Crashed

It was dark backstage, but there was a spill of light from the proscenium, which was brighter than the equator at high noon. We came in stage left, about ten feet from the brilliant stage, and the first things I saw were two sixty-inch flat-screen TVs with a tall wood-and-canvas director’s chair dead center between them. The chair was on the monitors, too. And then I saw the five gigantic blow-ups of Thistle, taken when she was fourteen or fifteen, propped up on easels. Judging from their underexposure and general graininess, they were probably blowups from video. Technically they were a mess, but their message was clear, and it was sick enough to stop Thistle in her tracks.

“How could she?”

“She’s smart, Thistle. She knows what her visual is. You, talking about doing this kind of a movie, in front of those pictures.”

She was shifting from foot to foot, still hanging onto my hand. “I can’t. I can’t go out there. Not with those.”

I thought, the hell with it. I gave her hand a tug. “Good. Let’s go.”

“But she’ll fire me. I need-I need that money.”

“She can’t fire you. If she fires you, she hasn’t got a movie.”

She put both hands over mine, squeezing hard. “She will. She’s using this to figure out whether I’m going to do what she wants me to do. If I don’t go out there, I won’t get anything.”

“Thistle. Listen to me. I’m working for her. It’s my job to make sure she gets this movie done. But I’m telling you that this isn’t worth a couple hundred thousand. Let’s go.”

“I can’t. It’s not … you don’t know. I can’t even pay my rent.”

“I’ll pay your fucking rent.”

“What, for the rest of my life? Are you hearing yourself?” She dropped my hand and turned away from me, the carefully brushed hair catching fire in the light from the stage. She put both hands on top of her head, one atop the other, palms down. “Ohhhh,” she said. “Oh, I am so fatally fucked.” One hand dropped to her stomach. “I don’t feel good.”

“Come on. We’ll get out of here and think about this later.”

“Later. Later. There isn’t any later. This is later. Before is over, it ended a long time ago, and this is where I am. Oh, God, look at those dickheads out there. I need a wastebasket.”

I didn’t see one, but there was a fire bucket against one wall, and I said, “Over there,” and Thistle ran to it, bent over, and vomited. She heaved until there wasn’t anything left, and all I could do was watch the spasms rack her narrow shoulders and listen to her cough as she tried to bring up more. The cough turned into a sob and then two and then three, her body forcing them out as though something massive was squeezing her, and I thought she was going to lose it completely, but she choked it off somehow and remained there, bent over the bucket, as the chatter continued from the screening room and erupted into laughter. Her fists were clenched, her arms straight down with the elbows locked. Then, when she knew she had it under control, she relaxed her back and arms, straightened, and wiped her mouth.

She turned around and looked back at the light pouring off of the stage area, as though she wouldn’t be surprised to see an arena full of lions, lazily waiting for her. Then she closed both eyes tight, squared her shoulders, and breathed out, hard. Her eyes opened again, and she was looking at me.

“Relax,” she said. “I used to do that before the first take every day. Is my chin clean?”

“Immaculate.”

“How’s my makeup?”

I looked closely. “It’s okay. Your mascara ran a little bit.”

“I always tear up when I vomit.” Her eyes dared me to contradict her. “Can you fix it for me?”

“Not one of my specialties, but I can try.” I put my left hand on her shoulder and used the tip of my right little finger to wipe away the errant black tracks. Beneath my hand, she was shuddering as though she was moments from freezing to death. “You’re okay,” I said.

“I doubt it,” she said. Her voice was steady. “But it should at least be interesting. I just heaved Doc’s pills, all the downers and smoothies, everything that was supposed to slow me down, and he gave me a second shot. Oh, and one of the makeup girls had some coke. So I’m going nowhere but up.” Her face was slick with sweat, and she mopped it with the back of her hand, then slipped her hands into the neck of her T-shirt and put them under her arms. She pulled her hands out and wiped them on her jeans. “I’m sopping,” she said. “Dead wet girls. I remember you talking about dead wet girls. Claudette Colbert and dead wet girls. What a frame of reference.”

I took my hand off her shoulder. “I’m telling you for the last time, don’t go out there.”

Her eyes came up to mine. “Why? You’re working for Trey, right? What do you care?”

“This sounds corny, but beautiful things shouldn’t be wrecked. It’s nothing to cheer about when trash gets wrecked, but you have something only one person in ten million has. You need to take care of it.”

“You still don’t understand,” she said. “I don’t have anything. That wasn’t me. I’m trash, and I need two hundred thousand dollars. Trash buys dope. Are you coming?”

“I said I would.”

“People say a lot of things.” She turned to face the stage, just in time to see Trey step into the light on the other side. “I didn’t mean that,” she said without turning back to me.

“What the hell are you going to tell them?”

“Trey said, tell them the truth,” she said in Trey’s voice. “So I will. Unless a lie works better.”

“You’re absolutely certain.”

“I’m waiting for the alternative.”

“Okay, I’m with you. Give me your right shoe.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Trey said. “I’m Trey Annunziato, the executive producer of Three Wishes. Thank you so much for coming.”

“My shoe? Why do you need-”

“I just need it. Right now. Hurry.”

She put a hand on my arm for balance, bent down, and pulled off her right sneaker. I took it and used the little penknife I always carry to worry a hole in the toe. “I’ll buy you a new pair,” I said. “Get this back on.”

“… one of the most talented actresses ever on American television, and the youngest Emmy winner ever,” Trey was saying. She looked across the stage and saw me standing over Thistle, who was on one knee pulling her shoe on. Trey raised both eyebrows at me, clearly in the imperative and meaning Get her ready right now.

“I think this is your cue,” I said.

“Wooo, that’s a lot of dope,” Thistle said, standing back up. “Going up. Wish I hadn’t heaved those Percocets. Listen, if I say too much, put your hand on my shoulder, okay? If I keep talking, squeeze. I might not notice if you don’t.”

“… my great pleasure,” Trey said, “to introduce you to Thistle Downing.”

“Fuck you and hello,” Thistle said, smiling at Trey.

She stepped out on the stage with me two paces behind her, and every light in the northern hemisphere flashed at us. A few people clapped, but it didn’t catch on. Cameras exploded all over the room, and the lights on half a dozen TV cameras did their electric supernovas. The light was so thick I felt like we were wading through it.

The director’s chair I’d seen on the monitors was dead center on the stage, positioned in front of the earliest of the photos of Thistle. This close to the picture, I revised my guess at her age downward to thirteen. Thistle hoisted herself up into the chair and the image was echoed on the monitors. I stood next to her, and the bulbs all went off again as I blinked against them. I caught a sudden whiff of something sharp and acidic and realized it was Thistle’s fear.

“Could you move away?” a photographer shouted at me. I started to step aside, but Thistle sunk nails into my wrist. I stayed where I was.

“Who is he?” someone else called out.

People were shouting questions, and Thistle didn’t respond, just sat perfectly still, her eyes floating