Chapter 7
7
A s if conscious of the fact that I had needed him that day but hadn’t reached out, my lawyer called the moment Victor left my apartment.
“Papá,” I answered, as my father is also my legal counsel, and tried to make him understand I couldn’t talk then. “No tengo tiempo de hablar ahora mismo. I have a meeting with my agent.”
“Estoy bien gracias, hija,” he answered and proceeded talking in Spanish, ignoring my curt answer. “And your mother and sister are also doing great. How are you?”
“Busy,” I answered, rolling my eyes.
“Because you’re meeting your agent, yes,” he continued. “But how are you? I saw Dashing Henry’s body was found at your building.”
“The police were here. It’s been a bit hectic,” I conceded. I needed people around me to stop saying that name.
“I can’t say I’m sad Henry is dead. He was everything but dashing and a real creep. So much so that his lawyer had finally left him. But you still haven’t answered my question,” my dad continued. The only people who could beat him at persistence would be my mother and sister. “ How are you? ” he repeated.
“I’m not sure,” I finally admitted.
“Why don’t we do something. Call Beatrice and tell her you need to reschedule your meeting.”
“I can’t. The meeting has already been rescheduled twice—by me,” I added before he asked. “She’s even driving all the way Downtown to make sure I won’t have any traffic hiccups.”
“Do I want to know why you’ve already rescheduled it twice?” he asked, the tiniest bit of frustration in his voice even if I knew he was doing everything in his power not to sound judgmental. While both my parents could be described as overachievers, Dad has always been the most understanding and flexible of the two when it comes to my many shortfalls.
“You don’t.” And he didn’t.
The first time I’d postponed the meeting with my agent, I had feigned menstrual cramps, when in reality I’d been too hungover. I didn’t even remember what had happened the second time. I think, for a change, I may have been experiencing a rare good day of writing and didn’t feel like interrupting the flow.
“Okay, go meet Beatrice. Make it short and then come home. There’s a pot of kale soup waiting for you.” I almost said yes on the spot. Caldo de berzas was my favorite comfort food, and my dad had started substituting the chicken broth for veggie stock to accommodate my latest dietary activism.
“I’ll try to drop by tonight or tomorrow night, but can’t promise anything,” I said. I didn’t feel like having the conversation I knew he thought I needed.
“That soup may not be waiting for you tomorrow. Your sister is going to find it before that. By the way, how’s David doing with all this?”
“How should I know? We’re no longer together, remember?” I told my father. It was no secret that David was his favorite boyfriend. I knew Dad was helping him on the libel case free of charge.
“If you say so...”
That was more than I was going to endure.
“I say so and I really need to go now.”
But my dad kept me on the phone for a good minute more while he sent me hugs and kisses and all manner of affectionate reassurances.
As I hung up, finished changing, and made my way to my meeting, I recalled something I’d managed to put aside until then. It was a day I didn’t necessarily want to remember, but present events were bringing it all back.
I hope you are ready for the first flashback portion of this account. Please don’t tell me you think flashbacks are lazy storytelling and bad writing. I don’t know how to tell you this part of the story any other way—or at any other time.
David and I were still together then. It must have been a bit more than two years before the day of the triggered fire alarm at the Eastern Columbia. We were both home, at our cozy bungalow, watching TV, hugging on the sofa under a blanket or affecting some other quintessential expression of basic millennial domesticity.
As we were lying on the couch, he got a message. I was on top of him and made room so he could take his cell phone out of his jeans pocket. He read the message as I teasingly kissed his collarbone and neck. But the moment I saw his face, I knew we wouldn’t be watching another episode of Mindhunter , we wouldn’t be having a conversation about David Fincher’s many talents as a thriller director both in film and TV, and we certainly wouldn’t be making love on top of the imitation midcentury sofa or any other faux midcentury surface in the house that night.
David had the expression I’d learned to associate with a thirst for the truth: He’d been tipped off about something and wanted to chase the story. I was sure he was about to make some kind of excuse and tell me he needed to go work when he didn’t.
“Have you heard anything about Dashing Henry misbehaving on set?” he asked, pausing the laptop where Mindhunter was playing on top of our recently purchased coffee table.
“Misbehaving?” I asked. My heartbeat rapidly accelerated and I feared David could feel it too.
“We got a tip a few weeks ago from Henry’s former personal assistant. She’d only been at the job a few weeks because she said Henry tried something with her and she left,” he continued.
I had sat up on the sofa and was now at the farthest edge from David. My heart was a nervous mess.
“David, you keep talking in euphemisms. Henry tried something with her .” I was frustrated about his choice of words and echoed them to him so he heard his own lack of clarity. “And why are you telling me all this? You never tell me anything about your job until a story is about to get published and you need me to read the final draft to reassure you...”
“I work with lots of confidential and vulnerable sources, and I like respecting their privacy and safety,” he said.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I was probably being harsher than necessary. Or perhaps I wasn’t.
“It’s not that. You know it’s not that!”
“Do I?” I asked. “What’s different this time?”
“My source is getting tired of waiting for me to find another source. You know I need several accounts from different people before thinking about writing or publishing an article, let alone something that could potentially ruin someone’s reputation. And I thought since you worked with Henry, you may have heard something.”
I felt almost relieved about his ignorance but also strangely betrayed by it.
I had left LA Misconducts a mere few weeks before, and he hadn’t bothered inquiring about it much. I felt he assumed I had gotten tired of the long hours and hard work. And now that my former job would suit his reporting pursuits, he was all nosy about it.
“I’ve heard nothing,” I said. And that was true. There had been no gossip, no warning regarding Dashing Henry and his taste for younger women, who he saw as easy prey—especially those still trying to establish themselves in showbusiness.
As I arrived at the restaurant where I was meeting my agent, I shook off the memory of that day like I’d been shaking off so many others. But I had a notion I’d be having to recall more stuff from my past and my link to Dashing Henry. And I didn’t know if I was ready for it.