Americana

'I guess I didn't know you had a cat. That's too bad. I know how people sometimes get attached to animals. I'm really sorry to hear that. I'm out here making a film.'

'She must have died this afternoon. The cleaning woman was in this morning and she didn't call me at the office so she must have died this afternoon. I came home from work and she was dead.'

'That really is a shame.'

'She's still on the floor. I can't bear to touch her.'

'Jennifer, I think the best thing for me to do would be to hang up so you can call somebody to come over there and give you a hand. I'm sorry about everything. I'll get in touch with you when I get back to the city. We'll have lunch. I'm going to hang up now. Goodbye.'

I put down the phone and then looked up Weede Denney's home number. I put the handkerchief over the mouthpiece again. Weede answered.

'This is Ted Warburton,' I said. 'I just want you to know that you're an overbearing jabberwock. You're a bloody fucking baldheaded sod.'

I hung up, told the voice to get me Westchester information and asked for Valeric, Old Holly. The operator said there were two Valerios listed, Annette and Joseph. Annette, I recalled, was the name of Tommy's mother. I wrote down the number. A man answered the phone.

'Is this where Tommy Valerio used to live?' I said. 'I'm trying to get in touch with Tommy. We're old friends.'

'Get in touch with Tommy?'

'Can you tell me where he is?'

'Tommy's been dead three years.'

'What happened?'

'He got killed in the war.'

'What happened?' I said. 'I mean how did it happen?'

'What can I tell you? K.I.A. He got killed in action. He was a second lieutenant. He had all these men under him. Annette, how many men Tommy had under him? Anyway the President sent a letter. The President himself sent a letter to Tommy's mother.'

'How's Mrs. Valerio?'

'She's fine. We're in the middle of dinner here.'

'You must be Tommy's uncle. I think we met once or twice. My name is Dave Bell. Tommy and I were buddies.'

'I don't recall him mentioning any Dave Bell. We're in the middle of dinner but maybe you want to talk to his mother. She's right here. It's somebody named Dave Bell.'

'What?' I said.

'I'm talking to her. Friend of Tommy, he says. She's right here. Hold on.'

'Don't bother. Tell her not to bother. I'm interrupting your dinner.'

'She's right here.'

'I have to go now. Tell her I'm sorry.'

'He said he's sorry.'

'Goodbye.'

'She wants to know for what.'

I called Wendy Judd at her apartment.

'It's David. I'm going to ask you something. I want a straightforward factual answer. Did you ever go to bed with Simmons St. Jean back in the old days at Leighton Gage?'

'Who was he?'

'Film theory and criticism.'

'Pale attractive guy with spooky eyes?'

'I guess that's a fair description.'

'It's really none of your business, is it, David?'

I hung up and called Carol Deming at McCompex. It was several minutes before she came to the phone.

'How about a drink and then dinner?' I said. 'We can meet at Buster's. I don't know where we can get something half-decent to eat in this town but maybe you can suggest a place. What's the story on seafood out here? I'm about dying for some fried shrimp.'

'I just saw Austin. He seems enthused about whatever it is you two did earlier today. When's my turn?'

'We can talk about it.'

'David, that's what I get all day in this place. Theater is talk. Motivations, sentiments, speeches, interpretations.'

'The broken neck of the alphabet.'

'Exactly,' she said.

'I'm still working things out in terms of what I need you for. Let's have dinner and discuss it.'

'David, I don't want to talk. Really I don't. Not to anyone. Just give me something to play. An idea, a role, a masquerade. Something the camera will understand even if no one else does. I'm trying to be direct.'

'Look, a couple of drinks, that's all. One drink. I'm at Ames House in the center of town. I can walk to Buster's in fifteen minutes.'

I had four drinks and she didn't show up. Finally I went across the street to the camper. Brand was alone in there, reclining on one of the cots, hands behind his head.

'It's happening,' he said. 'I can feel it in my skull. The old violence. I thought it was gone but I can feel it coming back. Correctly or not I associate blandness with nonviolence. That's why I want to be bland. To use bland words. Do bland things. I've been trying not to arouse the old instincts. You can arouse them with words, mainly slang words. The theory may seem stupid. Unproven at best. But it's true for me. And the thing is back. The old urge. Better keep your eye on me.'

'You keep appearing and disappearing and reappearing,' I said. 'You've always been like that. I've never known exactly who you were. I've always liked you, Bobby. At least I've liked most of the different forms you take. But then you go away and come back different and I have to adjust. Which one do I keep my eye on?'

'Blandness would seem to be the easiest thing in the world to achieve. Physically I'm there. I've made it. I look like a million other people. Ten million. But inside my head the action is constant. I went to hard stuff to slow it down. I smoke grass to slow it down. But I can't slow it anymore. The old action. Zap those hostiles. Davy, you don't know what it's like to lay down some 20 mike-mike on a village. See it fall apart. Come down low and strafe a hootch or two. Your cans of nape. Your 500-pounders. Your rockets. I jumped a guy on a bike once. He was pedaling along outside a village. It was known to be hostile. I dropped down behind him, way behind him, and followed him up the road a bit, flying real low. When I was about a hundred meters behind him, I laid my fire all around him. He busted like a teacup. You see, there's a primal joy to hitting a thing in motion. It's one of the oldest pleasures there is. Something moves, boom, you wing it. Beast, bird or human, the thing to do is knock it down. It's primal, Davy. It's basic to the origin of the species. I'm learning to live with it.'

Spared the nervous motorized genius of his father's eye, Bud Yost seemed typical in every way, the beneficiary of a morally solid upbringing, temperate weather and a balanced diet. He was somewhat large for his age and there was a slight quake to his movements, as if he were standing on a rocking chair. He came walking out of a passageway onto the empty floor of the high school gym, wearing his basketball uniform, white with gold trim and lettering. I had asked him to wear number nine if possible, my old number in prep school, but nine belonged to a kid six feet six and 235, so Bud wore his own uniform, eleven, Ft. Curtis High in gold script across the front. I took some readings and told him to do whatever he wanted out on the court and to pay no attention to the camera or to me. I shot first from above, from the row of seats high over the court. Alone on the slick and burnt-yellow floor of the gymnasium, weaving slowly downcourt, feinting, changing speed, he tossed in an easy lay-up. Then he went to jump shots, first from in close, then a few feet farther out, then farther, the ball sounding strange as it hit the floor or rim or backboard or slapped through the net, echoes melting into duplicates of original sounds. After a while I went down to court-level and got on one knee beneath the backboard and shot straight out at him. He pumped in four in a row from the top of the key, missed two, hit two more from the corner.