Whackadoodle Times Galore

THREE-1

THREE

I hurried toward my house. In fact, I pretended I was jogging in case anyone saw me.

I jogged right through the open front door and into the house.

Eartha was in the kitchen, looking completely at home, chopping up vegetables at the counter. She looked up and smiled when I came in.

“You look refreshed,” she said.

I really didn’t want her remarking upon my appearance. Or anything else about me.

I was having second and third thoughts about her staying in our garden house and cooking for us. What had I been thinking?

“There’s plenty of food in the house,” she said. “I’ve got a great dinner planned for you.”

“It doesn’t have to be great,” I said. “Fair to middling will work for us. I’ve got to go into the village.”

“To your studio?” she asked.

I squinted at her. How did she know about my studio?

“Violeta was giving me the schedule for the day,” Eartha said. “She told me you work at your art studio for part of the day. I’d love to see some of your work. I’ve dabbled in art some myself.”

I leaned against the refrigerator and folded my arms across my chest.

“Where you from anyway?” I asked.

She looked back down at her vegetables. “Everywhere. Nowhere. Most of my family is gone now. So I wander the world and find community wherever I go.”

“You do this all the time?” I asked. “Like with us? You find people and you stay with them?”

She nodded. “Sure. People are so bereft of real connection and community that they almost always welcome me.”

“We’re not bereft of anything,” I said.

“Oh, not you,” she said. She looked up. “You have everything. At least I would imagine you do. Although we don’t ever know what’s going on in another person’s heart. Or in their home, do we? By the way, the house phone rang so I answered it. I hope that was all right. It was your husband. He wanted you to pick up David after school.”

“Oh Christ,” I said.

I hurried out back and got my phone from my chair by the pool. I found a text message and voice mail.

I didn’t feel like talking to Hayword this morning.

I texted that I couldn’t pick up David.

The phone rang, so I answered it.

“I’ve got a big meeting,” he said. “It’s at four. I’ll never be able to pick David up and get back here in time.”

“I’ve got an appointment,” I said. “I can’t break it. Can’t David go home with a classmate or something?”

“It’s about that movie,” he said.

“Powerbreakers?” The movie he had been rewriting for who knew how long. Time to let it go. Let them hire someone else to fix it.

“No, no,” he said. He sounded breathless, excited, the way he always did when he thought everything was going to change. “Zombie Town.”

I groaned.

“I don’t give a s**t about that stupid ass movie,” I said.

I was going to be late. I had to shower. I had to dress. I had to imagine Mark and me together.

“Brooke, they are ready to shoot,” Hayword said. “Another studio bought it when Jack Meredith agreed to direct. Jack Meredith, Brooke! It’ll be a blockbuster. And they want some rewrites. They’re going to pay me bonuses, give me points, and I’ll be an executive producer.”

Ahhh, Hayword’s dream: to be a producer. What little boy or girl dreams of growing up to be a producer? They might dream of becoming a writer, maybe. A director. An actor. But a producer? I don’t think so.

But Hayword wanted to be the one in charge. He still believed he could make things better. People and their talents would actually matter if he was the boss.

“This movie could change everything for us,” he said.

I had heard this so many times.

“It’s a f*****g zombie movie,” I said. “What could it change?”

“Jack Meredith mentioned you,” he said. “In his e-mail to the studio head of AFT.”

AFT? That was a decent studio. They did some artsy movies and some blockbusters.

“Me? Why?”

“They all remember Love and Other Insanities,” he said. “They liked the human touch you brought to the characters.”

“That’s because they were human,” I said. “Zombies are not. Zombies are so stupid. Who could be interested in them? They aren’t sexy. You can’t f**k them. You can’t have dinner with them for the same reason you can’t f**k them: Parts of their bodies would be falling off into the soup or into you or else you would become dinner.”

“See, there,” Hayword said. “Nobody thinks like you do.”

Oh no. Hayword was sucking up to me. That meant he really wanted this.

“I can’t break this appointment,” I said. “It’s a doctor’s appointment I booked months ago.”

“A doctor’s appointment?” His voice was suddenly different. No longer the weaselly Hollywood man. It was my husband’s voice. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, I’m sure not,” I said. What a f*****g manipulative liar I was. Like he didn’t have enough to worry about.

“No,” I said. “It’s nothing at all. Just a woman thing. Don’t want to talk to you about it or you may never want to have s*x with me again.”

“Brooke, you can talk to me about anything,” he said. “I’ll listen.”

There were so many things wrong with those two sentences. But I didn’t want to talk about any of that now

“Maybe you could pick David up early,” I said, “and take him with you. He loves going to the office with you.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll try to be home by dinner.”

“Aren’t you going to wish me luck?”

“Luck? For what?”

“For my meeting,” he said.

“Uh, sure,” I said. “But weren’t you already paid? And aren’t they going to shoot it anyway?”

“Yes, I was paid,” he said, “and yes, they’re scheduled to start shooting soon. But if I get on as an executive producer and then they let me doctor my own script—or you doctor it—we could make a difference. This movie could change the lives of millions of people. It could change the world.”

A zombie movie? Maybe I should read the script: I didn’t remember any life-changing material in it when he’d told me the story. It was life-changing for the people who got eaten by the zombies. Or those people who became zombies. But those were merely characters in a movie. It wasn’t going to change the world.

“Maybe you should change the title to Zombie,” I said.

“They do want to change the title,” he said. “Why Zombie?”

“It could be like the movie Gandhi,” I said, “except we’re following the life of an extraordinary zombie leader who changed the world by becoming vegetarian and learning to love the living and the dead.”

“Man, I love the way your mind works,” he said. “Gotta go, babe. I’ll pick up David.” He hung up.

I looked at the phone. “I was kidding,” I said. “I was being a sarcastic bitch.”

It was no fun when he didn’t notice.

My hangover was beginning to dissipate, or I was beginning to dissipate. In any case, I was hungry. I needed to eat before I went down to the village. Damn. And Violeta was gone.

I went into the house and up the back stairs so I wouldn’t have to see Eartha. I took a shower—man, that felt good—and then I put on my makeup and stood in my very large closet wondering what I should wear.

Mark had just seen me in sweats. He obviously didn’t care what I wore. Or else he was too polite to say anything.

I put on a black camisole, a sheer blue blouse, and tight black jeans. No. Tight black jeans would leave creases. I pulled them off and put on a tight pair of black slacks made of something unnatural. No creases.

Then I stared at myself in the mirror. I was acting as though I cared what Mark P. thought about me. I didn’t. He should care what I thought about him.

I looked at the clock. Another hour before I had to be there. I could pick up something to eat for us, or I could let Mark make me an omelette. No. That was too domestic. Didn’t want set any precedent with that.

Oh crap. I would have to leave Eartha in the house alone. I couldn’t do that. Okay. Wait. I could lock up the house so she would only be able to get into the garden house while I was gone. Wait. That wouldn’t work. How could she make dinner if she was in the garden house? Perhaps that particular ship had sailed. We’d go out for dinner. Or I’d pick up a pizza.

I was not leaving her in this house. She could be waiting until we all left to call her accomplices. Burglars could come in and strip a house clean in a very short time.

I texted Hayword, “I have to leave, but I can’t leave Eartha in the house.”

He texted back almost immediately. “I told you that Philip thoroughly vetted her. She’s fine. Besides Violeta is there.”

“Violeta had to leave. Something about her mother. Maybe Eartha’s such a good criminal that she never leaves any evidence behind during her crime sprees.”

No answer from Hayword. I waited. Nothing. Was this his passive aggressive way of saying, “Shut the f**k up?”

I went downstairs. Eartha was still in the kitchen. I glanced over at the table. One place setting. With a bowl of something on the table.

“I made you a little salad,” Eartha said. “Violeta said you’d only had a croissant for breakfast. And coffee.”

“It’s how the French eat,” I said. “And they seem to do all right.” I didn’t like Violeta talking about me to strangers.

“You don’t have to eat it,” Eartha said. “You don’t want it, I’ll eat it.”

I walked over to the table, pulled out the chair, and sat in it. I looked down at the bowl. It was filled with green leafy stuff. With specks of something salmon-colored throughout.

“What is that?” I asked.

Eartha came over and looked where I was pointing.

“Salmon,” she said.

“Oh.”

Some rice. Or else maggots. Wasn’t sure. Bits of olive. Something red.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing.

“Radicchio,” she said. “And that’s spinach, dandelion greens. It was all in your refrigerator.”

“I don’t know why,” I said. “I don’t let Violeta make salads, except for David. He’s gotten a little pudgy this year. But Hayword doesn’t like anything green. He likes meat and potatoes. Reminds him of home.”

“You’re in California,” Eartha said.

“So?”

“You can get anything fresh here,” Eartha said. “Fresh salmon. Fresh greens. Fresh pasta. Fresh cheese. Fresh whatever.”

“We’re not a very fresh family,” I said. “We’re a little stale, and we like our food that way.”

Eartha shrugged. “I’ll eat it.”

I held up my hand.

“I’ll try it,” I said. I dug the fork in, speared a bunch of stuff, put it into my mouth, and then chewed.

My eyes widened. How could rabbit food taste this good? I know, calling a salad rabbit food is a cliché. I actually would like to eat differently, but Violeta knows how to cook food with lard. Getting her not to use lard had been such an effort. As least as far as I was concerned. I couldn’t teach her California cuisine. Or any kind of cuisine. I remembered how we had eaten when I was a kid. Meat, starch, and canned vegetables. Not that we had canned vegetables now, but vegetables weren’t the highlight of our meals.

Okay. If I was really honest, I’d have to say I don’t really pay much attention to what I eat, or what any of us eats. I make sure there’s enough food in the house—I make sure Violeta makes sure there’s enough food in the house. Beyond that, who cares? It’s just . . . food.

“What kind of dressing is that?” I asked. “It makes everything melt in my mouth.”

I suddenly felt starved. I kept eating the salad and talking.

“I added some avocado to a basic vinaigrette,” Eartha said, “along with a few herbs and spices. Found a can of black beans and I added some to the salad. Be better if they were fresh beans, or at least dried beans freshly soaked and cooked.”

The dish was almost as good as the martini she had made last night.