He watches too much television, says Molly. That’s what it is. When my baby comes, I won’t let her watch so much TV.
I glance at Molly and I feel like I just swallowed a bug.
You aren’t really pregnant, I say. You know that, right?
She stares at me for a moment too long. Of course, she says.
The boy is pale and catatonic against chrome. His breath comes thin and slow. The grim hiss of air seeping in and out of his lungs.
Does anyone have a cigarette, says Jude.
She stands over us, a small bottle of liquid Benadryl in one hand and a blue can of Pepsi in the other. There’s a white plastic eyedropper stuck between her lips like a cigar.
I can’t wait to hear your plan, I say.
Trust me, she says.
Jeremy brings over a glowing tray of margaritas. He gives Jude a cigarette and lights it for her. I try to meet his eye and now it occurs to me that there is a shadowy area of my mind that has somehow accepted him as a brother. I don’t like this idea and I remind myself to harden my heart against the script.
I have an overwhelming urge to get outside. To get the fuck away.
But I look around and the boy remains on the chrome loveseat, feverish and barely breathing. Molly is a ghost at the edge of my vision, her mouth so small and dark it might be a scar. Her hands fidgeting, fidgeting. I get the feeling she wants to hold my hand but is reluctant to do so, maybe because Jude is watching. Maybe because I just suggested that she’s nuts. Miller appears and reappears across from me, his eyes closed. Jeremy is whispering something apparently pornographic to Daphne and she is laughing, covering her wet mouth with her fist. I drain my vodka and place it carefully on the floor, then take one of the margaritas from Jeremy’s tray. There is thick salt around the mouth of the glass and I lick at it, hungry.
Jude lifts the boy into her lap and holds him so that he’s sitting up. She twice fills the eyedropper with liquid Benadryl and pushes it between Sam’s pale lips.
Jude looks at me. The antihistamine, she says. It will reduce the swelling in his ears.
And the Pepsi?
I don’t know, she says. The sugar and caffeine should give his heart a jumpstart and maybe that will help his breathing.
I nod, silent. It makes as much sense as anything.
Jude frowns. He needs antibiotics, probably.
He needs to see a doctor.
But we can’t take him to a doctor, says Jude. Her voice is slow and gentle, as if I am the child.
Jude begins to funnel Pepsi into the boy’s mouth, her eyes downcast and lips pursed. She blows softly on his face. He coughs and Pepsi dribbles between his open lips. She wipes it away with the back of her hand. How tender she is. I don’t quite recognize her.
Sam wakes up, now. The boy is disoriented and unhappy. He doesn’t like the idea that everyone is looking at him. I can sympathize. He turns his head and I don’t think he knows where he is. He doesn’t seem to recognize any of us and he does not come to me for comfort. He allows Jude to hold him, to wrap her arms around him. He rests his head on her shoulder, his eyes flat and glassy. Jude blows softly on his hair and whispers to him in a way that angers me. Because lately I want her to be the villain. I want her to be the one who dies in the end.
But the boy apparently feels safe with her. In another moment he is asleep again and I don’t know what to make of this. I put my hand on Jude’s thigh and I am confused, vaguely queasy. I don’t know if this is guilt or love. Her mouth twitches and now I think it’s a little bit of both. She glances down at my hand and I slowly withdraw it.
Miller is staring at Jude as if she has just grown a spotted tail. I reckon he thinks she’s gone soft on him. Jude stares back at him with eyes narrow and feral and I have a happy image of Miller waking up with his intestines spilling out of him in a rich steaming mass. I sip my margarita and look from one to the other. It occurs to me that I have been ignoring them lately and now I realize that I have no idea what manner of nastiness transpires between them in the dark. Jude stares and stares and Miller never turns his eyes away from her and after two or three minutes of savory, textured silence during which Jeremy and Daphne drift uneasily from the room, presumably to have sex without bloodshed, Jude passes the boy to Molly, who glows upon receiving him.
Do you see something green? she says to Miller.
He shrugs. Repent, he says. Repent, mother.
Molly walks slowly around the room, hugging young Sam to her chest. She sways back and forth, instinct kicking in. She begins to sing, softly. Momma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring. Her face is shadowy and blissful and I shake my head. Molly too is falling for the boy and I believe we are fucked, all of us. The boy is definitely getting to her. There are black streaks on her face.
Molly, I say. Your eyes are dripping.
What?
I take the boy from her. You’ve got black shit running down your face.
The mascara, she says. I forgot. We were getting ready to shoot a scene.
What scene?
You’re not in it, says Miller. Only the girls.
That reminds me, says Molly. I want to talk about the nudity.
What about it?
The script says that Jude and I are sitting around the bedroom, right. We’re drinking wine and smoking cigarettes and having a raunchy conversation about sex.
Yeah? says Miller.
Jude is topless in the scene, says Molly. Which seems unrealistic, frankly. And I’m supposed to be bottomless.
Bottomless? I say.
Jude laughs. She takes the margarita from my hand and finishes it off.
Two girls getting drunk and friendly, says Miller. A prelude to sex.
Maybe, says Jude. But nobody sits around bottomless and chatting.
Would it be more realistic if there was a pillow fight?
This is hopeless, says Molly.
Okay, I say. How about we talk about reality for a while?
What did you have in mind? says Miller.
The ransom, I say. I think we should make the ransom demand today.
No, he says. That’s impossible.
Why?
Because we have just begun shooting The Velvet.
Jesus. The film is a farce. It makes no fucking sense and we should end it now.
Miller stares at me, his eyes mild. Whatever you say.
The boy is sick, I say. He needs a doctor.
He frowns. Don’t you have faith in Jude?
Jude strokes my thigh, her hand venturing close to my crotch. Molly turns away and goes to the bar. The sound of ice in a glass. I shift the boy in my arms. He’s heavy. Miller lights a cigarette and watches my face. Blue smoke whispers between us. Jude strokes my thigh and I stare into the distance. I stare into the past, into the future. I consider the word faith.
Miller shrugs. Neither here nor there. We will make the ransom demand when I say so.
And if he dies in your basement?
Then it gets more interesting, doesn’t it?
thirty.
