The Last Days of Video (32 page)

Trying to counter the woman's rude aggressiveness, Alaura said quickly, “I want to go back to Match's room.”

Harry Dean Stanton squinted, and her voice lowered. “Is there something you want to tell me, Ms. Eden?”

How did Harry Dean Stanton know her name? Looking around the room, Alaura wondered if she was being Punk'd. Doubtful, she decided. “What are you talking about, ma'am?”

“I think you know what I'm talking about.”

“Aren't you listening to me?” Alaura said—a tremor had entered her voice. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Ms. Eden, are you aware of any mental problems that Mr. Anderson is currently experiencing?”

At this, Alaura shrunk in her chair. Her face warmed over, her stomach curled. “No,” she finally managed. “I'm not aware of any . . . problems.”

Harry Dean Stanton nodded, and she left the conference room without another word. A moment later, Alaura was escorted back to Match's room, where she found Match sitting dumbfounded on his bed. He was wearing a blue bathrobe, like Bill Murray, she thought, in
Lost in Translation.
His hair was still wet from showering, and on his feet were wedged two cheap hotel sandals. The bathrobe hung from his shoulders like a towel on hooks, and it pooled in a mass of fabric atop his potbelly. He did not seem to have noticed her entry into the room.

“It's all over,” he said, gazing at the floor with an oddly beseeching look, as if he expected the carpet to answer.

“What do you mean?”

“I think I need a lawyer. Have you spoken to a lawyer?”

Alaura did not understand—why would
anyone
need a lawyer? “No,” she said. Then, almost as a joke: “Have
you
spoken to a lawyer?”

“No.” His gaze moved from floor to ceiling, slowly. “I took some phone calls. But except for Hitch, I haven't
seen
anybody since they took you away.”

Alaura closed her eyes, but only for a moment—she threw back her shoulders and nodded resolutely. “Match, I talked to this woman who said she was your executive producer—”

“Oh, man,
she's
here?”

“Yes. She's a bit intimidating. She mentioned something about . . . about mental problems. But I didn't say anything. She didn't mention Hitchcock, so I think if we just say that you're mentally exhausted or something, then maybe we could avoid—”

“Thank you,” he said breathily, as if relieved—but he added, “Don't worry about it.”

“What?”

“We'll work it out. We'll place a call, get things rolling.”

“We?” Alaura said. Did he mean his brother? Tabitha Gray? Hitchcock?

“I don't need your help, Alaura.”

She stood up, but she sat back down immediately. “No,” she said weakly. “I want to help you.”

“Don't get involved in this.” Match looked at her directly for the first time since she had reentered the room. “You're too good for all this, Alaura. For me. I'm going to quit the movie.”

Around Alaura, the walls of the room seemed to shudder.

“But why? The celebrity auction, Match. We need the celebrity auction to save Star Video. You promised.”

Match interlaced his slender fingers, pushed his fingertips back and forth over the tendrils on the backs of his hands. “I'm a terrible director,” he said, as if that made any sense.

She tensed her legs, tensed her arms—willing herself to stay calm. “No you're not, Match. You're a great director. You're just having a rough time right now. It's just exhaustion. That's what we'll tell her. We can get through this.”

“No, we can't.”

“Tell me the truth, Match. What's going on?”

Match rolled his spindly shoulders, and he reached up with his bony hands and massaged his puffy, recently shaved face. His eyes were large, bloodshot. His chest seemed concave, and he breathed quickly, deeply, almost panting, as if possessed by the demon in
The Exorcist.

“What's going on,” he said, “is that I got a call this morning, before you woke up. It was my agent. He told me that he could no longer represent me because of some rumors. I don't know what rumors exactly. Though I can guess. I don't know how the secret got out. I thought only Finn knew about Hitchcock, and I doubt he would tell the studio. But he must have. Or the doctor in New York. Or you, Alaura.” He shook his head. “But I know
you
didn't tell anyone. I just don't understand.”

Alaura covered her mouth with a tense hand; had Waring mentioned Hitchcock to someone? No, she thought. Impossible. Not even Waring was that stupid.

“We just have to make it another few days,” she said. “The celebrity auction, Match. Star Video.”

Silence. Tears swelled in her eyes for a moment. But Match did not notice.

She heard Match mumble something.

“What?” she said, looking back.

“I said perhaps it's for the best.”

“The best? How is quitting the movie for the best? How the hell is giving up for the best?”

“Because I'm exhausted, Alaura. I'm so tired. Even if I don't quit, they'll fire me. No matter what. They're going to take
The Buried Mirror
away from me.”

“They?”

“The studio. Everyone will know about Hitchcock. It'll be on Twitter and the blogs by this afternoon. And then it'll follow me forever. Everyone will know I went crazy—”

“Match!” she said, trying to curtail his wandering mind.

“And it's a relief, really. That I'm quitting.”

“No.”

“Because it's shit, isn't it? This movie is just shit. It's my fault, Alaura. It's a terrible screenplay. I'm sorry to admit it, but it is. I've just been working on it too long. They'll finish it. They'll film in California somewhere, on a shoestring, and release it. They never wanted to come to North Carolina in the first place. But the movie will bomb. I know bombs. I've already directed a few.
The Buried Mirror
is a bomb.”

Alaura stood, almost leaping from the bed, and she walked to the far side of the room to the big bay window. Outside the window sprawled several beautiful homes: Appleton's Historic District mansions, where family fortunes as old as the hills churned and turned and tumbled, always making more money, always growing, while those damn beautiful houses stayed exactly the same.

“Take it,” he said, and she turned back to him, saw him pointing to his cluttered desk where a tattered copy of
The Buried Mirror
screenplay lay. “Read it,” he went on. “It's a terrible, barely functional screenplay. And it's the best I could do. And anyway, Alaura, what's the point? I'm asking myself, not you. What's the point? Of any movie? Simple characters. Ridiculous circumstances. Pseudorealities where everyone is beautiful and everyone speaks perfectly and says perfectly interesting things, and no loose ends allowed, unless they're interesting loose ends, when who are we but the summation of our loose ends? And even when movies are at their best, when they're artful or challenging or original, they're still just a way for the audience to forget how shitty the world is, to experience something that resembles real emotion, only to be returned safely. Movies are a drug, a sedative. We trade in a controlled substance. You watch a movie and laugh and cry and jump in fear, and your brain thinks it has experienced something real. But it's bullshit, it's all a mirage—”

“No!” she yelled. “Stop it, Match. Movies are—”

“Movies are dying, Alaura. That's the truth. Every year, box office numbers go down. It's a dying industry. Everyone in Hollywood knows it. No one says it, but we all know. It's not just video stores, it's the movies, too.”

“Match,” she said softly. She recrossed the room and dropped to her knees in front of him—she couldn't give up—not yet—not on Match. “You
are
a good director,” she pleaded, setting her hands on his legs, squeezing the fabric of his bathrobe. “You just have to stick with it. Your movies help people. They've helped me. They really have. Movies are important, Match. They are! You're a good director.”

“That isn't true,” he said.

“Yes, it is.”

The door to Match's hotel room opened—the female executive with dead eyes, Harry Dean Stanton, entered.

Alaura returned to the bed beside Match.

“Mr. Anderson,” Harry Dean Stanton began, taking position in the center of the room. Her feet were shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind her back. “Thank you for your patience. Let me begin, Match, by saying how sorry we are for this inconvenience. But we've received some information that we must take seriously. In the simplest terms, Match, we have been informed that you're hallucinating, seeing the dead film director Alfred Hitchcock.”

“Oh, I see,” Match said—his voice now weirdly calm, composed.

“Yes, very strange,” the executive said. “Please understand that I'm not asking you whether this rumor is true, though if you choose to tell me that it's true, I'd be required to report that information to the studio. Insurance, obviously, is a major issue. Fortunately we have an indemnity for cases such as this, which we're now being forced to exercise. But if you are deemed mentally unfit and were to continue directing, we'd lose our insurance. Not to mention that someone hallucinating is not terribly likely to direct a profitable movie. Also not to mention that the buzz from your dailies has been, frankly, unbuzzworthy. Legally, I think we'll have no problem
removing you from the picture, though of course an arbitration procedure is more than within your rights—”

But Alaura couldn't follow Harry Dean Stanton's words—this was all too dreamlike. How had they learned about Hitchcock? Why wasn't Match trying to defend himself?

And was there any way to keep the celebrity auction going?

“—and we expect your decision within the hour,” Harry Dean Stanton concluded some time later. “I'm sorry, Match. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Harry Dean Stanton left the room.

Alaura turned to Match. “Okay,” she said, regaining her composure. “Everything's fine. We'll call a lawyer. We'll find out how this rumor started, and we'll refute it. We'll go to arbitration or something. I'll tell them whatever I need to tell them—”

“No,” he said. “I've made my decision. It's best if I resign.”

Alaura's breath left her; her chest twisted into a painful void.

“They'll cancel the shoot in Appleton,” he said. “I'm sure of it. The production will leave North Carolina, probably by tomorrow. It's all over.”

“Over? But what about Star Video?” she said, her voice cracking.

Match did not respond. He simply stared off at nothing in that singularly vacant way of his, lost in his own crazy thoughts, seeing Hitchcock, totally unmoved by her pleading mention of Star Video. He didn't give a shit. He had never given a shit. He had just wanted to keep her around, to use her for her company, just hoping to finish the movie.

She stood up, spotted the small suitcase she'd brought with her to the hotel, on the floor by the bed. But she decided to leave it. Then she saw the mangled manuscript of
The Buried Mirror
on Match's desk.

“I'm leaving, Match,” she said.

“Do you . . . do you really like my movies?” Match asked pitifully, his huge, bloodshot eyes wavering up to face her.

She felt her heart sink into her stomach. She was close to tears. She wanted to tell him to go to hell, that he had ruined everything, that giving up on the movie, and on Star Video, meant giving up on her.

But then she caught her own reflection in a gilded mirror on the wall. She was surprised to see the angry expression there. The rage that twisted her face. She couldn't believe how ugly she looked.

She took a deep breath.

Then she walked to the desk, picked up the copy of
The Buried Mirror
, and walked toward the door, where she stopped and turned back to him.

“Yes, Match,” she said, knowing that she could completely decimate him now, but also knowing she didn't want to. “You're a very good director. Never forget that. I hope things work out for you. I'm sure they will. Don't . . . don't give up. But now I need to go, okay?”

“But Alaura, I'd really like it if you—”

“I'm sorry, Match.”

And instead of slamming the door, as she had intended to do seconds earlier, she closed the door slowly. It clicked shut quietly behind her.

INTO GREAT SILENTS

That morning, Jeff walked
across Appleton University's campus toward the central library. The air was cool, and Jeff noticed that a few branches of the university's mighty oaks were tipped with russet. Summer was a distant memory. Autumn was here. It was a Wednesday, and those students who had foolishly signed up for early morning courses were now stumbling, like confused ants, into buildings.