my camper. It's parked on Main Street." Pellam told him that Marty would be returning about six.

The doctor said, "I've got a son works at the IH plant. He's a manager. He can take some time off and leave a note on your camper door."

"Be obliged."

Pellam watched the doctor take a small chart from beside the bed and write on it.

"Who was it? Who hit me?"

The doctor kept writing.

Pellam wondered if it was a hit and run, wondered who the driver was-some hotshot, a kid, probably.

Wondered too if it really was an accident.

Thinking of the mural of crosses on the Winnebago.

Thinking: Goodbye…

Maybe he should call the sheriff. That'd be the smart thing to-

The doctor looked up. "She's outside."

"What?"

"She's here. She's been waiting to see you."

"Who?" Pellam asked. (Did he mean Trudie? Damn, I hope I called her.)

"The driver. The woman who hit you."

"Oh," Pellam said. "With a lawyer?"

"Just by herself."

He said, "Can I see her?"

"You want to see her?"

"I guess."

The doctor said, "Then you can see her."

Pellam's first reaction was that she was pretty but not sexy. Pert 'n' perky, he thought, discouraged. Not his type at all. A girl with a mile-wide smile.

She was maybe thirty-two, thirty-three, but looked older-something about the teased blond hair, the heavy pale makeup, the fleshy pantyhose made her seem matronly. Pellam could picture her as a Miss America contestant, with a baton, sending it sailing up into the height of the proscenium. Her face was blank when she entered the room but as soon as she was over the threshold, she grinned shy crevices around her mouth.

He was expecting: Goshhowya'llfeelin'?

But she didn't sound that way at all.

"Welcome to Cleary," she said in a low, sexy voice that almost made him ignore the mask of pancake makeup. She walked right up to the bed and stuck her hand out.

She saw the scar and it threw her. The facade cracked for a minute then the down-home smile returned. "Meg Torrens."

"John Pellam."

Her mouth went tight. "I don't know what to say."

Pellam knew what to think: Bummer. He'd done a fast inventory. A cocktail ring that wouldn't quit, wedding band, a fat rock of an engagement ring.

Pellam said to her, "Not a problem. These things happen."

(Pellam had a lawyer one time, a former flower child who'd done a pretty good job for him on a legal matter-at a time when he needed a lawyer to do a pretty good job. The ponytailed man'd been real concerned about what Pellam said in public and he'd drummed into his client's head that there were a lot of things you shouldn't say to people you might be involved with in court. It occurred to him now that he probably shouldn't have said, Not a problem.)

Her eyes were on his scar.

He said, "You're not responsible."

She blinked.

He touched his arm. "Not for that, I mean. I'd show you the bruise that's got your name on it but I don't know you well enough yet."

She said, "That one looks pretty bad."

"Happened a long time ago."

"I don't think I want to know how."

"I was driving an Olds 88 and firing a machine gun out the window. Somebody shot the car with a rocket. I think it was a rocket. I'm not sure. It blew up."

She stared at him, waiting for the truth, then gave a burst of polite laugh, which faded fast. "A machine gun."

"An Uzi, I think." Pellam frowned and thought hard. "No, a MAC-10."

He nodded again. Right, a MAC-10. And a rocket. And a terrier that looked a little like a poodle. He didn't have amnesia. He looked at her. What was her name again?

"A MAC-10," he repeated.

She stared a moment more. She handed him a white plastic bag with handles on it. "Present," she said. Her cheeks were red and Pellam loved that. As much as he loved freckles he loved blushing women even more. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a pretty woman blushing. In L.A., all women were like Trudie; genetically incapable of it.

He opened the bag. The present wasn't wrapped but there was a bow on the box. A new Polaroid camera.

"What happened to the old one?" he asked.

"It got kind of mashed."

He laughed. "You didn't have to. The company'll pay for it."

She smiled cautiously, maybe not sure whether he meant her insurance company or his film company. What he'd meant was his company but then he figured it was all going on her tab anyway-camera, the veterinarian's bill and a little moolah for pain and suffering (the eggplant bruise would look great in court and now, thanks to her, he had a new toy to immortalize it with). He said, "Thanks."

He fiddled with the square, sleek camera, not sure what else to say. He loaded it then held the camera up suddenly and took a picture of her. She blinked and for an instant got a nervous look, as if she suspected him of gathering evidence. Bzzzzt. He loved that sound.

But he just looked at the picture as it developed-not quite in focus, tilted, washed out; her lids were half closed. He handed the picture to her.

"What?-"

Pellam shrugged. "A present. You can frame it."

She looked at the square. "It's awful." Then she put it into her purse and looked up at the wall, at an eye chart that must've been thirty or forty years old. She was squinting slightly and he wondered if she was giving herself an informal exam or whether she was appraising its value, picturing it in her tastefully paneled dining room she'd share with a husband rich enough to buy her the Hope Diamond's cousin for her petite finger.

She asked, "You're the man making movies?"

"Nope. I just look for locations that the studio decides they don't like."

"Just like me," she said. "I show houses to people who don't buy them."

So, not a housewife. A businesswoman person. Watch it, Pellam. Middle America ain't the same as when you left. Patronize at your own risk.

She said, "What kind of movie is it?"

"An artsy movie," he said.

"Big Mountain Studios. They're famous."

"Sort of famous," Pellam said. "How did you know the name?"

"You had this permit in the window of your trailer thing. Your Winnebago."

Pellam nodded. Wondering when-and why-she'd checked out the camper.

"When will they start shooting?"

"Three weeks, give or take."

Meg nodded. "Guess you've got lots of people asking about getting a part."

"Some, sure. They think it'd be an adventure. You want a part? I'd be-"

"Are you asking me?" She blinked in surprise.

He didn't like women who couldn't tell when he was joking.

"Everybody wants to be in movies," Pellam said, not looking at her directly, but studying her reflection in a round wall mirror. "Everybody wants to be rich. Everybody wants to be young. Everybody wants to be thin."

She-Meg he remembered her name (MAC-10, rocket, terrier, call Trudie, Meg, Meg, Meg)-she swallowed whatever she was going to say and instead offered: "I've got a son." Saying that seemed to make her more comfortable, established some boundaries. Yo, men, secure the perimeter. Pellam was getting tired of the visit. He had his present, she had her son and her husband's massive rings. Now he wanted her to leave. Meg said, "He'd love to be in a movie."

"You don't want him to be," Pellam said in a tone that said he knew.

"I don't know. He's really into California. We went to Universal Studios last year. He loved it. I did too."

"Universal Studios isn't Hollywood. Except in the most general of senses."

Meg said, "You have any kids?" Now her eyes did the heart-finger scan.

"Nope," he said.

A pause. "I think it'd be tough to have a job like yours and have kids."

"It would, true."

"Or," she said, "be married."

"Also true."

"So, you're not?"

"Divorced."

Meg nodded. He wondered if she was storing this information and, if so, in what kind of file.

"So, you just drive around and look for places to shoot movies?"

He thought for a moment and decided that described his life about as succinctly as anybody'd ever done. "Yep."

A luxuriant silence.

She handed him a piece of paper. "That's my insurance agent."

He put the slip on the bedside table, next to the bedpan.

"My husband told me not to say anything to you… But, I had to come by."

("John, cops and insurance companies they're going to eat up your words like M &M's. Don't say a goddamn syllable to the cannibals, got it?")

He told her, "These things happen."

"I hit a patch of leaves. I wasn't expecting to see somebody in the middle of the street."

He said, "You've acted, haven't you?"

She laughed in surprise. "No. I did some modeling. Just for a year. How could you tell?"

He said, "The way you carry yourself… I don't know. Just an impression."

He felt she wanted to warm up, but was keeping the tone conversational. "I lived in Manhattan for a while. I did some fashion work. But I was too short to get good assignments. I didn't like it anyway." She folded her arm across her chest and looked for the door, seemed relieved that it was only six feet away. "Why are you asking me these questions?"

"I always like to find out from the locals about locations I'm scouting. It's-"

"Locals?" She tromped hard on the frown, but some of it escaped.

He said, "I get the feeling you've lived here long enough to give me an idea of what Cleary's really like."

Meg was grimacing. Whatever was behind the visit-Pellam didn't have a clue what that might be-wasn't working out. On cue, she looked at her watch. "I should go. There's someone covering for me at the office."

"When I get out of here-they're paroling me tomorrow-let me buy you lunch."

"No, I-"

"Not to worry," Pellam said. "I'll drive."

"Uh, I don't think that's a very good idea. I've got a lot going on. I'm very busy."

"People are busy in Cleary?"

Okay, it was a little over the line with that one. He'd forgotten you have to be real careful when you hit people in their home towns. Especially if you're from one that's a thousand times bigger than theirs. But come on, country folk, you gotta have a sense of humor.

She bristled. "Yes, people are busy in Cleary. There's more to this town than people like you'll ever see-"

"There, perfect," Pellam announced.

She frowned.

"Keep talking. You're giving me a feel for the place. That's just what I'm looking for."

"I should go."

He said, "No, you shouldn't."

"Anyway, I'm not a local. I've only lived here for-"

"Don't tell me, let me guess…" Pellam was feeling perverse (hell, why not? She'd run him over). "Ten years."

Her eyes flared. "What makes you think I've lived here that long?"

In for a penny, in for a pound.

"The makeup, the hair, the clothes-"

"What's wrong with-?" Her voice was high, indignant.

"Nothing. You just asked me-"

"Never mind." Meg unfolded her arms and walked to the door.

Pellam asked, "So when can we get together?"

"The word never comes to mind." She stepped through the doorway, gripping the knob hard then must've decided she shouldn't be slamming clinic doors and closed it silently. A second later it opened and she said to him, "And for your information, I've lived here for five years, not ten."

The door closed again, harder this time.

Ah, she'll be back.

Pellam heard her low heels tapping on the linoleum, then the grind of the front door and then nothing.

She'll be back. She's on her way now.

A car started.

She'll be back.

He heard a car strew gravel as it hit the road, then the whine of gears.

Okay, maybe not.

Bzzzzt.

Marty stuffed the moist square of the Polaroid into his pocket and squinted as he looked at a bald spot on the small mountain across a ravine. Acid rain'd eaten away at a lot of the greenery. It didn't look good at all. By the time Marty'd gone to college, schools were offering degrees in the environment. Marty could recognize acid rain.

He took four pictures, numbered them and slipped them into his pocket. All location scouts he knew used Polaroids, but Marty was an amateur photographer and would've preferred to use his old Nikkormat 35mm. The variation in the lenses-wide angle, telephoto-would give a better idea of what the scenery and locations looked like through the Panaflex movie camera. But the studio paid his salary and the studio said 'Roids.

So 'Roids were what they were going to get.

Marty wanted to be a cinematographer eventually. He knew cameras. He liked the murmuring gears and heavy, oil-scented parts that fit together so well. He liked the perfectly ground disks of the Schneider lenses, set into their royal-blue velvet carrying cases. He liked the portable Arriflex 35mm cameras, which cameramen would carry around on sets like rocket launchers. He liked the robotic contraption of Steadicams.

He figured a couple more years of location scouting, then it would be about time for his break (a unit director would call out, "Holy Mother, the director of photography's on a bender-you, kid, get behind the Panaflex. Roll, roll, roll…") Until that happened, however, being a location scout would do. Especially being a location scout for John Pellam, where you tended to get a week of experience in the movie business for every day you worked.

Marty wandered back down the hill toward the rented Tempo.

Get the feel.

Marty worked hard at trying to get the feel. Pellam made him read the scripts over and over. Scripts are a bitch to read but he kept at it. Pellam would question him about a story. You gotta get the feel for it, he'd say.

The feel… that was the extra ten percent that Pellam-for all his bullshit and fire-me-if-you-want attitude-was always talking about. The ten percent that Pellam delivered. This was the essential lesson Marty had learned from John Pellam.

The day was getting hot. The sun was out. Marty looked at his watch. There were still thirteen locations he had to find but sun like this was too good to miss. Beer break. Marty went to the trunk of the car and took out a Miller. He opened it. He sat on the rear bumper as he flipped through the script for Shallow Grave. He unbuttoned his shirt and let the sunlight fall on his tanned, skinny chest.

He liked sitting in the sun and drinking beer. He liked the country, liked the blond dry grass that hissed when he walked through it. When he was in California he usually stayed in a condo in Van Nuys, but he preferred to travel because there were no seasons in L.A. He loved fall. He wondered if there were more jobs for cinematographers in New York than in L.A.

He wondered-

The bullet hit the back of the car with a huge ringing slap a full second before he heard the rolling boom of the rifle shot. Marty jumped up, eyes wide, dropping the script, the camera and his beer. White, malty foam shot out of the gold can.

"Christ," he whispered as terror and relief oozed through his legs. All he could do was stare, openmouthed, at the hole in the car, remembering a newspaper story about a woman who was killed by a gunshot from several miles away, a hunting accident. "Christ."

He thought: that'd been four feet to the right…

The second shot, which he never heard, wasn't four feet to the right at all. It hit the gas tank pretty much dead center.

You could hear, as if on a soundtrack, a huge whoosh, as the flaming ball spread twenty feet in all directions.

You could hear Marty's horrific scream from the tangle of fire.

And, as the Ford burned into black metal, you could hear the honking of geese and swans, fleeing with their imperfect memory of the terrible explosion.