Hell's Half Acre

  Pan to Molly, who stands on far side of the room, in the puddle of red paint. She has removed her cowboy boots and her feet are smeared red. Now she unbuttons her sundress as Jude reads aloud from the script.

  Jude- The smell of furniture polish and dead flowers, the smell of shampoo and dirty boots. The smell of ashtrays and garlic and spilled gin.

  Molly steps out of her dress and throws it aside. The dress flutters toward Poe, who catches it. His face is blank. Molly stands in red paint, wearing white underpants and bra. The camera moves closer and closer.

  Jude- Every family has its own smell and if you’re not careful that smell will attach itself to you, it will sink into your skin and wipe out your own smell. It will become your smell. And ever after you will smell like a family.

  Molly sits down on the chrome loveseat and buries her face in her hands. Poe goes to her. He stands over her but does not touch her.

  Miller- Beautiful. Print it.

  twenty-three.

  I SIT DOWN ON THE CHROME LOVESEAT beside Molly, who wears just a thin white bra and panties. Her feet are stained, red. I have a gun in one hand and her crumpled sundress in the other. I offer the dress to her and she takes it, holding it in both hands as if she doesn’t quite recognize it. I look around the room and Jude is at the bar, mixing drinks. Her hair falls shadowy around her face. The muscles jump in her brown arms and I can see that she’s glowing.

  Jude loves this shit.

  Miller is bent over the coffee table, making notes on the script. I look over his shoulder and my eye catches on a random line of dialogue, attributed to me: Who is the shadow that walks beside you? It sounds like something I might say when drunk. It seems like this should disturb me but I don’t much care. Daphne has opened a window and now sits on the ledge, smoking a joint.

  Will somebody please tell me what’s happening?

  Miller peers at me, confused. Jude brings me a margarita on the rocks.

  I would like some of that weed, says Molly.

  You might want to get dressed, says Jude.

  Oh, says Molly. You’re right.

  When did you change the furniture? I say.

  Molly touches my thigh. While we were out, this morning.

  Do you like it? says Miller. I think it makes for a nice set.

  Molly gets up and pulls her dress over her head and buttons it slowly, her bra and panties exposed in flashes. The monologue, I think. She got a charge out of Jude’s psycho monologue. Molly reaches back and pulls her ponytail apart, shakes her hair as if wet. She glides across the room and takes the joint from Daphne. They whisper to each other briefly, like two thieves. Daphne yawns and stretches lazily and announces that she wants to take a dinner break.

  Okay, says Miller. But don’t be long. We’ll be shooting tonight.

  Daphne nods. Do you mind if I take one of the cars?

  Take the Mustang, says Molly. The keys are in the kitchen.

  Daphne exits, pausing to pluck a dead yellow flower from a vase.

  I take it you know her, I say.

  Molly nods. Daphne goes to school with me.

  I can’t trust you, can I?

  Why do you say that?

  Did you fake that seizure today?

  No, she says. No.

  Please, I say. Button your fucking dress.

  Molly looks at me, hurt.

  I’m sorry. I’m an asshole, I say.

  This is breaking my heart, says Jude.

  You love this, I say. Don’t you.

  What do you mean?

  I mean you’re a compulsive liar.

  Everybody shut the fuck up, says Miller. We need to talk.

  The whine of a power saw from downstairs.

  Hammering, grinding. I wonder what the hell Huck and Jeremy are up to. Molly comes over and hands me the joint. I take a long, grateful drag. I stare at Jude, who lounges on the edge of the couch, stroking herself like she wants to fuck somebody.

  The boy, I say. I want to know about the boy.

  You’re wondering how he will fare in the film, says Miller.

  Exactly.

  The fundamentals of The Velvet are simple, he says. One of us in this room will die. That has not changed. But relationships can be tedious, I think. This is not a comedy, after all. It’s a postmodern horror. And so now we are making a film about four people who have kidnapped a small boy to finance an independent film about four people who have kidnapped a small boy. Or something like that. The boy will be the focal point of the conflict between these four characters. The sexual relationships will be secondary.

  You like to throw that word around, I say. Postmodern. You realize it doesn’t mean anything?

  Miller shrugs. I like the way it sounds.

  Where is the boy?

  Upstairs, says Jude. Downstairs. In a secret room.

  Did you know about this? I say to Molly.

  No, she says. Of course not.

  I want to see him.

  Jude shrugs. And if I say no?

  Don’t fuck with me, Jude.

  She lays one hand flat on her stomach and thrusts her hips once, twice. But it’s so much fun, she says.

  I know this is a bad idea but I walk toward her, my hands out wide to show her that I am unarmed. I shuffle my feet, as if I want to dance with her. Jude raises her arms over her head and pumps her hips faster now, fucking the air. I am a terrible dancer but I’m not shy and I drift close to her, shaking my ass like a fool. I close my eyes for a moment and I see her in a Mexico City motel room, an electric bone saw dripping blood in one hand and a pint of vodka in the other. Her raincoat is covered in blood and she sways back and forth, slowly grinding her pelvis against mine. I look down and her boots are slick with blood, she’s dancing in blood and now I open my eyes and throw my right fist at Jude’s head, a short compact swing that should knock her flat on her ass but she vanishes, she ducks under my fist and when she rematerializes she is to my left and slightly behind me and she hits me with a jab in the side of the throat, then casually sweeps my feet out from under me. I go down like a sack of fertilizer and now Jude is squatting on my chest with a scowl on her face. I am having difficulty breathing and I will be eating nothing but ice cream for a while. I take shallow, gasping breaths, my hands at my throat and I have a feeling she pulled that punch, that she could have crushed my fucking esophagus, that she could have killed me if only she wanted to.

  Wow, says Miller. I wish we’d got that on tape.

  Are you okay? says Jude.

  I see a dark and thorny bramble of emotions in her face. Worried that she has really hurt me, scared but angry as well. Jude bends to kiss me softly on the side of the mouth and I know she loves me, she hates me.

  Don’t speak, she says. It’s going to hurt for a while.

  Get away from him.

  This comes from Molly, who stands a few feet away, a baseball bat in her hands. She has a nice, relaxed grip on it and I believe she knows how to use it. But she doesn’t know Jude very well.

  I’m serious, says Molly.

  Jude sighs. Honey, I could take that away from you with my eyes closed. I could make you suck it.

  Easy, baby, says Miller.

  The word baby rings in my head like hammer on stone.

  But I won’t, says Jude. I’m done fighting for the moment. I’m tired and I have to pee.

  She heaves a theatrical sigh and stands up. She stands over me for a moment and I get a nice view of her crotch. The velvet pants fit her perfectly and her package looks like a ripe red plum. Jude looks good from this angle and she knows it. Now she walks away and Molly bends over me.

  Are you okay?

  No, not really. My voice is gone, a ragged whisper. I sound like I have laryngitis.

  Why did you do that?

  I try to smile. I want to tell her it’s complicated. Molly helps me up and I don’t really mean to, but I push her away. I don’t want her to touch me, or something. I don’t want her to help me, to be tender with me. And
I like Molly. I think I’m falling for her but right now I need to go talk to Jude. I glance at Miller and by the expression on his face I can see that he is very pleased with things so far.

  It’s a waste of breath, I know. But I ask him anyway. Where is the boy?

  Sorry, he says. The kid is Jude’s project.

  I stagger down the hallway to the bathroom. The door is locked.

  Jude, I croak. Let me in.

  There is a brief, calculated silence.

  The stink of melodrama, sweet and acidic. Then she opens the door, turning aside as she does so. I kick the door shut behind me and go to the sink. My face in the mirror is relatively purple and I don’t know if this is shame or anger or internal bleeding, in which case I’m dead in the morning and none of this shit matters. I take a long sloppy drink from the tap. Water runs down my chin onto my shirt. Jude climbs into the clawfoot tub and sits with her knees drawn up to her chest.

  I’m really fucking mad at you, she says.

  Oh yeah? I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy choking to death.

  That’s hilarious.

  Okay, I say. Enlighten me. Why are you mad at me? Because I didn’t fuck Molly last night, or because I wanted to?

  You asshole. You ignorant asshole.

  What?

  I don’t care what you do with that wet bitch. I could not care less.

  You’re lying.

  Phineas, she says. You and I are never going to be happy. We are never going to be an attractive couple with a dog and a kid and a house in the hills. We are never going to file a joint fucking tax return.

  Do you even pay taxes?

  That’s hardly the point.

  Tell me, then. Why are you mad at me.

  Because you’re stupid. You’re so stupid. Because you don’t trust me anymore. Because you tried to hit me just now. And because you seem determined to fuck up this project.

  This project is a nightmare, I say.

  It’s barely begun, she says.

  You should have told me.

  I couldn’t tell you.

  Why not?

  Because I knew you would freak out, just like this.

  Then it did cross your mind that I might not be up for an actual kidnapping.

  Trust me, she says. You have to believe that I know what I’m doing. And it doesn’t matter because you’re already involved.

  I stare at her. The only sound is the dripping tap and it suddenly occurs to me that we are probably on camera right now.

  Is this fucking scripted? I say. Did Miller write this scene?

  What. Why do you say that?

  It’s just a little late in the game to talk about trust.

  That hurts, she says.

  Answer the question, Jude.

  No, she says. This exchange was not scripted. But yes, the cameras are everywhere. Anything we say or do may end up in the film.

  I smile because suddenly I have to take a tremendous shit and I feel just a little self-conscious.

  What’s so funny?

  Nothing, I say.

  You don’t have to love me, she says. But trust me and you will walk out of here alive, with half a million dollars in an offshore bank account.

  If you want me to trust you, then let me see the kid.

  Jude sighs. Fine.

  I follow her upstairs and through the kitchen. Molly stands by the stove, stirring a cup of tea. Jude growls at her and I understand that I need to keep an eye on them, that I should never leave them alone together. I smile at Molly, or try to. I tell her everything is under control and Jude laughs like a mad bird. I follow her down the hall and there are voices coming from the Lizard Room. Miller is in there and at first I think he must be talking to Jeremy but then I realize that one of those voices is mine.

  Hang on, I say. What the fuck?

  Miller is sitting in one of the black leather armchairs, his legs slung over the side. He wears thin cotton pants and no shirt. He is barefoot. He is smoking a cigar and lazily stroking his chest and watching five televisions at once and my handsome face is on every one of them.

  Black and white video, poor quality. Fisheye perspective. I am in a room full of mirrors. Television number one features me and Jude in a stalled elevator with two very frightened senior citizens. Jude is so sexy it’s disturbing, and she clearly knows where the camera is. I look diseased, next to her. We are talking about money and blowjobs and whether or not I should kill the old man and pretty soon I am holding the gun to her head.

  Motherfucker, I say.

  On television number two, I am having my cock munched by Daphne at the Paradise Spa in grainy black and white, poorly lit. Miller chuckles and freezes the picture. I have to admit, the expression on my face is priceless. I look as if I’ve just seen God in the flesh and at the same time realized that I am terribly constipated.

  Oh, honey. That’s special, mutters Jude.

  On the third screen, I am stretched out in the gutter, getting bitch-slapped with my own gun by a fatass bouncer outside the End Up. Miller is kind enough to rewind that one a few times, so we can view it in slow motion. On television number four, I am crouched in an alley talking to an emaciated junkie who wears a yellow miniskirt. I give her money, then pull back my hand as if to strike her.

  And finally I am in bed with Molly, trembling like a kid. She bends to kiss my forehead and there is a lingering, shadowy shot down the front of her nightgown.

  Dynamite, says Miller.

  Huh?

  The way she comforts you when you have a scary dream. I wish you wouldn’t mumble so much, though. I can’t always make out what you’re saying.

  I stare at him. I just don’t know what to say.

  Maybe later, he says.

  Miller eases out of the armchair, rubbing his belly. It occurs to me that he’s really a lot like Captain Kirk. His chest is completely hairless and he’s packing a nice set of love handles and he’s way too smug and pleased with himself all the time. He walks over to the entertainment console and fiddles briefly with the controls, then slips in another tape.

  Fade in. The living room, day. The furniture is as it was before Miller redecorated. Jude sits on the couch in a black dress with slits up either side. Her bare legs are stretched across Miller’s lap. He stares at her legs but does not touch them. Jude leans close to him and begins to whisper or blow into his left ear. Miller pushes her away. Jude smiles as he removes a black Magic Marker from his pocket. Miller slowly, deliberately scrawls the word Mother on one pale thigh and Repent on the other.

  Is that permanent ink? says Jude.

  He shrugs. It’s as permanent as your skin. It will disappear in five, maybe seven days.

  Jude climbs into his lap. She squats over him as if she is about to pee in the woods.

  What do you want? she says.

  Dominate me, says Miller. His voice is sarcastic.

  I’m no good at domination, says Jude. That’s why I’m such a terrible mother.

  Funny, says Miller. Very funny.

  Jude kisses him, roughly. They wrestle for a moment, panting. Miller tugs at his belt buckle and she tries to pull away.

  No, she says. I’m not in the mood.

  Miller holds her by the wrists and she just sits there, glaring at him. I wait for her to headbutt him or something but she just sits there on his lap.

  Honey, he says.

  Don’t fucking call me honey. I hate that.

  Miller’s eyes become slits. His nostrils flare. He slowly begins to twist Jude’s arms and she sucks in her breath as if in pain.

  Are your wings broken? he says.

  Fuck you, she whispers.

  Fly away, he says. Fly away, Jesse.

  Jude struggles with him but he is too strong for her. I assume she’s taking a dive for the video, but it looks very real. I glance at her now and her face is stony, watching. I look back to the screen as Miller relaxes his grip and Jude yanks her hands away. She stands over him now and her eyes are terrible with fear and an
ger. I can’t remember ever seeing fear in her eyes, real or not.

  Miller yawns on the screen. Fly away, he says.

  And beside me he whispers, fly away.

  Jude slowly pulls her underpants down from under her dress, standing on one leg, then the other as she slips the panties over her feet and drops them to the floor. She raises both arms over her head and twirls a slow, seductive circle. Her eyes to the floor,. Jude twirls once more and now she begins to spin, faster and faster, so that her dress rises and falls and the curve of her white ass flashes the camera like a blinking light and finally she stops spinning, dizzy and breathing hard.

  I’m Mary Tyler Moore, says Jude. I can make it anywhere.

  But you will always come back to me, says Miller.

  Zoom on her face, then fade to Miller sitting on the edge of the coffee table, naked. Jude is crouched sideways on the couch, legs folded under her like a grasshopper. Her back is to the camera and I can’t see her face, but her hair is damp and tangled and she makes no effort to fix it. She still wears the black dress, now wet and barely recognizable, ripped open down her spine. There are new bruises along her back, dark plum bruises the size and approximate shape of a man’s hand. Miller lights a cigarette. He offers one to Jude but she doesn’t respond. She doesn’t look at him. Miller reaches for her and she flinches away.

  Easy, he says. Take it easy.

  Miller leans forward and strokes Jude’s legs with one finger, barely touching her. Jude shivers, or trembles. Then slowly Miller begins to pull at her legs, unfolding them. Jude doesn’t resist, but shifts her weight and allows him to extend her left leg so that her foot is in his lap. Now he massages her foot, rubbing it softly with both hands. He might be an affectionate guy whose girlfriend has just had a long day at work except that she is bruised and trembling and he is naked and sweating and has a cigarette hanging from his lips with more than an inch of white ash.

  You have beautiful feet, says Miller.

  Jude says nothing and he continues to rub her foot.

  It’s too bad, he says.

  Why? she says. Why is it too bad?

  Miller removes the cigarette from his mouth and impossibly, the ash does not fall.