Redwood Bend

after a moment of silence, he asked, “No one’s dying, are they? Because I didn’t listen to the messages.”
“No one’s dying that I know of. But in your family…”
“I listened to my mother’s voice mail—she said she heard I’d be in town about a movie and the business hasn’t been kind to her the last few years…and that’s about where I deleted,” he said.
“You’re a sweet kid, Dylan, but you can cut ’em loose. You’re on your own here. I’m not dealing with anyone but you.”
“If any of them are involved in this…”
“I’m not dealing with anyone but you, Dylan. That’s it. On my word.”
His word was probably worth a cup of coffee and little more, but of all the people he had worked with in Hollywood, Jay was probably the most honest and trustworthy. He said, “I’ll see what happens. If this gets out of hand, obviously there won’t be a movie with me in it.”
And then he traveled the rest of the way, with his phone off. He made it to L.A. in the late afternoon, rented a car, found himself a nondescript hotel and watched TV, something he did rarely. He spent Saturday at a mall, buying more appropriate clothes and shoes. He checked his call log and messages, looking for one in particular, but the only one that mattered to him wasn’t there. And of course it shouldn’t be—they’d said goodbye.
Sunday night he drank a little more than usual and when he slept he dreamt of Katie, her warm body against him. Not a sex dream… It was much worse than that—it was more intimate than sex. It was the kind of closeness he had with her. She was there, soft and sweet and laughing, saying smart-ass things, holding him against his worst childhood fears of loss and abandonment.
On Monday when he went to Jay Romney’s office, standing in front of the door, waiting on the street, was Cherise. His mother.
“Dylan,” she said, a bit breathless. “Sweetheart!”
“Why does anything ever surprise me,” he muttered.
Cherise straightened herself. She would be sixty-three by now, older than his father would be had he lived, but she didn’t look a day over forty, though her skin was a little tight across her face. She was too thin, but that would not be too thin for Cherise’s tastes; she worked hard at thin.
“Is that all you have to say to your mother after all these years?”
She hadn’t called him once in twenty years to ask how he was getting along. Never just to talk. She always had an agenda that revolved around him helping her out in some way. For reasons he would never be able to explain, he had achieved the kind of enduring popularity and success his extended family found enviable and it was that for which they reached out to him, the rare times they had. “Pretty much,” he said. “I didn’t listen to all the messages.”
She stiffened as if affronted. “I only said I’d like to see you while you’re in town…”
“There were calls from Bryce and Blaine,” he said. “Why are you circling the wagons? What is it you think I can do for you?”
“Can we have a late lunch? Talk things over?”
“How did you find out I’d be here?” he asked. “How did you get my number?”
“I can’t actually remember… Can we just have a meal? A drink? Dessert later on?”
He laughed. “You don’t eat dessert, Cherise.”
“Please, can’t you call me Mother?”
“No, I can’t. That train left the station a long time ago,” he said.
She straightened her spine. “Are you staying at your grandmother’s house?” she asked.
He briefly wondered what that had to do with anything and then as quickly he realized family would start showing up wherever he was housed. He employed his considerable acting talents to behave as if bored. He looked at his watch and said, “You have sixty seconds to spit it out—tell me what you want from me. Otherwise, there is no conversation between us. I’m here on business.”
“I want a job in your film.”
“Well,” he said, smiling. “There’s a big surprise. And jobs for Blaine and Bryce, as well?”
“I’m not in the business of finding them work—we’re not in touch. I just want something to do, quite honestly. And if I could do it with my son…”
He took a step toward her. “You’re not in touch with them, yet they also had my cell number?”
“I can’t explain that. I have nothing to do with that.”
He whistled. “Amazing,” he said. “Sorry, Cherise, but we’re not going to work together. It would be a very bad mix.