Heaven and Mel (Kindle Single) (6 page)

* * * *

HE IS WAITING FOR US
when we arrive, friendly and gracious, and helps us inside with our bags. He's smoking, of course, even as he totes our bags into the house. He is wearing shorts and a white T-shirt and still has the Blessed Mother medal around his neck.

What strikes me about him again physically is his grayness. If anything, his face is even grayer than the last time, and I find myself thinking that it would probably be better for his health if he still drank. The booze would at least cut through all that nicotine in his veins.

His body, as I watch him in his shorts, seems odd. His legs are short and skinny, his chest is hollow. His butt is prominent. His head is big. He's all eyes. He is a baby-blue-eyed troll. He's never heard of plumber's butt either: his T-shirts are too short.

He's all charm meeting Naomi, but my wife is a beautiful woman and I know very well that Mel, as Ohioans say, has "an eye for horse flesh."

* * * *

WE'RE INSIDE THE HOUSE NOW
, and immediately like it. It has an old feel, but I don't think it is. It overlooks a canyon that is undeveloped and seems as primitive as a jungle. In the distance, far below, is the sea. It is dazzling and sun-kissed today. The patio is child-proofed and filled with toys and goodies: Little Luci's wonderland, no doubt.

Inside, the house is large and spread out. An open-walled patio, this one made of stone; a large living room; a kitchen overlooking the canyon; a large dining room; two other large sitting rooms; and then the corridor that leads to three guest bedrooms, one of which will be ours while we stay here. There is an upstairs, which houses Mel's bedroom and several other large rooms, one of them for Luci.

Across the canyon, up on a hilltop, is an area that Edge (from U2) is trying to develop — but Mel laughs, "It's not very easy to get permits here."

Mel's eleven year old boy, Tommy, is also here, and Mel introduces us. The boy is shy and charming and reminds us of our smallest, Lukie.

Nick Guerra shows up — as he always will — doing anything and everything for him. He's Mel's "Man Friday" through every day. Nick Guerra is from Kansas, friendly, smart. Mel will call him "my right and left arms." Nick is here because he has brought food from the market for tonight.

"We're having a small dinner party tonight," Mel says. "You guys are the guests of honor."

We thank him and he says, "Make yourselves at home." He grins and adds apologetically, "I'm a little bit of a slob." He has a meeting to hurry to. He'll be back before dinner.

"If there's anything you need, anything at all," Nick Guerra says, "Let me know."

We thank him and sit outside on the patio in the sun, enjoying the view of the canyon and the sea. We lived in Malibu for eight years and, until this moment, I really haven't missed it.

In every room of his house, as in every room of ours, are crucifixes, rosaries, religious statues, and icons. I wonder what part of this decor Oksana contributed. I especially wonder about the icons, many of them Russian, that we see on the walls.

Naomi and I both like the feel of Mel's house. It feels like a holy place.

Draped across a kitchen chair is an old, beaten-up leather motorcycle jacket — a jacket which, I will learn, is Mel's favorite piece of clothing. He likes leather motorcycle jackets as much as I do.

Something feels weird to me, though, and at first I can't put my finger on it — but then I do. There are no animals in this house. There are kids who use this house and sometimes live here, but it is a house without animals. No dogs, no cats, no birds, no serpent named Lucifer.

With a pang, watching the beauty of splendid Malibu, I suddenly miss the presence of our patchwork menagerie back in Ohio.

* * * *

MEL'S BACK, WITH HIS OLDER SISTER
, Maura, and his brother-in-law, Sean. His other guests quickly arrive: Tom, an old friend from New York, and two priests. One is from Nebraska and the other is from India, the temporary pastor at Mel's privately built church in Agoura Hills.

Naomi and Maura, who get along instantly, make the salad. Mel makes the pasta: Linguini with garlic and olive oil. The dinner is good and pleasant. There is wine but I notice Mel drinks none of it. He drinks coffee — many cups of it — and he smokes nonstop. It reminds me of how obsessively I used to smoke.

Mel's brother-in-law, Sean, and I hit it off instantly too. We talk boxers and boxing: Hey, Roberto Duran
was
better than Sugar Ray Leonard — never mind what happened — and yes, the Ali-Liston fight
was
fixed. Easy conversation; laughs; fun.

Afterwards, we're in the kitchen, sipping a little more wine. The Indian priest has sipped too much. He sits in the living room slumped, his head down. Or maybe he's praying.

We suddenly hear a scream. It is loud, ear-splitting. It is a roar, a bellow. I recognize the voice immediately. It is the voice from the Mel/Oksana tapes! Mel Gibson in full, demonic fury! Mel Gibson gone berserk!

* * * *

"
FUCK YOU!
" HE SCREAMS.
He screams/roars/bellows. And we see him now, between the dining room and the kitchen. He is screaming at the poor priest from Nebraska and at Tom, his friend of thirty years. He is out of breath, cigarette in hand, apoplectic, hyperventilating.

"Fuck you!" he screams at the priest. "Get out of my house! You motherfucker! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

The Indian priest in the living room, I see, sits there with his head down, obviously praying harder.

Tom tries to calm Mel and now Mel screams at him: "You are not my friend! You brought this cocksucker (the hapless Nebraska priest) into my house! Get out of my house! Get him out of my house! I am fucking serious!"

We hear Mel yelling outside chasing the unfortunate Nebraska priest and his old friend Tom toward the guest house above the garage.

Mel's screams outside gradually stop and we decide — hesitantly — that we'll stay the night.

The Indian priest still sits on the chair in the living room, but he's no longer praying. His mouth is open and he's snoring.

* * * *

Maura leaves and Naomi and I are alone in the guest bedroom. I say to her, "We should leave now!"

Naomi says, "But he's
out
there! In the darkness! We'd have to call a cab and get our bags!"

"The hell with the bags," I tell her. "We'll just leave now and have our bags picked up tomorrow.

Naomi says, "I'm scared to go out there."

* * * *

I TRY TO LOCK THE DOOR
to our room but the lock doesn't work. I look around for some kind of a weapon. But all I can find is a golf club. I place it next to my side of the bed.

We shut the light off and hold hands. My rosary and Naomi are in my right hand. I keep my left one around Mel's golf club.

As I fall asleep, I wonder if the Indian priest will still be out there snoring in the morning.

* * * *

IN THE EARLY MORNING
, I hear voices in the kitchen. Naomi is already awake.

"I'm going to go out there," I say, "to see what's going on."

"Oh great," she smiles, "leave the golf club."

I walk out to the kitchen warily and see that Mel is out there already with his old friend Tom and the poor priest from Nebraska. The Indian priest is nowhere to be seen so he's either praying in some other part of the house or is gone.

Everything is hunky-dory, as they used to say. Mel is smoking like a chimney already and trying to get his new espresso machine to work. Tom and the priest are all smiles and trying to give Mel tips on how to work the machine. The instant they see me, all three of them look at me like I'm the guy who's ruining their little party.

"I'm sorry," Mel says sheepishly. "I really am. I apologize."

I nod and Mel looks away and says, "Naomi probably doesn't ever want to see me again."

"Well," I say, "you can apologize to her too."

He looks at me evenly, like he isn't too thrilled about what I just said to him.

* * * *

WE'RE GOING TO SUNDAY MASS
at Mel's church, The Church of the Holy Family, in Agoura Hills, a twenty-minute drive from his house in Malibu. It is the church Mel built from the colossal profits of "The Passion."

Mel drives, smokes, and hawks up phlegm. I sit next to him in the Lexus, Naomi sits in the back.

Mel swerves wildly around the traffic on Kanan Dume Road and talks about his church: "I was driving around Calabasas and Agoura Hills with one of my boys and I saw a beautiful spot up the hill from the road. It was perfect, but I didn't know if it was available. I knew I had to find out. But I got busy with one of my movies and I sort of forgot about the land. I was away on the shoot and Robyn calls one day and says she's found the perfect piece of land and it's available. I said, 'If you really feel that strongly about it, then buy it.' And she did. When I got back from the shoot, I got real busy and I forgot all about the land again. One day Robyn said, 'The land — the church land — you've never seen it!' So we drove on out there. It was the same property that I'd seen. We knew then that God had chosen it."

Mel drives wildly over the swooping and dipping green-brown hills that lead from Malibu to Agoura Hills. The roads are full of weekend bikers who zip around us or stick close to the side of the road as Mel roars by them. He suddenly takes a sharp right and we head uphill on a long driveway with two security guards at the top. We pull up next to a small chapel and, as we get out, we see a helicopter up in the sky, right above us.

Mel looks up at the helicopter and says, "Yeah, company."

* * * *

HE HURRIES INSIDE
. "If you want to go to confession, you've got about twenty minutes."

"I'm good," I say, "thanks." I don't say that if I went to confession it would take me significantly longer than twenty minutes.

Mel wants to go to confession, so he hurries inside. Most of the fifty or so people in this little chapel wear suits and dresses, the women's heads covered with old-time Catholic chapel veils. I have the St. Joseph missal that Mel gave me in my hands when the Indian priest, looking more than a little tired, comes out with two altar boys. One of the altar boys is Mel.

The Indian priest wears an ornate robe and faces away from the congregation, his back to us. The Mass is in Latin. Mel, looking a little jittery (maybe from his many cups of espresso), wearing jeans and a shirt, hurries around the altar trying to help the Indian priest.

The priest has a thick accent, so he sounds like he is speaking neither Latin nor English. Occasionally the flutter of the helicopter outside muffles his voice.

I watch Mel closely in his role as the altar boy. When I was a boy, I was an altar boy too. Now here Mel and I are, two aging Hollywood altar boys. Mel made "The Passion of the Christ," the ultimate crucifixion movie, and I'd written my own crucifixion scene that thankfully wound up on the cutting-room floor in… "Showgirls."

* * * *

WE'VE BEEN IN THE CHAPEL
, but not the church — which is still being constructed and is not quite ready to open. The church is a hundred yards or so on a plateau uphill from the chapel.

Mel will give us a tour up there, but first we're going to meet Mel's dad, Hutton, who is 90 years old. We meet him outside the chapel, where everyone is drinking coffee and eating sweets.

Hutton is an elf-like little man with snow-white hair, a roseate complexion and Mel's baby blue eyes.

Mel introduces us and Naomi drifts away toward Maura, her new friend, who is teaching bible class to a group of children.

Hutton is lively and friendly and I tell him that Mel and I have been talking about the Catholic Church on the way over here. Hutton smiles pleasantly and says, "Did you know that Cardinal Ottaviani sat on Pope John Paul I's face and suffocated him so they could get the Pope they wanted, John Paul II?"

I tell this pleasant little man that I didn't know that. He says, "Well, it's true. Study up on it."

I know that Hutton lived in West Virginia for a while, and since I'm from Ohio, I ask him if he liked West Virginia.

He gives me an icy look with those blue eyes and says, "No, not really." Shortly after that, he moves away from me and talks to a group of other people. Standing by myself suddenly, I am left to conclude that no, Hutton
really
didn't like West Virginia.

Naomi is still with Maura and the bible class kids and I see that Mel is sitting in his Lexus, parked by the chapel. I go over to him.

He says, "Come on, I'll give you a tour of the church."

I say, "Wait, let me get Naomi."

He laughs and says, "The hell with Naomi, she'll find us," and laughs again.

I look at him a moment and then I laugh, too. "I'm going to go get her or she'll kick my butt."

Mel laughs again and says, "I bet she will. You'd better go get her."

We meet Maura and Sean up at the unfinished church. It is spectacular, done in the finest taste, mostly stone and wood. A huge mural of biblical figures backdrops the altar, its centerpiece Moses.

"You see the chandeliers?" Mel says proudly, "the same guy made it who made the ones in my house."

We climb up to the balcony. The view of the mural is spectacular from here.

"This is my favorite spot in the whole place," Naomi says.

Mel says, "Mine too. Sometimes I come over here alone. I just come up and sit here by myself. It's so peaceful."

I look at the mural from the balcony and think that one of these figures in the mural — a prophet maybe — looks like Mel.

It reminds me of the church Naomi and I visited in Long Boat Key, Florida — Our Lady Star of the Sea — which boasts a similar mural behind the altar. Jesus is at the center of that mural. And Jesus looks like the spittin' image of Willem Dafoe, who played Jesus in Martin Scorcese's "Last Temptation of Christ."

* * * *

AS WE BEGIN TALKING
in broad terms about the filmic possibilities of "The Maccabees," I realize Mel is badly distracted. It's not easy to get him to focus.