LUMINOUS BLUE: A Novel of Warped Celebrity Page 15

  Heading back toward my place, Kara puts her hand on the back of my neck and runs her fingers through my hair.

  “What’s wrong, Jim?” she asks.

  I don’t turn around. I don’t say anything.

  She snuggles close to me, so that when she speaks, I feel her warm, moist breath on my ear.

  “Did something happen at the party?”

  “Harvey Wallison wants me to star in his new movie.”

  “That’s great!”

  “Everyone wants to know how my screenplay is coming along. They can’t wait to read it.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  Our limo is winding up Laurel Canyon. The road is very steep. If Rex were to make a steering mistake, we’d go plunging down into a ravine.

  “These things aren’t wonderful,” I say, still gazing out the window.

  “Why?”

  “Everyone wants things from me.”

  “Well, isn’t that—”

  “What if I can’t deliver?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if I can’t do the things these people want?”

  “But you can, Jim. You’re a brilliant actor. I know. I’ve seen your films. You’ve won an Oscar, for Chrissakes.”

  It’s two a.m., and I’m so angry. It even surpasses the fear.

  There’s nothing like getting exactly what you want and it still not being enough.

  Chapter 24

  with Kara in the bungalow ~ Kara holds the Oscar ~ Margot’s curiosity ~ the angry goldens ~ the worst thing that can possibly happen when you’re making love to a woman (it’s not what you think) ~ finishes the job ~ finishes the other job ~ Kara takes the Defender ~ digs a hole ~ the Star Wars analogy

  Even though we just came from the mansion to end all mansions, Kara’s pretty blown away by my bungalow. I take her inside and give her the quick tour. She seems particularly enthralled with my home theatre.

  “You have to have me over to watch a movie some time,” she says. Of course that won’t happen. I’ve decided now, but I smile just the same and say that of course we will. We’ll pop popcorn and do the whole shebang.

  Kara spends a moment staring at Oscar.

  I open the case for her and let her hold it. I see flakes of dried blood in the crevices, but they’re microscopic. I’m sure she won’t notice.

  “It’s so heavy,” she tells me.

  “That’s what everyone says.”

  “Was this like the best night of your life?”

  “It was.”

  I fix her a drink (Crown and Coke, very easy on the Crown) and take her out onto the patio. After the obligatory drooling over my extraordinary view of Los Angeles, we settle back into Adirondack chairs and talk superficially about the Haneline party and our interactions with various guests.

  Then Kara mentions her conversation with Margot.

  “Yeah, Margot was pretty interested in you,” Kara tells me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, she was just asking how you’d been doing and all.”

  “Been doing with what?”

  “You know.”

  “No, Kara, I don’t know.”

  “With the uh…the substance abuse thing,” she whispers the last part.

  “Oh. Thank you, Margot.”

  “Jim, it’s fine. None of my business. I don’t care.”

  “You don’t care if I’m a drug addict?”

  She sighs, and I can tell by the way she plays with her ice that she’d love to have a second crack at not bumbling into this topic.

  “Of course I care,” she says finally.

  I reach over and take hold of her hand which is wet and cold from holding the Crown and Coke.

  “I’m doing much, much better,” I tell her. “You should know that I went through some hard times a while back, but that I’ve come through it. I’m healthy now, Kara.”

  It’s not much fun admitting to being a drunk and/or drug addict when you’re not, but I guess you’ve got to make sacrifices sometimes.

  “You want to go inside?” I ask, and yes, I’m asking exactly what you think I’m asking.

  “Love to,” she replies, and by the way her eyes have gone all soft and intense, I know that she means exactly what I think she means.

  On the way to my bedroom, we pass the golden retrievers. They’re lying by the closed door to the yoga room, and when I reach down to pet them, they bare their teeth.

  Kara asks what’s wrong with them, and I tell her they’re just playing, that it was a friendly growl.

  We head on into my bedroom and get it on. It’s quite fun, because I care about Kara, and I feel strongly that she cares about me.

  I even light two candles on my dresser and turn off the lights. It’s highly romantic.

  Things are going very well. I’m making love to her more passionately than I’ve ever made love to anyone. Certainly more than the twins from New York. I have to say, we’re both enjoying ourselves immensely, and every now and then, I’ll look over through the window and see lovely LA at three in the morning, and then look down at lovely Kara. Everything’s just beautiful tonight, and I’m starting to think that maybe things will be all right, when I hear a noise.

  I’m sure Kara can’t hear it, because she’s making some noise of her own, but it chills my blood. It’s the sound of a door opening very slowly. Creaking. I hear the tags on the dogs’ collars clinking, I hear them licking something, and then, through the open doorway of my bedroom, I see a hand, an arm, and then a head. Something drags itself out of the yoga room, slowly, impossibly across the floor.

  I hate to do this to Kara, because she’s awfully close, but I whisper, breathlessly, “The dogs are getting into something. Can you hold on a second?”

  “Jim, what are you—”

  “Be right back.”

  I hop down from the bed and run naked into the hall, closing the bedroom door behind me.

  “Bad dogs!” I yell.

  They growl, but I raise my hand to them, and they bolt off down the hallway into another part of the house.

  I drag it back into the yoga room. I don’t even know what this thing is. As I make it stop moving, I keep thinking that I’m stuck in this awful nightmare. I don’t ever want to see it again.

  When I finish, I wash up and walk back into my bedroom and climb into bed with Kara. She’s lying naked on top of the covers, head propped up on one elbow.

  “Sorry about that,” I say, pressing my body up against hers. I can’t tell if she’s mad. I think she might be, but she kisses me anyway and pulls me back on top of her.

  In the morning, Kara wakes up frantic, because she has an eleven o’clock recitation to teach. I tell her if she can drive a stick, that she’s welcome to take the Defender.

  I walk her out, and we spend a minute saying all that stuff men and women are supposed to say to each other after a night like we had.

  When she’s gone, I walk around the side of the house to a tool shed. Inside, I find a shovel and set about digging a hole a hundred feet or so down the hillside from my patio. It takes a long time, because the ground is very hard and dry. In the end, it’s not too deep, but it’ll have to do.

  What’s even harder than the digging is the dragging of that thing out of the yoga room, all the way across my patio, down the hill, and into the bushes.

  The hole is in a particularly nice spot, shaded from the sun, surrounded by sagebrush. You’d have to really be looking for it to find it, so I feel pretty good about the whole deal.

  I roll it into the ground, but I don’t start filling in the hole right away. I just stand there, staring down at it. It helps if I imagine that this thing I’m burying is all of the shit that’s inside of me. I’m a firm believer that if you want to reach self-actualization or enlightenment, or whatever that really good place is called, you have to kill a part of yourself.

  It’s kind of like that scene in The Empire Strikes Back when Luke Skywalker is visiting the little green
guy, and he goes down in that hole in the ground and fights the guy in the black cape. Well, after Luke kills him with his light sword, he looks down into the black mask and sees his own face. It’s like he had to kill a part of himself to become a better human being.

  That’s similar to what I’m doing here. It’s very metaphorical.

  Chapter 25

  phones Brad ~ swigs vodka ~ mulls over his amnesia and the impending automobile accident ~ into the ravine

  I almost forget to call Brad. It’s not that he’s an essential component of what I’m getting ready to do, but it may expedite my rescue if someone misses me.

  So I call him up, and he doesn’t even say hello or anything.

  Just answers, “Where in the hell have you been?”

  “I had a late night.”

  “Another late night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve been calling you all morning, and it’s two o’clock now. You still want to get some work done today?”

  “That’s why I’m calling you.”

  “Are you fucked up?”

  “No, of course—”

  “’Cause don’t even come to my house if you are. I’m not in the mood to fuck around. We have real work to do. I talked to Tom yesterday, and he’s ready to see it. Like next week.”

  “All right. I’m on my way. See you in five.”

  Brad hangs up.

  On my way out, I stop by the bar and open another bottle of vodka. I take four big swallows and head for the door, eyes watering.

  The vodka kicks as I tear down Laurel Canyon. I’m feeling so happy about everything, and it’s not just the alcohol. I told you about how I’d been forgetting things lately. For instance, a few minutes earlier, when Brad mentioned that “Tom was ready to see it,” I had no idea what he was talking about. I don’t know Tom from Adam. And apparently, Brad and I are writing a screenplay, but I couldn’t tell you what it was about. And at Rich’s party last night, I didn’t know anyone who seemed to know me. Even my childhood has become a fog. For instance, I know for a fact that I grew up in the mountains near Missoula, Montana, but I have these inexplicable memories of a small town in North Carolina.

  Perhaps the most frightening aspect of my amnesia, is that I’m beginning to doubt my acting ability. I’m an Oscar winner. I have the statue to prove it. But if I’m forgetting things as rudimentary as where I was born and who my friends are, how can I be sure my acting hasn’t lapsed? And I’m supposed to read for the lead role in the new Harvey Wallison picture next week? You don’t walk into that situation wondering if you can act.

  The top’s down on my Porsche, and the warm Pacific sun rains down through the trees.

  I smell the forest all around me.

  The ravine is just ahead, but instead of sailing on over, I bring my Porsche to a stop in the middle of the road, take a deep breath, and buckle my seatbelt.

  My heart pounds.

  It’s a steep descent into that ravine. I hear a car climbing the hill below, and it occurs to me that I should do it now.

  Close my eyes.

  Punch the gas.

  When they find me, I’ll be bruised but intact.

  Maybe a broken bone or two, a few cuts, a bump on the head.

  I’ll lay down there until someone finds me. I hope it doesn’t take long. At least Brad is expecting me. That was exceptionally clever on my part.

  The doctors will scan and probe and test and scan again, but they won’t find anything to explain my amnesia. They’ll be perplexed as to why I don’t remember a thing about this life, or any other.

  But my condition will be accepted. I was in a car wreck. No one will question that. And everyone will fall all over themselves to teach me about my beautiful life.

  The other car is close. Another ten seconds, and it will be too late.

  I jam my foot into the gas and accelerate toward the edge.

  Then I’m falling, flipping, trees and shrubs and sky rushing by, the windshield cracked, a life passing before my eyes that is not mine.

  MONTANA

  Chapter 26

  the thawing lake ~ tea with Pam ~ reads his paper ~ debates whether to ask Pam about who he was ~ Montana sky

  My nose itches, and the lake is still half-frozen. I heard the ice splintering again last night. The remnants of this past winter—the iced lake, the snowpack on the mountains—seem artificial on a morning like this, when the trees are budding and a sweater is sufficient to keep a body warm.

  I hear Pam walking back through the grass. She sets a tray on the folding table beside me.

  “My nose itches,” I say.

  She rubs her index finger under my nose.

  “Thank you.”

  “I made tea for us.”

  She fills our teacups.

  The sun just reaches over that fin-like mountain at the other end of the lake.

  “Did you bring my sunglasses?” I ask her.

  “Sure did.”

  She sets my cup of tea in front of me and puts on my shades.

  I drink tea, even hot tea, through a long, skinny straw.

  Pam sits down beside me in the grass with her cup.

  They tell me she’s only my nurse, but she feels more like a sister. She doesn’t sport nurse clothing. She wears jeans and a wool sweater. She’s attractive.

  “That man called again this morning,” she tells me, and I ask which man she’s referring to. I still have to be reminded of things a lot. That may never change.

  “The man who called yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.”

  “What does he want?”

  “To see you.”

  “What did you say his name was?”

  “Bo Dunkquist.” From the way she says his name, I can tell that she’s had to answer that question several times.

  I don’t know if I know him. I don’t know much of anything really. For instance, right now there’s a piece of paper in my pocket that tells me who I am and how I came to be this way, but I couldn’t tell you what’s written on that paper. And when I say “this way,” I mean paralyzed from the neck down and scarred from third-degree burns over seventy percent of my body. That I do remember. The scarring part especially. Sometimes, I forget that I can’t move, but I never forget what my face looks like, all smooth and hairless. I’m glad I don’t forget, because it’d be an awful thing to have to see for the first time, day after day after day.

  But don’t feel sorry for me please. I’m not in any pain now, and I have no memories of when I was.

  “I want to read my paper,” I say. This woman, whose name I’ve forgotten, reaches into my pocket, pulls it out, and unfolds it for me. It’s sort of funny—I remember that I have this paper, but I never remember what it says. You’d think if I could remember the one thing, I could remember the other.

  I read it. I think I read it at least once a day, but I’m not sure:

  Your name is James Jansen. You are 43 years old. Right now you are at your cabin in the mountains of Montana near the town of Woodworth. You are paralyzed from the neck down. Your nurse’s name is Pam. She lives with you and will help you with anything you need. Your sister lives nearby in Missoula. Her name is Courtney, and she’s 37. You were injured four years ago in an automobile accident when you lost control of your car and crashed into a ravine. You were in a coma in St. Anthony Medical Center in Los Angeles, California, until last September.

  Before the accident, you were a very famous actor. You won the Oscar (a very prestigious award) in 20--, for your role in Down From the Sleeping Trees. You’re holding it right now. Pam will tell you more about your acting career if you would like to know.

  Today is April 15, 20--.

  I look down into my lap. There is in fact a shiny gold statue between my legs, gleaming in the sun.

  Wind comes across the water and blows the paper out of my lap into the bright grass beside Pam. I hear the wind moving through the fir trees. Chimes jingle on the back porch of the cabin.


  I start to ask Pam about who I was before the car wreck, but I stop. I’ll bet I ask her that every day, and I’ll bet she gets sick of having to tell me. Or maybe I just think I ask her every day, and so I never do. Perhaps I’ve had this same train of thought thirty days in a row.

  So I don’t say anything. It’s easier to sit here and not think and stare at the lake and the mountains and the evergreens.

  I’m not sad.

  Not at all.

  I don’t feel much of anything except contentment to be out in this glorious morning.

  Even if she were to tell me things about my old self, I don’t think it would move me any more than the memory of a dream, because the only thing real to me is this moment—the wind-stirred lake and Pam and the blue Montana sky.

  THE END

  Interview with Blake Crouch by Hank Wagner

  Originally Published in Crimespree, July 2009

  According to his website, Blake Crouch grew up in Statesville, a small town in the piedmont of North Carolina. He graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in 2000, where he studied literature and creative writing. He currently resides in the San Juan Mountains of southwestern Colorado. Crouch’s first book, Desert Places, was published in 2003. Pat Conroy called it “Harrowing, terrific, a whacked-out combination of Stephen King and Cormac McCarthy.” Val McDermid described it as “An ingenious, diabolical debut that calls into question all our easy moral assumptions. Desert Places is a genuine thriller that pulses with adrenaline from start to finish.” His second novel, Locked Doors, was published in July 2005. A sequel to Desert Places, it created a similar buzz. His third novel, Abandon, was published on July 7, 2009.

  HANK WAGNER: Your writing career began in college?

  BLAKE CROUCH: I started writing seriously in college. I had tinkered before, but the summer after my freshman year, I decided that I wanted to try to make a living at being a writer. Spring semester of 1999, I was in an intro creative writing class and I wrote the short story (called “Ginsu Tony”) that would grow into Desert Places. Once I started my first novel, it became an obsession.