When Cary was seated at the table, John, their young waiter, was there almost immediately. Rory laughed when John asked Cary if he’d like a menu and didn’t even look at Rory.
Cary said no and told John what he’d like, although he did it the way so many kids ordered these days. It always tickled Rory when he heard it. Cary asked if he could have what it was he wanted. Rory and other adults just said what they wanted: “I’ll have the French dip,” or, “Give me the bacon cheeseburger, please.” Somehow, kids had taken up a much more polite way to make their requests: “May I have the club sandwich?” or, “Could I have a tuna melt, please?” Every time Rory heard a kid order that way, always with a ‘may I’ or ‘could I’, sounding so whimsical, he had to refrain from laughing.
When John left, Rory asked, “How’re things at home?”
Cary shook his head. “Same as always. Dad doesn’t change. Doesn’t see the need to, and you know me. I hate confrontations. I just go with whatever.”
“But you’re not happy.” Rory didn’t ask, simply stated the fact.
“No, but what can I do? Mom tries to moderate, but it’s like an ant arguing with a steamroller.”
“School’s out. Any summer plans?”
“Not really up to me. Dad’ll dictate my summer. I’ll be working if he has anything to say about it, and he will.”
“Hmmm. You deserve a vacation. I can spend some time with you, and I can talk to him when he objects. I got fired yesterday, so have time on my hands. I’d like to spend some of it with you. Go to the beach. The zoo. I’ve heard L.A. has an excellent zoo, and it’s close to here. And there’s the one in San Diego, too.”
Cary was focusing on the first thing Rory’d said. “Fired! You? That’s unbelievable!”
Rory could only chuckle. He knew Cary had some sort of hero worship going on which Rory didn’t deserve. He told him about Cadwaller. “I don’t mind, really. I didn’t much care for the show we were scripting. And I haven’t had any time off for quite a while now. It feels good to be free, and I certainly don’t need the money a job would pay.”
“Will you write another book?”
“Maybe. I was actually thinking of traveling some. Harper says I should go back to Ripley’s Creek, or if not there, it should be to the Caribbean, one of the islands. There are lots of places in the U.S. I’ve never seen; maybe I’ll just drive to where the car wants me to go and see the sights.”
Rory took a deep breath and let it out. “I’ll figure it out. No rush. But I’d love it if we could spend time together. You know, if I do go somewhere, you could come with me, wherever I go.”
“I’d love to, but you’d never get it past Dad.”
“We’ll see.”
By the time they’d finished their food, Cary was ready for Morris. Cary had brought his backpack, and now reached in and brought out a frisbee. As soon as he saw that, Morris came out from under the table and sat next to Cary, his eyes focused on the disc, a mewling noise coming from his throat.
“Okay if I go play with him?” Cary asked.
“He’d never forgive me if I said no,” Rory said, smiling.
The restaurant was next to a city park. There was a four-foot-high, ivy-covered wall between the patio and the park with a gate that allowed access both ways. Cary stood up, said, “Morris,” and walked to and through the gate, Morris next to him.
Rory moved to a chair at his table that gave him a straightforward view of the park. There was a broad, grassy area without trees where kids often played pickup soccer games, and that was where Cary stopped. Morris stood next to him, his tail straight out behind him, quivering with excitement. Rory watched Cary sail the frisbee out over the grass and Morris take off after it, racing much faster than seemed possible for his heavyset frame. As the frisbee began to descend, Morris leapt into the air and caught it, then twisted while still in the air and was facing Cary when he landed. He raced back and when he reached Cary, he didn’t drop the frisbee; he held it for Cary and let him take it from his mouth with no resistance at all.
Cary threw it again, and Morris took off.
Rory was watching Cary, not Morris. Cary was slender but stood very straight; his posture and his thinness made him look taller than he was. He was a very handsome boy, although from this distance, that wasn’t apparent.
But Rory could easily see when Cary flipped his long hair back into position with a toss of his head. Rory knew that gesture well; it brought back memories.
« »
The first day they’d met, Nolan had taken Rory to lunch at a small restaurant a long way from the studio lot. It had a few tables, several booths along two walls, and dim lighting. There was a bar, but it was in a separate room. That room had quite a few customers. The room Nolan and Rory were in had a separate outside door and few customers. Nolan chose a booth well away from anyone else and well out of anyone’s earshot.
A waitress came quickly and they both ordered. When she was gone, Nolan smiled at Rory and said, “This place is a bit out of the way, but I’ve never seen anyone here I recognized, and we need privacy; we have that here. I’m very interested in your remark that you didn’t have a good morning with the other writers. But I don’t want to make you hesitant or reserved about giving me your impressions. I simply want your honest thoughts about what went on this morning.”
He picked up his water glass, then held it without taking a sip. “I attended the first couple of these script sessions. Frankly, I’ve been a bit uneasy about what I’ve heard. The fact you were, too, right out of the box, might support what I felt. But I don’t want to put words in your mouth. I want to hear your concerns.”
Rory wasn’t sure what to say. He thought perhaps being honest would work best. It hadn’t always in the past, but he didn’t want to start this relationship on the wrong foot. He had a salary coming from working with the writers, but he didn’t really need it. He was making more money from the book and speaking engagements and signings, and, of course the sale of the film rights to Paramount, than he’d ever had before and thought he’d ever need; the sale of the movie rights was an incredible amount. So, trying to smooth the waters with both Nolan and the writers seemed unnecessary.
“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. These guys are experienced pros and I’ve never written a script in my life. I was told I should just listen. But . . .”
Nolan grinned at him. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I want. The ‘but’. Go on.”
“You want it straight from the shoulder? Hey, I’m new in town. I don’t know you. I don’t know anyone. And I’ve never gotten in trouble by playing my cards close to the vest. A closed mouth rarely causes grief.”
“Good epigram! I think you and I are going to do fine together, Rory. We’re both Midwesterners. We share those values. But, yes, I want the truth. The truth is, you and I need to make this movie together. There’s magic in your book, and I want to bring it to the screen. Do you think those screen writers are capturing it? That they even understand it?”
“No. There. Is that honest enough for you?” Rory sat back against the cushioned backrest of the booth.
Nolan smiled, then reached his hand out to Rory, palm up. Rory grinned and slapped it.
“Not only is it honest enough, it’s just what I want. Now, tell me why.”
“You don’t know me anymore than I know you, but there’s one thing you should know: I’m not comfortable talking a lot.”
Nolan grinned. “Oblige me.”
“Well . . . If I must. Just don’t expect this from me often. The thing is, I don’t know if any of these guys read the book. It didn’t seem like it. Anyway, the protagonist is laconic. Terse. It’s who he is. There are reasons he’s that way. It all comes out, but you need to read the book to learn why he is that way.
“But you spoke of magic. I’d need specifics to understand what you mean, but I can tell you what it means to me. The magic, for me, comes from the mood, the atmosphere I was able to create, and it was supported by the way the characters fit into that atmosphere. It surprised me that I could do that, not having written anything before, but I had read. Read a lot. Dickens, just for one, created great mood. So did and do so many other good writers. Mailer and Fitzgerald and Faulkner and others. I read their books and noticed how they worked their magic, and I cheated: I followed their footsteps.”
He stopped, hoping Nolan would jump in, but he didn’t. He simply sat with large, encouraging eyes.
“Part of the magic,” Rory said after a sigh, “both at home in Ripley’s Creek and later in the Army, comes from the protagonist’s speech patterns. He chops his sentences, but they’re pithy. And, by saying little, watching, listening— that all creates some mystery in his persona. What’s he thinking? How will he react? When he does react, he has a controlled violence that is unexpected. All that is part of the background atmosphere and I felt it was vital to the book.”
He stopped again. Nolan looked at him, and when Rory didn’t continue, he said, “And . . . ?”
“I’m not used to talking like this! It makes me uncomfortable. I’ve said enough, certainly.”
“No! Tell me about the writers. About this morning.”
“I just did. But . . . They had the protagonist making long speeches. Saying what he was thinking. Commenting on what others said and did. They’re robbing the story of the magic you felt. They’re foreshadowing what he’ll do, robbing the suspense that I took a long time building. Everything that comes later in the film will be no surprise at all.
“If you use the script they’re writing, the film won’t be based on my book. I don’t know what it’ll be. But I don’t think you’ll have to wonder about directing any more blockbusters soon. You said this was a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately town. I think you have good reason to be worried.” Rory stopped suddenly and looked down at the table. “In my opinion,” he finished softly. “Sorry.”
Nolan looked at him without speaking for a few moments, Rory not sure what to think. Finally, Nolan said, “I’ll be in there with you all this afternoon. Let’s see how that goes. Then I’ll want to talk to you after we’re done for the day. Okay? We could even have dinner if you don’t have any plans.”
The afternoon session was much like the morning one. Nolan sat in but didn’t say a word throughout. Rory didn’t say much, just made a point now and then which the head writer said they’d consider but appeared to dismiss and he didn’t add to his notes. After that happened twice, Rory never said anything else, but did continue making his own notes.
When they were ready to wrap it up for the day, the head writer went through what they’d accomplished so far. He read off the mockup script they’d produced. It was recorded and then printed out. They all got a copy of the work in process, and the head writer told them to be back at 8:30 AM the next day.
Everyone left other than Nolan and Rory. Rory had stood up with the others, but Nolan caught his eye and nodded back at his chair. Rory sat back down.
When the two were alone, Nolan picked up the printout, scanned it briefly, then said, “Would you do me a favor? Read through this and mark up any changes you think would make it better.”
“Okay, I’ll take it with me, do it at home tonight.”
Nolan shook his head. “Could you do it here, now?”
“Now?” Rory couldn’t believe it. “It’ll take me hours to do this.”
“Okay, okay, just do the first two pages.” Nolan grinned placatingly. “No rush. All I’ve got going for the rest of the day is a dinner date.”
“Date?” said Rory. “Our dinner? I thought it was a business dinner.” He didn’t return the grin. It was well known that Nolan Carborne was gay. Rory’s agent had told him that. It was well known that Rory was, too. The dinner date remark was somewhat suggestive. Rory wasn’t interested.
If indeed Nolan had been leaning in the direction Rory thought he was, he now backed off. “Who cares what we call it. We’ll eat. We’ll discuss the book and the movie. Anyway, can you mark up the first two pages now?”
Rory gave him an inquisitive look, then said, “Sure,” and got busy.
The writers were using a storyboard to write the script, meaning it was being done chronologically. Nolan had been involved in the creation of the storyboard by using the vision he had for the scenes of the movie from his reading of the book.
The writers were selecting the scenes pictured on the storyboard as they’d appear in the movie and writing what the characters in that scene would be saying. The first two pages, pages that had been created in the first weeks the writers had been working before Rory joined them, were about a Ripley’s Creek episode where the protagonist was having a discussion with his father.
Rory read entirely through the two pages he was to edit before beginning. Then he went back to the start of the first page. As Nolan watched, Rory drew a diagonal line through much of the dialogue and all of that from the protagonist. Then he wrote new words to replace the ones he was marking for deletion. In every case, the new words were substantially fewer than the ones that they were replacing.
Rory was done in twenty minutes. He put down his pencil and looked up at Nolan.
“Can you slide it over to me?” he asked.
“Sure,” Rory answered, then just sat there.
Nolan waited, then wrinkled his eyebrows. “Uh, now?”
“Now what?”
Nolan pursed his lips. “Your script, what you just did. I’d like to see it, please.”
Rory grinned. “I’m a writer, a professional wordsmith. That means I value words and their meanings. All you had to do was ask for my edits. I’m easy to get along with.” Then he chuckled.
Nolan frowned, then stopped and seemed to relax. “What was that all about?” His voice had lost its edge.
Rory watched him for a few seconds, and then he relaxed as well. “I just wanted to see what you’re like when provoked. That, and I was setting some ground rules. I’m not a bit confrontational, not very emotional, either, and people get the wrong impression from that. I’m not a pushover. I didn’t see the harm in establishing that from the get-go with you.”
Nolan started to respond but Rory wasn’t finished. “But even more, I wanted to see what happened if you didn’t get your way, how you reacted to that. You and I will probably be working very closely for the next few months. If little things are going to make you mad, I want to know that going in. If, instead, you’ll do what you just did, get angry, but then think about it, realize anger isn’t going to get you what you want and change tack, well, I can work with that.”
So saying, he slid his work across the table to Nolan, saying, “See, I can slide it over. Just like I said.”
It took Nolan longer to read the two pages than it had Rory to doctor them. He read both what Rory had marked for deletion and what replacements he’d made. When he was done, he dropped the script back on the table and raised his eyes to Rory, then just stared at him for a moment. Rory stared back.
Then Nolan grinned. His body became looser in the chair, and when he spoke, his tone was much more amiable. “I never thought you were a pushover. I read your book. No, not a pushover. I wasn’t sure how well you’d stand up for yourself, though. Glad you made that clear. And, frankly, I’m amused that you tested me and happy to see you had the guts to do so. We’re going to make a very good team.
“Anyway, I totally agree with every change you made here. Their script isn’t what I wanted. Your changes make the dialogue fit with the book. The entire mood of the scene is now better. There’s grit in it now that was lacking before. That’s what I want. That’s what I want the film to sound like.”
He stopped to take a few deep breaths, then said, “If you agree, I want you to be responsible for the script. Whether as consultant or head writer or however you think the best way to accomplish that is, that’s what I want. We can get a couple of other writers to help if you agree because I’ve found it goes better with different views being tossed around. Or you can write it alone, just yourself. You make the decision. You’ll have carte blanche for any writing staff that’s added—added only if you want it. Whatever works best.
“Tomorrow morning, I’ll jettison the group we have. If any of them are ones you want, let me know. Otherwise, you tell me what you want, and if it’s replacements, I’ll hire them.”
« »
Rory shuddered, remembering. Remembering mostly how he’d tested Nolan, discovering how he’d react to conflict and showing him that he wasn’t a yes man. But doing that sort of thing was confrontational, and Rory hadn’t liked being that way. Still, he’d felt it had to be done, he’d had a point to make. And, somewhat surprisingly, what had come from it had been good. Well, mostly good. The script certainly had ended up better without the hash job the original writers had been doing.
He realized he hadn’t been paying any attention to anything but his thoughts for too long. He’d been lost in his memories. Now, he looked up, wanting to find Cary and Morris. He saw they were still in the park, but also that they were no longer alone. He stood up, walked to the gate in the wall, then stopped rather than walking through.
Cary was motionless with Morris beside him. Rory didn’t like the scene. Every instinct he had was to rush to Cary, to protect him. But he’d spent a lot of time with Cary, trying to build his courage, his self-esteem, just for this sort of occasion, and how would it be helping either of those qualities if he came running to the rescue without giving the boy a chance to do what was needed, what he was capable of all by himself? He couldn’t be sure the boy even needed rescuing. So, he hesitated.
Cary had just thrown the frisbee for Morris who’d again caught it in the air and returned it. Cary had taken it from him, then seen three boys approaching. He stood completely still, watching them. Cary was 15, though he looked younger; these boys were all older, the oldest one looking like a high-school senior. The other two were perhaps a year younger but still older than Cary.
Cary was dressed in a dark-blue polo shirt with a white aardvark knitted on the breast, pressed white chinos and expensive, multicolored Nike sneakers. He could easily have been mistaken for a fashion model. That was actually something he’d done a few times in his life. All three guys who’d come up to him were dressed rough. They wore dirty jeans, ratty sneakers, well-used and seldom-washed tee shirts. All three appeared to be Latino.
Street kids, Cary thought. The oldest one was obviously the leader as he was a half-step in front of the others. As the group approached, the two younger ones spread out, moving in such a way that Cary was loosely surrounded on three sides.
Cary felt panicky. The boys were all taller than Cary. The leader had dark, cold eyes, unwashed hair that appeared to have been neglected far too long, and scraggly, three-day whiskers. He had a menacing mien. He was the one who spoke.
“You lost? You didn’t get my permission to be in my park. That’ll cost you. We’ll take those shoes. The shirt, too.”
Cary was scared. No question, he was scared. He’d never been in a situation like this before. He’d imagined it, though. He was breathing faster and felt a little faint. Still, Morris was by his side, and Rory had spent a lot of time telling him how to act when confronted. The problem was his fear was too evident and felt too crippling. It would make these three all the more eager to take advantage.
Cary had two things going for him. He had been acting since the age of six and was good at it. And he had Morris.
This was his opportunity to do what Rory had coached him to do. He had to quelch his fear. He had to use what assets he had. He also had to have the guts to do it, and he wasn’t sure he did.
He made himself stand up straighter. He took a deep breath. Then, he removed the fear from his eyes and face, using his thespian training, and, putting skepticism in his voice, said, “Permission? You have to be kidding. It’s a public park.” Then he smiled. That was difficult, but he smiled.
The tall kid took a step closer, entering Cary’s personal space. He had a cruel, anticipatory smile on his face. Cary met his eyes, and said, “Morris, alert.”
And just that quickly, the dynamics of the situation changed. Morris moved into the space between Cary and his challenger. The guy took a quick step back as a low rumble came from Morris’ throat.
“Call him off!” the guy said. His voice no longer carried the veiled threat it had before.
Cary was still meeting his eyes. “Why would I want to do that? This dog has been trained to kill.”
He stopped. The leader wasn’t used to backing down. Not from a scared younger boy. But he wasn’t used to facing a very formidable dog, either.
Cary’s voice no longer sounded fearful. “You have five seconds. Then the dog will tear you apart, then switch to a second one of you. I got the other one all by myself. I’ve had training.”
After a pause, he continued. “Three, four, fi—“”
He stopped because he was speaking to their backs. They were hightailing it out of the park. Morris’ growl continued, and then Cary said, “Morris. Chase.”
Morris barked, not a friendly bark, showed his teeth and ran after the boys, concentrating on the leader. Morris easily caught up with him and nipped at his ankles till they reached the sidewalk at one end of the park.
“Morris, come,” Cary called, and Morris stopped, then trotted back. Cary got down on his knees and rubbed him all over. Morris rolled over on his back. He loved stomach rubs.
Then Rory was there, and he gave Cary a hug, holding it for a few seconds. “Scary, huh?”
“I was terrified.”
“Yet you worked through that. You did what you needed to do. Exactly what we talked about! I’m so proud of you. So, so proud! Next time won’t be so frightening because you know you can stand up to a threat. Hey, you deserve dessert after that show of bravado. Let’s go back to the restaurant.”
Cary laughed, a nervous laugh; he was still recovering from the incident. But he said, “Morris deserves dessert, too.”