No, she says. You look like you’re going to cry, or throw up.
I’m not sure how to explain what happens next, but I reckon my head is still halfway morphed into the inarticulate seven-year-old cowboy-pajama-wearing version of Phineas and the only reasonable way that a boy can show a girl how much he likes her is to hurt her somehow.
Boy pokes girl, pinches girl, pulls girl’s hair.
Boy makes girl cry and everyone says oh, well. He just likes you. And how many battered wives and girlfriends soon to be murdered will stare at you with puffy, blackened white marble eyes and insist that their abusers love them. The words like slush from their mouths, because their lips are blackened.
Anyway. I regard Molly for a moment, then hit her.
What the fuck?
Molly backs away, her hand touching lightly the place just above her heart where my fist struck her. The blow was not terribly hard. But it was not gentle. And just as I am about to apologize, to attempt some lame explanation about Carly Simon and Hot Wheels, she hits me back. Her fist catches me like a hammer below the eye and I’m going to have a ripe blue shiner come morning. Molly holds her fist out away from her body and looks at it, fairly horrified.
Oh, my god. Oh god, she says. I’m sorry.
No, I say. That was the perfect thing to do.
I hold my arms out wide. It seems like the perfect moment for a slow, zooming close-up.
twenty-six.
INTERIOR, HOUSE OF MILLER. NIGHT.
Bright lights come up on the dining room. Jude sits at the head of a long, carved black table that has been placed on a raised stage of rough, unfinished wood. The table is polished and bare except for a single unlit candle in the center. Jude’s hands lie flat on the black surface before her and she stares straight ahead. She wears a white, sheer blouse with elaborate ruffles around a plunging neckline. Her hair is loose. I stand in the doorway where she can’t see me.
Pan the room, slowly. There is no furniture other than the table and chairs and the skeletal light stands. The windows have been covered with heavy black shades. Huck is crouched in a corner. He wears a tool belt and appears to be repairing or modifying an electrical outlet. He glances briefly at me and winks.
Jude is now standing. She sighs, impatient. She takes a book of matches from her pants pocket. The table is so long and wide that she cannot easily reach the candle and so she crawls slowly across it to light the candle and then remains there, stretched on her belly and staring at the flame.
My skin tingles and Molly appears at my shoulder, dressed as before.
Are you ready? she says.
No.
It’s okay, she says. It will be okay.
We enter together, then separate and go to sit at opposite sides of the table. Jude lies between us, still staring at the candle. She doesn’t speak or acknowledge us. I am restless and soon light a cigarette, flicking my ashes on the wooden stage. Molly leans back in her chair and puts her feet up, crossing one leg over the other, the heels of her boots striking the table like hammers.
What’s on the menu, then? I say.
I don’t know, says Jude. You should ask the lady of the house.
Who is the lady of this house? says Molly.
That’s become rather unclear, says Jude. Hasn’t it.
Everyone shut up, please. This from Miller, entering.
He wears a gray wool suit and tie and an incongruous black top hat. In one hand he carries a flat cardboard box. In the other, what appears to be a small birdcage covered with a black hood. He stares for a moment at Jude, who remains on the table. She yawns, as if sleepy. Miller sits down and opens the box to remove a stack of bound, photocopied scripts. He tosses them around the table. Molly takes a copy and begins flipping through it. I pick up my script but I don’t open it.
This is the final draft? says Molly.
For now, yes.
Then you must know which of us is going to die.
The final scene has been removed from your copies, he says.
Of course, says Jude. Her voice very dry, like salt.
What’s in the cage? I say.
It’s a surprise, he says.
I don’t see a dinner party scene, says Molly.
Ah, says Miller. That’s because there isn’t one.
What’s going on, John? says Jude.
Tonight’s shoot has been cancelled, he says.
Why? she says.
Jude, he says. Get off the table. You look like a tramp.
Jude scowls at him, then slithers slowly to the other end and takes her seat. She stares at Miller for a beat, then lowers her eyes and sullenly picks up her script. One copy remains on the table. Jeremy is behind me. I can feel him back there and I have a feeling the camera is pointed directly at my head, like a gun. I would love to see a swinging, upside down shot of the room that slides out of focus and returns to focus on the back of my head before cutting away. Miller laughs softly and turns to look at the door as Daphne enters, leading Samwise by the hand. The boy wears blue and white striped pajamas. He is frightened, numb.
What’s going on? I say.
You fucking psycho, says Jude. You’ve let him see my face.
You’re his mother, says Miller. He’s got to see your face.
Jude is seething. I am not his mother.
Who’s the father? says Jeremy.
Miller frowns. That’s not your line, boy.
Molly reads from the script, irritated. Who’s the father?
I am, says Miller. Or I might have been.
This is a scene? I say.
I thought we weren’t shooting tonight, says Molly.
Fuck this, I say. I’m not playing this game.
The boy needs you, says Miller, softly.
The boy, I say. The boy needs to go home. He needs to sleep in his own bed.
Why are you doing this? says Jude.
Miller shrugs. I have a theory that actors need to be surprised now and then. Besides, the boy has to get used to being in front of the camera.
The boy is terrified, says Molly.
What’s your point?
John, for god’s sake. You can’t make a kidnapped boy memorize dialogue.
Of course not, says Miller. He will be allowed to improvise.
How is that going to work? I say.
Witness, he says.
Miller removes the black hood from the cage to reveal a small brown rabbit. Now he takes off his top hat and places it on the table, upside down.
Do you believe in magic, Sam?
The boy looks at me and I shake my head, fiercely.
No, he says.
