Hell's Half Acre

twenty-one.

THE HOWL AND SWARM OF TELEGRAPH AND HASTE. The hyper mingling of pretty little Asian girls and junk-ravaged homeless guys, gutter punks and skater kids, wealth and despair. I park the bike between a polished black Saab convertible and a snot-colored VW bus where two white guys with dreadlocks are cooking what look like seaweed burgers on a hibachi. The sun is too hot and everything is razor bright. The smell of curry and gasoline, of clove cigarettes and patchouli. There is a sign in a shop window that declares this block to be a nuclear-free zone.

Molly sighs. I hate Berkeley.

I stand on the sidewalk, smoking. She says she’s thirsty and wanders into a little café. I toss the cigarette and follow her.

Aren’t you going to be late? I say.

No, she says. I’m getting a soda. Do you want anything?

I shrug. Espresso, a double.

The girl behind the counter looks familiar. Nineteen or twenty, with short black hair falling out of a baseball cap worn backwards. Dark almond eyes and lush lips. Very thin, with big round breasts compressed into a red sports bra. She’s maybe Vietnamese.

Do I know you? I say.

Her lip curls. I doubt it.

What’s your name?

Daphne.

Scooby Doo, I say. Where are you?

Funny, she says. You owe me six dollars.

Molly is watching me closely, pale hair around her face like a hood of light. I shrug and reach for my money.

We sit at a table outside and watch the world drift by. I realize why Berkeley is so strange to me. It feels like a miniature town, like a kid’s model train set. I mention this to Molly but she doesn’t smile or respond. She drinks a lemon and vanilla Italian soda, her jaw working as she slowly chews a piece of ice. I finish off my espresso and light a cigarette. Molly takes one but does not light it. She begins to pull the cigarette apart.

Are you nervous? I say.

I have to tell you something, she says. Two things.

What?

I don’t have rehearsal today. I quit the play, in fact.

Why? I say.

Why did I quit the play? Or why did I lie?

Either, I say.

Molly stares at the sky behind me, shredding her cigarette.

I quit the play because it was a conflict. When we begin shooting the film, there won’t be space for anything else.

Are you sure you want to do this film? I say.

Yes, she says.

How old are you?

Twenty-seven. I know what I’m doing.

That’s not what I meant.

What did you mean?

I watch a guy across the street in yellow clown pants, juggling apples. I blow smoke.

Aren’t you afraid of dying? I say.

Of course. But not terribly so.

I have lost people, I say. And think of Henry. Eve. Moon. Their faces boil in my head. I tell her it rips a part of you away that you don’t get back.

Molly shrugs. I want to do this movie. And I don’t think I will be the victim.

No one thinks they will, I say. That’s the genius of this thing. Put three people in a lifeboat, tell them that a storm is coming and that one of them will be dead by nightfall, and they all think it will be one of the others.

Brief, complicated silence.

Then maybe we shouldn’t get attached to each other, she says.

I mash my cigarette out and stare at her. I remember the day I found her in the kitchen. Blue eyes dark with circles and thin lips moving, as if in prayer. I thought she was Franny Glass come to life and she’s right. If I am attached to nothing, then I have nothing to lose.

Too late, she says. Isn’t it?

Jude’s voice. John says you were quite taken with Molly.

Maybe. Why did you lie about the rehearsal?

John, she says. He wanted me to get you out of the house for a while.

I don’t like the sound of that. I look over my shoulder, then back at her.

Why? I say.

Molly hesitates. The Velvet, she says. It may not be exactly the film you think it is. It’s a little more complicated.

How so?

I haven’t read the whole script, she says. Only bits and pieces.

How? I say. How is it more complicated?

Molly never answers me. Her eyes roll away white. A vein jumps in her throat and her left arm twitches once, twice. Then clutches at nothing. For one regrettable moment I think she is playing around, fucking with me. Then she slips out of her chair and begins to jerk around on the sidewalk like a fish.

Okay. Molly is having a seizure.

I come out of my chair and fall to my knees beside her. I reach for her hand, my thoughts rattling. The cries of distant birds. Her face is so pale. The traffic noise dies and everyone on the sidewalk disappears. I’ve suffered a dozen seizures in the past five years, but I have no memory of them.

What the hell do you do when someone has a seizure?

I wish Jude were here. She knows about these things. I remember being on a ferry on the Panama Canal with her when a German tourist suffered a violent grand mal. Everyone got out of the way and eyed him with horror and disgust and someone screamed that he was swallowing his tongue, his tongue oh god but Jude said that was nonsense. She said that a seizure victim might bite his tongue, but he doesn’t swallow it. She pushed everyone out of the way and gently held the German tourist’s head until he stopped thrashing, to prevent him cracking his skull, she said.

Molly seizes beside me and I can’t do anything for her but put my hands under her head.

One minute, maybe two.

Then it’s over and she goes fetal. The baby, she says. What about the baby?

I pull my hand away from her as if she’s burning up. I tell myself that she doesn’t know what she’s saying, that a seizure is like fireworks on the brain.

You’re okay, I say. You’re okay.

But I have no idea. I have no idea what I’m talking about.

Molly comes around pretty quick. She sits up and her eyes dart this way and that. Bright blue, with pupils like needles. I hold up three fingers and she says three in a cold, faraway voice. Her voice is angry and I think I understand. I have had seizures, blackouts and whenever I come out of one I am angry and paranoid. I can’t remember anything and I don’t know who has been watching me. I carry her inside and the girl named Daphne brings over a glass of water. Molly says thank you and Daphne smiles and perhaps I’m imagining it, but a look seems to pass between them and I wonder if they know each other.

I called an ambulance, Daphne says.

No, says Molly. I don’t want to go to the hospital.

Daphne shrugs. I don’t care what you do. Just don’t die in here.

Milk, says Molly. Will you bring me a glass of milk.

Whole or nonfat? Says Daphne.

What the fuck kind of question is that? I say.

Daphne glares at me. This is a coffee shop.

Whole milk, says Molly.

Anything for you?

No, I say. Thank you.

I take Molly’s hand. Her skin is a little warm but not unusually so. I find her pulse and glance at the clock on the wall. Thirty seconds crawl by. Her heart beats thirty-three times.

You sure you’re okay? I say.

I’m fine, she says. Fine.

Molly is slouched low in her chair, staring at me mournfully.

I don’t quite believe you.

I’m sorry.

What was the other thing you were going to tell me?

Molly smiles, a thin bright smile. That I have seizures, sometimes.

Molly drinks her milk slowly and the color returns to her face. It seems unwise for her to get back on the motorcycle anytime soon and she shrugs when I say so. But she doesn’t resist when I take her outside. Molly stands beside me, silent and docile and possibly embarrassed. I tell her not to worry but she just stares at me, forgotten helmet in hand. I hail a cab and help her into it. Molly recites the address and the driver shrugs, says it might be twenty bucks. I give him forty and tell him to make sure she gets there. The cab disappears into slow, maddening traffic. I get on the bike and just sit there a moment. Molly never answered my question. The film is more complicated than Miller gave us to believe. What the hell does that mean. I cruise around Berkley in low gear until I come to a sporting goods store. I go inside and purchase a set of compact, high-powered binoculars, then head for the hills.

I approach the house of Miller from above. I leave the bike on the road and walk until I come to a reasonable vantage point, creep into the neighbor’s yard and climb his tree. If trespassing is the only law I break today then it’s a good day. I am not directly above Miller’s house, but at such an angle that affords me a view of eleven windows. I am less than a hundred yards away. I scan the windows for signs of life and nothing is doing. It occurs to me that Miller might very well be performing animal sacrifice in one of the rooms I can’t see, but I tell myself that that which I cannot see does not concern me. It doesn’t exist. I settle into the crooked arms of the tree and light a cigarette. I contemplate a nap. I don’t sleep, however. I don’t care to wake up with a broken neck. Twenty minutes pass, slowly. I am bored silly and my ass is sore. I would give my left arm for a pint of whiskey. I smoke cigarettes and watch the house.

The yellow cab rolls up and deposits Molly in the driveway and it does seem like she should have gotten home long before now. She carries a package wrapped in plain brown paper, entering through the kitchen doors. Miller appears and they talk for a minute. Their conversation is relatively subdued, their body language wary. They appear to disagree for a moment. Miller tries to kiss her, but she withdraws. Molly moves into a part of the house that I can’t see. Miller goes into the living room and flops down on the couch. He puts one foot up on the coffee table and does not move again.

A black Range Rover arrives with a U-Haul trailer in tow and I bring the binoculars up. The first to get out is Jude. She wears jeans and boots and a white leather jacket. Her hair is loose and she wears no sunglasses. Now the other doors are thrown open. Two men and a woman get out. One of the men is Jeremy. He wears black jeans and a black T-shirt under a black vest. The other man I have not seen before. He is large, slow and burly, with a red beard and a wild head of red hair. He wears brown coveralls and boots. The woman looks tiny beside him. She wears black sweats that hang loose from narrow hips and a red tank top. There is a camera bag slung over her left shoulder. Now she turns slowly in my direction, as if regarding the sky. Daphne, from the café. She no longer wears the baseball cap and it hits me. I know where I’ve seen her before. Two nights ago, her name was Veronica. She gave me a grim blow job for ninety bucks. She stares in my direction for another minute, then bends to remove a video camera from her bag.

This is getting interesting.

Jeremy and his burly pal begin to unload equipment from the trailer. I watch them for a moment, glad I am not home. That shit looks heavy. I check the windows of the house and see that Miller has not moved, but now he is wearing a straw hat. He looks like a coke dealer. I find Molly in one of the bedrooms. She wears a black leotard and appears to be practicing yoga. One long white leg is perpendicular to the floor. This is very sexy but I don’t have time for casual peeping. I return to the scene out front. Jude is standing at the back of the truck. The hatch is open and I can’t see her face but I get the feeling she is talking to someone.

Jude leans into the truck and helps a small boy climb out.

He is five or six years old, with a shock of blond hair. He wears green pants and a green T-shirt with a big yellow Nike swoosh across the front. The boy is shivering and so am I. I’ve seen him before. His mouth is covered in duct tape and he is blindfolded but I recognize him straight away. He’s the kid from the videotape, the kid from the baseball game. He is the first-born son of MacDonald Cody.

Jude is gentle with the boy but he looks fucking terrified.

Legs cramped and bright with needles. I stumble, running for the bike.