Meanwhile in the World where Kennedy Survived

  Chapter Nine

  After Jacy had been touched up and freshened up, the crew and cast moved to a larger soundstage. They needed the extra room, she would learn, to accommodate a fight that was going to take place. Vantage, because he has offended Empress Tigra with his brazen request for a mining treaty, must duel with a strange creature called a Masculotrope. Jacy pitied the poor man who had to play the half-man, half-horse character. He was a young, body-building star named Tony. His dark eyes were hooded and his black hair thick and wavy. She wondered whether he had to turn sideways to walk through an ordinary door, such was the breadth of his shoulders.

  They must have also selected him because of his height, she supposed, which was well over six feet. What made him even taller was the way the the special costume to transform him into a half equine creature. They had jammed his feet into clumsy and awkward miniature stilts made to resemble hooves. Using this he could not run or walk in the normal way but had to clomp around instead, robot-like. For the fur on his legs it appeared they had glued animal hair onto a pair of tights. A furry trunk piece which may have been made out of latex and papier mache conformed to the contours of his torso. They also had augmented the hair on his chest so that to Jacy it appeared that he wore a shag carpet up there.

  When the technicians and stage hands set up the scene, she wondered how on earth Tony the Masculotrope was going to be a fair match for Vantage, who had speed and agility on his side. She found out when she saw a prop hand give Tony a bizarre instrument that appeared to be two black billiard balls with a string attached to them. Tony swung the ball on a string in a circle high in the air above his head. The balls in flight made a whooshing sound. Though they’d probably been made of balsa wood for safety, Jacy guessed that they were supposed to be solid and heavy, shattering anything they contacted.

  Rohrig said “Let’s go,” and Jacy had to stifle laughter when she watched the first take of their fight. Around the perimeter of the room her soldiers stood cheering, jeering and clapping. Korg was held at sword point while kneeling down below Empress Tigra. Vantage crouched down and gingerly approached the Masculotrope. Rohrig had briefed him for a long time on what strategy to employ: “He’s on those unwieldy horse hooves,” he had said, “so try lunging at them low. Knock him off his feet. All the while he’s going to keep trying to take you out with the bolos.”

  Tony swung the bolo in a deadly circle, forcing Vantage to lurch back away from him.

  “Won’t those things hurt him if they really hit him?” Jacy whispered to a nearby prop man. The nervous looking, messy-haired man in glasses cowered behind the dais, trying to keep out of camera range. He whispered back that no, they wouldn’t. They were made of hollow rubber and might sting him but would not break bones or open cuts.

  While the bolo swirled in the air, Tony tried to sound appropriately fierce, growling and roaring. He must have had a tenor voice, Jacy realized, because his growl came out sounding more like an agonized moan. Hoof-boots too tight maybe? Or were the tights too constricting at the crotch? She made a mental note to talk with him later, when he was out of costume. Finally, she could not help herself. She felt herself start to grin, then smile before laughter burst out from her lips.

  “Hold! Hold!” Rohrig shouted.

  Silence fell on the actors, actresses and stage hands.

  “Miss Rayner, exactly what is so funny here?”

  All eyes in the room turned upward to her. His use of her original, legal name caught her off balance and she continued laughing, though nervously. “It’s Tony,” she said, her eyes watering. “I know he’s trying to sound ferocious, but instead he sounds like he’s on the pot with a bad bout of constipation.”

  Some of the crew hands laughed softly. It was true. Tony’s grimace and grunt had the air of a bathroom quality to it in more respects that just one, also. But Rohrig definitely wasn’t catching the humor. He covered his mouth with his hand and Jacy could see a vein bulge at his temple. Other directors she’d worked with in the past had shared the same characteristic, or, more appropriately, warning flag. “Break for fucking lunch everybody,” he shouted, waving them away with his hand.

  Jacy watched the crew, the technicians and all the extras break into spontaneous, animated conversation. Soon only Warberg, Neiman, herself and Rohrig remained in that corner of the soundstage. Rohrig leveled his gaze at her, narrowing his eyes as he spoke in a threatening voice. “You are in no position to be uppity. You’re lucky to be working. Think of that the next time you get the hankering to mock everything.” He spun around and stormed off in the direction of his office. Neil had told her a few days before that he kept a full wet bar in there. After Rohrig had cleared earshot, Neil drew his wrists inward and pretended to be scared, widening his slanted eyes and cooing “Ooooooh.”

  Strangely enough, however, when everyone returned from lunch break Rohrig concentrated first on working with Tony on his grimacing technique. When he tried a few test grunts and roars they still sounded too high pitched.

  Jacy, who was sitting Indian style at the base of the dais, called out “Why does he have to roar and grunt at all? It might be more menacing if he was mute.”

  Rohrig’s neck snapped around as if to confront Jacy again but Neil interrupted, touching his arm to get his attention. “That’s a good idea, chief. He could use his eyes instead. He’s got good eyes.”

  After a brief silence, Rohrig glanced at Tony, Neil, and Jacy before responding softly to Neil: “Okay.” To Tony he barked “From now on you’re a mute masculotrope. Got me?”

  For the rest of that afternoon, Tony stayed silent and Jacy refrained from laughing.

  Neil held out his hand to help Jacy down from the dais. When they were at the same level he said “If you’d allow it, I’d very much like the pleasure of your company this evening.” She noticed sweat on his forehead, which surprised her since the klieg lights had been turned off for a few minutes.

  Still, she responded to him right away even though her reflex action was to dawdle at such times. “Sure,” she said. He told her he would be at her cottage at eight.

  That left an hour and a half for her to get ready. In one corner of the cottage lie an old fashioned bathtub with feet. A plastic curtain on a couple of poles would keep water from splashing on the floor when she showered. She stayed under the spray a long while, dabbing at her face for the remnants of pancake makeup the cold cream had missed. While the water splashed down over her shoulders she imagined it cleansing away that day’s aches and pains. Acting was always an intense business for her: she would draw her shoulders in at times and put tension in her neck and at the center of her forehead, just above her eyes. She let the water bathe this vulnerable part of her face.

  Once finished with the shower, she wrapped herself in a towel, remembering that a towel had been her stage “costume” for a good part of the play “The Married Man.” Her feet left wet prints on the lacquered wooden floor while she padded across the room to the mirror. When looking at the reflection, she noted the crystalline beads of water imbedded in the strands of her hair, upswept with pins to stay out of the way while she showered. No gray strands yet, or worse, wrinkles. To herself she looked the same as she had in that role on Broadway eight years earlier.

  Just as quickly she backed away from the reflection. She had read somewhere that if you looked at yourself in the mirror for too long a time, the image of the devil would appear over your shoulder. She was not in the mood to deal with Lucifer that night.

  That left the problem of what to wear. She leaned back and touched a finger to her lip while she regarded the closet full of clothes she’d brought along. There was a turquoise satin bathrobe that was really comfortable. She loved to spend quiet evenings in it, reading. Seated across from Neil it would spread apart at the folds to reveal her legs. Did she want to give him that visual when they were alone? Probably not. There was a sundress, but to her, that was not the kind of thing one wore in the evening. Of course the black sati
n and chiffon evening gown was out. That left her blue jeans and stretch pants. She settled on the black stretch pants together with a sleeveless pastel yellow button-up top that tied at the midriff. Playfully coy. By the time she had finished buttoning it up, she looked up at the clock. 7:45. Enough time for a light dusting of shadow, along with mascara, moisturizer, and a touch of lipstick.

  She had left all the windows opened that day. Since it was cool outside she figured it would help her sleep better. A slight breeze pulled tree branches down, and they tickled the rooftop of the cottage. The late April sun was setting, bringing about a violet sky behind the window. Jacy heard footsteps randomly falling on the wide, round stones that formed a walkway to her front door.

  There was a knock. She felt her heart leap, which scared her since she knew this was just a friendly visit from a co-worker who may have only wanted to discuss their roles and the script. The encounter still felt like a date, however, and she remembered when she was seventeen and Max Rodriguez would come to her house to pick her up. She inched the door open, slowly revealing that night’s vision of Neil Neiman. He was wearing a flannel, lumberjack style shirt with black stovepipe slacks. In his hand he was holding a single rhododendron, which he handed to her with a smile.

  “For you,” he said, presenting it to her by bringing his hand forward. She took the flower from him and stood there for a moment, admiring it. After awhile he said “Well? Can I come in?” She stepped aside for him. When he stepped over the threshold, she closed the door. A flicker of blushing bashfulness had overcome her. “You look great,” Neil went on, giving her a glancing touch on her shoulder.

  “I checked before,” Jacy said, looking around at the cupboards and the small refrigerator. “I don’t have anything to drink except water and a little soda.” She remembered that Neil, Warberg and all the other principals liked to hit the bar, especially after a grueling day’s shooting.“That’s okay,” Neil said, looking directly at her and smiling. He shuffled his feet slightly, scratching the back of his head, looking down and letting out a barely perceptible sigh. It touched Jacy that he, too had obvious felt jitters over their after-hours meeting.

  She took his hand and led him over to the simple couch against the far wall. They sat down and angled themselves toward one another.

  When they had both settled down into the cushions, Neil looked at her, smiled, shook his head again and sighed. “I feel like I’m a pimply-faced sixteen year old kid dating the Homecoming Queen.” Jacy laughed, knowing that overreacting to his joke this way was following her mother’s advice. It also lit a candle flame to melt down the icy wall of tension.

  “I like you better without the horns,” she said, at that same moment realizing the double entendre. It was not lost on Neil. He paused to look straight ahead for a moment, a shifty-eyed glance. It seemed as if he wondered about the comeback, then shook his mind free of it.

  “Yeah, that’s really something,,” Neil murmured. “I have a funny feeling about the role I’m playing.”

  “You do? In what way?”

  “It just feels so right. When I get all that heavy makeup put on, along with the latex and the fuzzy stuff, I keep on thinking that it’s the way things are supposed to be. Like it’s my destiny. That must sound really corny.”

  Silently, Jacy shook her had and shrugged, putting both her palms upward and lifting them. He smiled. “Say whatever you feel like,” she told him. “I promise I won’t critique you on your energy, rate, or tone.” They both laughed.

  “I had such big dreams,” Neil went on. “Shakespeare. What actor worth his sweat doesn’t want to do Shakespeare? Hamlet. Macbeth. King Lear. Anything. Or get to the big screen, move people to tears. But today, when I went to the supermarket to look for bread I heard people whispering ‘Korg.’”

  Jacy patted him on the thigh. “I think you’ve succeeded,” she said. “Korg has a lot of dignity.”

  Neil paused to think about it and Jacy took the opportunity to look at him more closely. His eyes were warm brown, flecked with tiny hints of amber and ringed gold around the edge of the iris. His black, straight hair fell shiny and straight in thick strokes across his forehead. What struck her more about him, however, especially since they’d been alone together, was how he never seemed to stop moving, even while sitting still. When he breathed, the muscles of his chest brushed gently against the contours of his shirt and forced out the air with a gently perceptible sigh. He would shift one way and then another, the couch springs gently creaking beneath them. Behind her head, where he had placed his arm, his fingers strummed on the wall. Instead of tapping out a staccato rhythm he would flick the edge of his fingernail in even, two-four timing. “What about you?” he asked. “What do you want?”

  When she sighed, inhaling, she saw out of the corner of her eye that he had nudged himself slightly closer to her, so that their knees grazed.

  “The same,” she told him. “To touch people. Show them a glimpse of heaven. Or hell. Create a lasting impression. To fly.” For a moment Neil seemed to be puzzled, his brow knitting. He crinkled his nose and smiled wryly. “It’s a ballet term,” she explained. “Break the bonds of gravity. Float ethereally. It’s what all we dancers want.”

  “Oh yeah,” Neil said. “To be immortal.”

  The sudden warmth in his eyes startled her. Touching her hand he said “You are.” Along with the warmth, Jacy could see pain, also. She felt a twinge along with him, in her heart. Her throat also tightened, and her lips quivered. She would have wanted to say something, anything, but could not. Her aura was wrapping around this beautiful young man. A minute seemed like an hour. She realized that she was allowing herself to drift slowly toward him. His full, round lips and parted but then they suddenly backed away from each other.

  Neil suddenly backed away, saying “Whew!” and wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. “I’m sorry Jacy. I didn’t mean for it to be like this. But you, well, I, it’s just that...you’re wonderful. God I must sound like and idiot. Babbling on like some kind of a farm boy in the cab of a pickup truck.

  Jacy rubbed his shoulder. “I think it’s nice,” she said, trying to think quickly of a way to veer the conversation around to a less intense subject. “So, immortal, huh?”

  “Yeah. Actors. But there’s something about you. As a person. It’s like I have a hard time believing that you’re real sometimes.”

  Jacy chuckled softly. “I’m here,” she said, barely whispering. She held onto his wrist, kneading the firm contours of it. “Just relax. Tell me anything. Let go.”

  “You mean fly?” Neil asked. For a moment he seemed frozen in time, a stillness that stunned her, driving her out of the tiny bungalow and onto a higher plane. It caused her heart to long for him all the more.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Neil leaned in, to kiss her. Jacy allowed herself to savor every delicious moment of anticipation, yielding to him, offering him her mouth, which he touched tenderly with his lips, bringing his hands down around her shoulders, to cradle her.

  Three months later, around the time the episode they had just finished was set to air, Jacy was visiting the supermarket. When she had pushed her cart up to the checkout line and waited for the cashier, her eyes fell on an unusual headline on a tabloid sitting on a rack beneath her. It said “Galactic enemies Empress Tigra and Major Korg in torrid romance.”

  Oh gawd, she thought.