17

“Okay, Hemingway, here’s the problem.”

I looked up and saw Bloor. She was standing in front of me, a little paper cup filled with water in one hand, and a cup with a medication capsule in the other. I’d been so lost in what I was writing I didn’t hear the dreaded click-click-click of the stilettos, or maybe she’d glued rubber to the tips. Does it matter?

I said, “What? What problem?”

“Take your meds first,” she said. I did. She relieved me of the empty cups, tossed them into a wastebasket and breathing out, “Two!” slid a chair over facing mine, sat down and bent her head way forward. She looked troubled. “The story’s great,” she said with passionate earnestness. “I mean our movie. Really. I’m sincere. But now I’m asking myself if it’s really believable.”

I had to tighten my facial muscles.

“What is it that’s so hard to believe?” I asked her.

“Hitler’s brain in another body?”

“No problem.”

“No problem?”

“No. We just open the picture with a shot of him squatting over a Turkish airport toilet, which is basically nothing but a hole in the ground.”

“You getting smart again?”

“No,” I said. “Really. It’s the hot new movie realism thing. ‘Duty shots,’ they call them. They’re even thinking of doing it on the History Channel. You know people are so cynical these days, they don’t know who or what they ought to believe. This takes care of that.”

“Really?”

“No question! For example, if you’re about to play a scene of the beheading of Mary, Queen of Scots, first you show her on the toilet. Then the audience will know the beheading really happened.”

Bloor leaned her head back, appraising me with admiration. “You take my breath away,” she said.

“Oh, well.” I shyly lowered my gaze.

“I mean, really. Boy, you’ve sure got all the answers.”

“No, not always,” I murmured. “Not always”

“Listen, level with me, now.”

I looked up and said, “Of course. I always do. What is it?”

“My Hitler movie idea.”

I said, “Yes?”

“You think it’s really got a chance?”

“You never know.”

“Oh, thanks! I was afraid you were just being kind!”

She looked down at my laptop.

“You still working on that book?”

“Yes, I am. It’s almost finished.”

“That so? Congratulations. Bet you’re plenty relieved.”

“Pretty much.”

“You’re sure a wild one,” she said, thus revealing that she’d not only read my chart but also the report of the attending psychiatrist.

I looked down, faintly smiling and nodding.

“Yeah,” I said. “‘Wild as the wind in Oregon.’”

“You know, you’re really okay,” Bloor told me, leaning back and appraising me with her patented Little Caesar, arms akimbo, cocky stance and with her head slightly tilted to the side. “A little attitude at times. Maybe a lot. I pick it up. It’s my thing. Like my mother said, ‘Rose, you’ve got the gift: you can always tell bullshit from a pile of dunked Oreos.’ But now, you—underneath all the guff you’re kind of sweet. You’ve got a heart. You’re okay.”

I said, “So are you, Rose.”

“I know. So will you help me write my movie?”

I nodded.

“You’re a goddamn jewel! I mean, that makes us collaborators, right? What a hoot! So, incidentally, when you finish the book can I read it? I mean, I might have some suggestions. You know, tips. You never know.”

“You never know.”

“A second opinion.”

This coaxed a faint smile to my lips and I nodded.

“Yeah, sure, you can read it, but not until after I die.”

Which left out a word at the end.

Again.

“Listen, nobody dies here, Joey. They complain. Mind if I call you that? Joey?”

“No, I wouldn’t. In fact it would be nice.”

“Then good.”

She turned away to leave. “Until then,” she said.

This used to be a threat.