Like someone had fired a starting pistol, Natalie watched the set became a sudden flurry of activity. Voices shouted orders; hot stage lights went dark and were pulled away; cameras disappeared. Then the voice of a baseball announcer came over the speakers calling the second inning of the fourth game of the World Series. The Red Sox, Natalie remembered, were playing the St. Louis Cardinals, her dad’s favorite team, and the broadcaster said the Sox were ahead.A man with a robe appeared and untied her hands from the headboard. After he finished, she sat up on the bed, and slipped the dressing gown over her shoulders.
“Nice work today, Natalie.”
Natalie looked up into Ansell’s deep aqua eyes. He stood just a few feet away and passed her a smile with a wink.
“I’m sure these scenes are difficult for you, but thanks for your patience.” He turned away.
“Thank you,” she said to his back. Ansell took a cell phone from his assistant and gave her an over-the-shoulder wave.
She stood and made her way to the makeup table. The same woman, Steph, who had created the magic of the macabre death mask for Natalie’s scene and who, a few minutes before, took care of the shiny spot on her forehead sat ready to remove the wounds from her body.
Natalie took a seat next to her in a canvas chair. As she watched the injuries disappear one-by-one in the lighted mirror, she wondered if she would make her unwelcomed appearance. The only refection, though, was her own high cheekbones and natural twin dimples just above the few freckles sprinkled across her small celestial nose.
She turned her mind to Steph’s voice.
“I remember seeing you in a movie not long ago. You played a victim then too.”
“Let’s see,” Natalie responded, thick with derision, “would that be where I’m jogging in the woods and before I have a chance to scream an attacker slashes my throat, or where in the opening scene I’m thrown off the balcony of a high rise loft?”
“The first one.” Steph tipped her head and gave Natalie a sideways wink.
“Maybe dead is what I do best.”
As a girl, she thought breaking into major film was her destiny. She believed in her talent and had moved to LA because of it. In her sophomore year of high school, she had tried out for a minor role in “Annie Get Your Gun” and had been surprised when she landed the part of Annie Oakley. At first intimidated by the responsibility the lead carried, she soon found she loved everything about it: memorizing and delivering lines, rehearsals, wardrobe, makeup, and, of course, curtain calls. Her drama teacher had told her she was a natural, so over the next year, she continued to perform in school plays. In the summer after graduation, she won the lead role in an original play directed by the writer at a small Iowa City community theater. Not well written and directed even worse, it closed on opening night, but the local newspaper review gave her credit for salvaging the performance.
“Well, we’re done here,” Steph’s cheerful voice chirped its way back into Natalie’s ears. “Great shoot.”
Natalie looked into the mirror again and saw her gashes had all healed without a scar. Why can’t my career be mended so easily? she wondered.
“Thanks,” Natalie said. She stood and cinched the robe around her waist.
As she navigated toward a small corridor which led to the cramped changing area she had been assigned, she wove her way through the maze of lighting, speakers, booms, props and myriad other film-making equipment she couldn’t name. She longed for the day when her dressing room was a trailer on the back lot or maybe on location at some exotic foreign setting.
With her eyes not yet adjusted from staring into the lighted mirror, she thought she saw movement in the shadows a few feet away. She turned back to the security of the set, but found the place devoid of human activity. Even Steph had vanished along with the ballgame repartee. With the figure in the shadows, if someone had been there, and her only covering a thin bathrobe, she felt vulnerable and even more exposed than naked on the set.
Her heart clenched in her chest and she spun with wary apprehension back to face the darkness.
“Is someone there?” she asked. Her voice quavered like the squeal of a rat scurrying at an unexpected burst of light.
When no answer came and no further movement caught her eye, she took a deep breath, pulled the robe tight around her body with both hands and entered the hallway. She set a brisk determined pace toward the room.
As she approached the door, a dim light overhead illuminated a plain silver handle. She reached for the knob. Out of the shadows, a man’s hand brushed over hers and took hold of it first. Her heart already about to burst on the brink of panic, she gasped, drew her hand away, and took an involuntary step backwards.
As the door opened, the light poured out from the room inside and revealed the face of a teenage boy about her age. He wore a blunt haircut that looked like he had fallen asleep in the barber’s chair with a World War II Nazi combat helmet on his head. The light brown hair framed a face she recognized. Despite her inability to recall his name, she felt the tension begin to lift like sun-blanched fog.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” she said, happy her voice had returned to normal. “Still working as a grip?”
“Yeah,” he said and passed her a timid smile, “always behind the camera.”
His eyes dropped toward the floor, and then after a moment he rolled them up. She met them a second time. A look that caught her by surprise scurried across his eyes, and then dissolved back into a shy smile. With it, the sudden twist like a battlefield tourniquet returned to her chest. She felt she should throw the door between them—now. She stepped through the opening and took the inside knob in her hand.
“Sorry if I frightened you. Great scene, by the way,” he said and turned to walk away.
“Thank you,” she called after him as he disappeared into the shadows.
When the sound of his athletic shoes shrieked against the concrete, confident he’d left, she shut the door and threw the lock. As she started toward the shower, the taut sensation in her chest started to relax. But even distracted by adjusting the water temperature and hanging her robe on a hook, she couldn’t quite shake the darkness that emanated from the ephemeral look in the boy’s eyes when it transformed in that flicker from disarming to deceiving.
_____
Can’t wait for more; go to Amazon.com to
add this to your bookshelf. For more about me, visit http://www.jearlrugh.com/ or Facebook
©
Jearl Rugh 2012
All
Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment