Chapter 3 - BEATRIX
Chapter 3
BEATRIX
Tuesday, December 27, 2016
Iopen my eyes and am instantly blasted by the bright California sunshine filtering through the cheap shades that came with the apartment. Someday, when I make it big, I’ll make sure the Craftsman house of my dreams comes complete with motorized blinds. A flick of a switch, and total darkness at all hours of the day. Heaven.
This morning, though, the blinding light is a relief; I’m back home, a plane ride away from my museum-like old bedroom in Arizona. A perfectly preserved exhibit of teenage Beatrix’s life that no one, least of all myself, wants to witness.
The holiday weekend was exactly as I’d anticipated: stilted, strained, and mostly free of any genuine cheer. Though my cousins’ kids are unreasonably adorable, and it’s much easier to play hide and seek for hours on end than to attempt to engage in any real adult discourse with my mother and aunt or my cousins and their spouses. I’d been close to them all, once. I lost much more than a father the day I made my decision to turn away.
But that’s fine, I reassure myself now, sitting up to admire my view of Westlake—the art deco buildings fringed by a row of tall palms. A view I ignore most days. I’m a grown woman with an excellent life of her own here in LA—or at least a moderately decent one—finally in a place of enough power to be seeing the movie of her dreams (slash nightmares) turned into a reality. It only took a solid seventeen years of odd jobs to get here: first as a craft services minion for a few years after Cutie Central, moving on to assisting with props and then locations, bartending on the side. I’d dabbled as a receptionist at the hair salon to the stars, also thanks to Sylvie. There was a brief stint as a temp at a casting agency, too—the unfortunate location where I’d met my ex-husband, Damon, forever B-string character actor and more of a D-list player in the story of my life. And of course, I was writing, always writing—just nothing that mattered (or paid a single bill) before Murder in the Books.
The weekend in Arizona had proved productive in one regard, though. I’d been able to use my “research” for Rocco to avoid awkward quiet time sitting around with my mother, instead digging through the office that had once been my father’s. It had felt like a king’s court then, when I was a kid: his puffy red writing chair, the polished mahogany rolltop desk and Tiffany pearl floor lamp, high walls lined with overflowing stacks of books—every kind of book about every kind of thing, place, person—a lush Persian carpet that muffled any trace of footsteps as he’d pace the room, mulling over a snag in his plot. And of course, the crown jewel: his vintage Royal typewriter. I could still hear the way he tapped away on those keys if I closed my eyes and concentrated hard enough. I’d spent hundreds of hours sprawled on that carpet, reading, listening, daydreaming. Sharing “writer’s fuel” we’d sneakily squirrel away in his drawers, sweet treats that were sacred offerings within those office walls.
My mom had tried, at first, to keep the room pristine, waiting for him. But after it became clear he’d never write another word on that typewriter he loved more than he loved most people, Mom and I excluded, she stopped going in at all. She could purge his clothes and shoes, his fishing gear, his comic book and record collections. But the office she couldn’t touch.
It was a sad shadow of its former self now, dusty and stale and faded. But I spent hours on Christmas Eve looking through old stacks and drawers, collecting “inspiration pieces” for Rocco—photos and journal pages, scrawled fragments of ideas and doodles. Some of his last written notes, from before he was taken away; scraps that either survived the police’s original raid or found their way back to us in the end. I was an archivist, not a daughter, a professional with a plan, not a broken woman looking for any kind of peace she doesn’t deserve. My mom didn’t ask questions—of course she didn’t. Just made me an egg salad sandwich for lunch and left it for me in the fridge to eat after I was done. I’d always loved her egg salad and was surprised she remembered. Or maybe it was coincidence—a surplus of nearly expired eggs.
I’m back now, though, with nearly a week left of uncomplicated holiday time.
Once I make it through this morning’s coffee with Rocco.
I lounge in bed, exchange a few delightfully salty texts with Sylvie about my Christmas in Arizona and hers in Colorado with Eden and her rabidly evangelical in-laws—only bolting upright when I realize I’m supposed to meet Rocco in less than an hour. We agreed to meet in West Hollywood, which should be a clear route, relatively speaking by LA standards, during the holiday week, but it leaves very little time to fuss over my appearance. Which is for the best, really, since I absolutely shouldn’t give any fucks whatsoever about Rocco’s opinion of my looks.
After an efficient birdbath-style rinse—a quick scrub with a wet rag and a spritz of lavender deodorant—I force myself to wear the first thing I put on, no dillydallying. Tight black skinny jeans with lightning-bolt-shaped gold ankle zippers, a loose off-the-shoulder black sweater that always gives me feelgood Flashdance vibes, and leopard print booties. I run my fingers through my tangled hair—majorly in need of a trim and fresh highlights to cheer up the muddy brown—and pull it up into a messy knot. Finish off with a few swipes of mascara and a dab of blush, a smear of Aquaphor on my lips. Practical and put together. No different than what I’d wear for a day on set.
It’s only a coffee meeting, after all.
Even still, I’m too anxious to have much of an appetite, so I skip past the kitchen, stuff the folder filled with William Noel souvenirs into my backpack and head out. The drive is blessedly smooth, and I get to the tiny hole-in-the-wall coffee shop with two minutes to spare. It was Rocco’s pick, a place I’d never heard of, and I’m understanding why. It’s bland and nondescript, and no one would choose to come here over the string of cute artisanal coffee shops footsteps away. We’ll have our privacy here. No risk of the paparazzi snagging a pic of Rocco and some drab-looking mystery brunette.
I’m expecting to have beaten him—the Rocco I knew never went to sleep before four a.m.—but no, he’s leaning against the counter, looking bright-eyed and chipper, chatting amiably with the very tan, very blond white woman behind the register.
Ugh. The way people fawn over him, and with so little effort on his part. Honestly, people would fawn even if he weren’t a red-carpet commodity. It’s his gorgeous face, sure, but it’s more than that, too; it’s in the way he leans, the casual yet absurdly elegant tilt of that broad chest, the cut of abs that are slightly visible through the thin white T-shirt he’s wearing under a plain blue zippered sweatshirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to tease his muscular forearms.
I’ve never been drawn to an athletic build, or really anyone with an active gym membership—unless they were using it for the yoga classes. I’ve loved yoga since my early days here. Hikers were fine, or swimmers, surfers. People who engaged in outdoor activity for pleasure and just so happened to develop a few lean muscles as a byproduct. Damon was a weightlifting devotee, which should have, in hindsight, been my first sign that we wouldn’t work out in the end. Or more than a handful of years. The Rocco I’d known, too intimately for my own good, was much leaner—strong but in a casual, careless kind of way that had made him all the more appealing.
“Uh, Beatrix?” Rocco asks, in a politely amused way that makes me think it’s not the first time he’s saying it.
Damn. I’d been staring, hadn’t I? At his wrists to start, and from there his wide-open hands splayed against the counter, those long fingers that had pressed, burning hot, into every last inch of me.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, my cheeks undoubtedly glowing an alarming shade of red. “I haven’t caffeinated yet today, so I’m a little hazy.”
He nods, biting down on his full lower lip to hold back a smile. “I get that. I had a shot of espresso at five before I went for my morning swim in the ocean.”
“In January?”
“Sure, with a wetsuit. It’s kind of my thing. Wakes me up better than the espresso. That’s just my motivator to get out there.”
“Where do you go?” I don’t know why I’m asking, other than I need a moment for my pulse to go down and my cheeks to de-flame.
“Oh, just down the hill from my house.”
“Yes, of course you’d have a private beach. What was I thinking?”
Rocco laughs, a loud outburst that seems to surprise him as much as it does me. I’ve heard Rocco laugh on set, usually in response to his posse of devoted fans, and this is a different one altogether. I remember this laugh. “I don’t own the beach, Beatrix. Just the view down. But if I was going to use the money these studios overpay me for a splurge, it would be for the ocean practically in my backyard. I couldn’t care less about the rest of the house. Most of the rooms are empty.” He shrugs, looking almost apologetic. “Maybe I should open a BB.”
“Mm, yes, would be a real hotbed for your superfan stalkers.”
“Right. Yeah. Maybe no BB then. I love my fans, I do, but a man needs to take his morning shit in peace.”
“Especially when you might be taking that morning shit before your sunrise swim.”
“Are we really talking about my bowel routines right now?”
“You started it.”
“I suppose I did, didn’t I.” Rocco grins, and despite my better judgement, or any form of judgement whatsoever, I feel my lips grinning back.
A bell chimes behind us as another customer steps in, an older white man in a sweatsuit who looks like he’d go out of his way to pick the least trendy place in the neighborhood.
Rocco clears his throat, turning to study the menu on the wall with great intensity. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s a flush creeping up his throat—like we were caught red-handed in the middle of something. But there was no moment. Nothing to interrupt.
“So yes, that coffee,” I say, stepping up to the counter, my shoulder brushing against Rocco’s left arm. He immediately straightens from that artful lean, his spine going rigid. Standing like that, fully upright, he’s a good foot taller than me, and I remember then—the way my head felt pressed against his collarbone, how he would crouch down to kiss at my level or, better yet, sweep me up into his arms, my toes swirling off the ground.
It was so fast what we had, so whirlwind and abrupt, I shouldn’t be able to remember any of it anymore, at least not so well. So deeply. Like my skin and bones and blood still carry a trace of him now, a splinter my body absorbed and nurtured and nourished for these last seventeen years. There have been so many others since. So many men who lasted longer, stuck around for months—or, in Damon’s case, a few years. But my body has wholly and gladly ejected every last piece of them for good. Fuzzy faces and forgotten voices, details that long ago left the far reaches of my brain and the tip of my tongue. But Rocco. We had months—weeks, if I parse it down to what really mattered—and somehow it’s all still a sharp Technicolor montage.
“I’ll have a large almond milk latte,” Rocco says. “No sugar.”
“Same for me,” I mumble, inordinately annoyed that we share our taste in coffee. Though I suppose that was true before, too.
“And a banana chocolate-chip muffin,” Rocco adds.
“You still eat muffins?” I can’t stop myself from asking. I would have guessed these days he was living on bland lean proteins with a side of steamed veggies for every meal.
“Yes? Does that surprise you?”
“It does actually.” I turn to the woman at the counter, who’s looking between us with what appears to be a not-so-subtle tinge of jealousy. “I’ll have a muffin, too.”
“Ah, a fellow appreciator then,” Rocco says, and I glance over to see him smiling down at me. I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. “Who would’ve thought we’d have so much in common, you and me? Based on our on-set interactions, I would have expected our breakfast preferences to be polar opposites. You did go for that tofurkey.”
“Ha-ha. Well, I think it takes far more than a shared coffee shop order to make for best friends.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve always liked a bit of playful conflict in my relationships. It can get a little dull when there’s nothing to challenge you. Nothing to push your buttons.”
“Well, I suppose you do surround yourself with a hefty dose of people pleasers. I could see how that would get dull.”
“People pleasers?”
“Fans, admirers, sycophants, whatever the preferred terminology is.”
“I see.” His brow crinkles, and for the first time I notice the little wrinkles that fan out from his eyes. Somehow even laugh lines suit him. “And you think that’s who I choose to surround myself with in life?”
“Isn’t it? Sure seems that way, at least on set.”
He shakes his head, a trace of a frown on his lips. “I don’t understand. Have I done something to you, Beatrix? Recently, or . . . not so recently? Not the script supervisor, okay. But something else I’m forgetting?”
The words are an electric jolt to my gut, just like last week’s lunch on set. He’s getting closer. “What do you mean?”
“Just that it seems like you don’t . . . like me very much? And I feel, I don’t know, silly and egocentric even saying this out loud. Of course you don’t have to like me. You barely even know me. But it’s more than that. Like you actively dislike me. As if I’ve offended you somehow. Is it something about how I’ve been capturing your dad? Because if so, I’m sincerely sorry, and I don’t want you to think—”
“No,” I say, too firmly, based on the way Rocco flinches. The barista jumps, too, just as she’s pouring thick foam into our cups. A splatter of almond milk pools on the counter. “No,” I repeat, more level this time. “You’ve done nothing wrong on set. This is all just . . . difficult for me. I’m not proud of my decisions, you know. That’s why it’s so important, making this movie. To honor him. Even if it’s years too late for his forgiveness.”
It might not be the whole truth, but it’s still a heck of a lot more honesty than I was prepared to unload on Rocco this morning. I’m usually not even that honest with myself.
Rocco’s brow has softened at my admission, a look of such genuine concern in his eyes now—eyes that are usually so cool, so untouchable when they’re not play-acting emotions for his character—I almost want to . . . cry.
And I do not cry.
“Your order is ready,” the barista says unceremoniously, and I turn away from both of them, blinking to push away any stray tears.
“Thank god,” the man behind us grumbles. “Thought I’d never get to order. I’d rather get a frap-a-latte-whatever at Starbucks than witness these theatrics to start my day.”
“Hey,” Rocco says softly, eyes fixed on me, “this way.” He brushes against me as he carries both cups and both oversized muffins to a small table in the back corner of the shop.
We settle in, neither of us speaking for a few minutes as we sip from our cups and start on our muffins. Rocco eats his muffin the same way he did when we met; it’s one of the first things we talked about, actually—our “meet cute.” Or at least what had felt like one at the time. I’d caught him at the craft services table—because it all came back to that table, apparently, at least for me—eating a blueberry muffin, devouring the top first with a look of sheer delight, then slowly working on the bottom, more begrudgingly, that rapture gone. Like it was a chore to eat the rest. “You’re like a four-year-old at a birthday party, licking the icing off a cupcake,” I’d said, without thinking—this was Rocco, and I was criticizing his muffin-eating preferences like I was somebody worth having an opinion about anything he did. I couldn’t stop myself, though. “You do realize the top and bottom are made from the same ingredients?” He’d looked at me then, really looked at me, for the first time since we’d all been on set together—a few weeks at that point, long after I’d been handpicked from that table and plopped on camera instead. And then he’d laughed, so heartily he started choking on his muffin bottom. “See?” he shouted after I’d pressed a cup of water into his hands and made him drink. “The bottoms are dangerously dry! But my mom’s always been a stickler for not wasting food, so I force myself to persist, choking risk be damned. Thanks, by the way, for saving me.”
That was our thing, after that. Small talk around the craft services table. That was the beginning.
He’s doing it again now—starting on the muffin top, a blissful expression on his face, eyes closed as he savors a swallow. I remember that expression, too, and not only when it came to eating muffins.
“I guess—” some things never change, I stop myself from saying. I almost forgot myself. I shouldn’t know anything about the way he eats his muffins. I shouldn’t know anything about him at all, outside of this role and whatever intel a casual reader might chance upon in a tabloid. “We should talk about the movie,” I finish awkwardly, taking a big bite of my muffin to compensate. The normal way, equal parts bottom and top.
“Right.” He nods stiffly, and I can’t help but sense an edge of . . . disappointment? As if he were hoping for more than jumping straight into shoptalk. “We’re starting the jail scenes in January, and I want to understand your dad as much as possible before then. Everything he was thinking about, locked away like that, everyone in the outside world damning him. How it must have felt, as a creator, to have seen his fiction twisted so grotesquely. His latest story coming to life in the most horrendous way possible.” He shakes his head, glancing down at his coffee cup. “Sorry,” he says. “Maybe that was too direct. I can’t imagine how bizarre it must feel, dissecting something so private with a virtual stranger.”
“No point in trying to pretty it up,” I say, hoping he doesn’t hear the tremor in my voice. He’s looking at me again, those eyes no doubt seeing too much. “I can’t tell you exactly how he felt, because I had . . . removed myself from him at that point, as we’ve discussed. But I did know him better than anyone . . . before. And I brought you a few things of his to potentially help inform and inspire.” I reach down to where I’d dropped my backpack on the floor, grateful to have something tangible to focus on. “I visited my mom for the holiday, and I found a few things in my dad’s office.” I fan it all out on the table—the folder of photos and typed pages and scribbled Post-it notes. It had felt like something, back there in that office, inhaling old air in a space that had once been wholly his. But now it looks like exactly what it is: a sad, quiet echo of a once-brilliant human. “It’s not a lot,” I say with a shrug. “But maybe it’s better than nothing, and—”
“You saw your mom?” he interrupts, like that’s the only part he heard. Brow once again deeply furrowed.
“Yeah?”
“Oh. Huh.”
“Why is that so baffling?”
“It’s not. It’s just . . . things don’t end well between the two of you in the script. So I . . .” He’s flushed now, clearly floundering for words, and I continue to stare at him straight on. Refusing to assist. “I guess I just assumed things still weren’t rosy. Which of course is none of my business, and I know this was all years ago, so . . . yeah. I’m happy for you both if you found a way back to one another.”
“You’re right.” I take an angry swig of coffee.
“I am?” he asks, looking utterly baffled.
“Yes.” I take another sip, making him wait. “It’s absolutely none of your business, my relationship with my mother. The story you need to know about her begins and ends with that script. Our life beyond that is off limits.”
“Of course. Totally understood, and I’m sorry if I overstepped. I just . . .”
“You what?”
He takes a deep breath before starting. “This probably won’t sound right. I haven’t thought it through, and I’m not good off the cuff. But I just . . . care? It might be a film, I understand that, and I realize there’s a separation between my character and actual reality, but I care about this role, deeply. And because of that, I care about your dad, and everything that happened to him. I can’t not and still do him any justice. That’s not my style, not when I’m taking on a role—at least not for a role that matters. This one, it matters. I care about him, so I care about you, too. Like I’ve said, it sometimes feels like . . . I know you? It sounds strange, I know—but I can’t shake that feeling. And what happened back then, it couldn’t have been easy for you to walk away. I respect that. For what it’s worth, I might have made the same choice.”
“It’s not worth anything,” I say, anger coursing white-hot through every inch of me. Anger and disbelief and something far more painful that I’m nowhere near ready to address. “Because it didn’t happen to you, did it? From what I’ve seen of your life, it looks like a pretty damn perfect joyride. So don’t think for a second you understand me, just because you’re pretending to be my dad. That’s all it is—pretend.”
“My life isn’t perfect, for one. And I’m not saying—”
“We’re done here.” I push my chair back, knocking it against the wall behind me with a loud bang. I don’t have to look to feel the sear of the barista’s drama-thirsty gaze. “You can keep these scraps of my dad for now, but that’s all you’re getting. You’ll have to make the best of what you have. I’m done being some kind of sick muse for you.”
“Beatrix, please. It’s not like that.”
“Oh, I think it’s exactly like that. See you tomorrow at Lanie’s party. Can’t wait,” I say, as dryly as possible, wishing I could catch a terrible cold tonight and have no choice but to miss out. I’d even take the flu over making merry with Rocco. I pick up my backpack and turn with a huff to leave, take a step forward—retreat back to snatch my coffee and muffin from the table, Rocco can’t ruin those for me, too, goddammit—and start again for the door.
It feels like I know you.His words loop as I let the door slam shut behind me.
Because you did,I want to scream. And I meant too little for you to remember even a moment of it.
He doesn’t deserve to know anything about me now—not a word beyond what I chose to write in that script.
This time I notice the stupidly expensive looking red Maserati sitting next to Delilah in the lot—the most Rocco-looking car one could imagine—and it takes every professional ounce of me to not pelt it with the rest of my coffee. That, and the latte is too delicious.
I climb into Delilah, let her lovingly worn seat swallow me up, and I do something I haven’t done in more months, maybe years, than I can remember. I cry.