Текст книги "Born Savages"
Автор книги: Cora Brent
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CHAPTER TWO
OZ
In this group two, are beginners and two are not. The woman worries me. She blinks weirdly fast and chews on the inside of her mouth while casting quick glances at the man beside her. They’re a couple, plainly still in that early uncertain phase. She’s too freaking eager to please him. It’s obvious to me that she’s not the underground type of girl. She’s the kind that breaks a nail flipping the tab of a beer can. I can do that; sort women out with ease. I’m almost always right.
The other pair is a father/son set from Nashville who tell me they’ve been caving a handful of other times in these rich Smoky Mountains. They are fine. They are the eager, appreciative types that I love guiding through the caves.
The woman – Leah is her name – grunts as she struggles through the small break in the rock. We’re trying to reach a cavernous room filled with complex formations, a caver’s paradise. But we have to hold on a minute because Leah’s plentiful tits don’t like the narrow pass. She shimmies a few inches deeper into the rock and grunts again.
“Fuck,” she spits and immediately seems alarmed that such a foul syllable came from her mouth.
The father and son titter just inside the room but Leah’s boyfriend looks mad. He throws her a scornful glare.
Right then and there I know what he’s about and I don’t like him. He’s one of those self-righteous bastards. You know the type, hugging his moral superiority like a security blanket or his mother’s left nipple. Meanwhile I’d bet my last bag of trail mix that the guy has done eight times as much dirty shit as the rest of us combined.
Well, that is if I don’t count myself. There’s no way this dude with his oatmeal face and orangutan limbs could beat me in a matchup of belt notches.
But I’m starting to feel sorry for Leah and her squished boobs at this point so I offer her a hand. She grabs at it gratefully and I haul her the rest of the way out of the rock.
“You made it,” I say with token enthusiasm, trying not to sound too happy because she could get the wrong idea. Women do that a lot. If it’s not the right place and time I always try to head it off, big tits or not.
“Oh jeez, thanks Oz,” she gushes and pats her chest, making sure that the girls are still intact. Or else she’s trying to direct my attention to their glorious shape. But her biggest problem is that it’s tough to look sexy with a sweaty face and trapped in a full body yellow jumpsuit.
Anyway, I’ve always sworn off banging my customers. There’s enough hot ass waiting up above without having to shop for it down here. Plus there’s something sort of tasteless about guiding a girl through the dark like a trusting lamb and then getting her on her back. Seems predatory somehow.
That doesn’t mean I’ve never done it. I have. Once. You won’t catch me admitting it out loud though.
“Hot damn,” says the kid in awe as he adjusts his headlamp and gets a good look around the room.
I smile. This is the reaction I always hope for. I want them to feel enchanted, captivated, bowled right the fuck over that shit like this exists beneath their feet. It was how I felt the first time I ever stepped into a cave. I still feel that way every time I go underground and see things that the world above can never equal.
This place is called the Round Room and it’s at the very center of the honeycomb of underground passages that comprise the Guard Cave deep in the picturesque hills of Tennessee. I’ve been in and out of the whole labyrinth so often that I don’t even need a map. Despite the fact that I’ve been inside some of earth’s most stupendous caves I never tire of the sight of the Round Room.
As we edge our way in, I caution the group to take care because the rock formations can actually be quite fragile. The place is a wonder, a fantasyland of conical shapes that extend from the ceiling and bubble out of the ground. It’s such a strange sight that if you squint you might believe you are no longer on earth.
The kid’s dad is hunkered down and adjusting his headlamp as he examines one of the stalagmite cones. He lets out a low whistle. “How long did you say it would take for something like this to form?”
“A hundred and fifty years,” says his son, obviously proud that he remembered a few of the details of my long spiel before we started the tour.
I shine my light on the rigid, imperfect cylinder rising out of the ground. It looks like a gargoyle’s penis.
“Per inch,” I correct him. “Takes about a hundred and fifty years of constant drip for enough mineral residue to collect into an inch of stone.”
“Wow,” breathes Leah and she’s at my side with her arm brushing against mine. Her honorable semi-boyfriend who hates the word ‘fuck’ is somewhere in the darkness; discarded, rejected, at least temporarily.
The boy is full of questions. He’s a bright kid, maybe sixteen or so. He asks how many caves I’ve been in, how long I’ve been doing this, what’s the most awesome shit I’ve ever seen. He listens carefully when I answer.
Fifty-eight separate locations on three continents.
I’ve been with the tour company for nearly two years and before that I was a freelance guide for photography excursions in the southwest.
And finally, the most awesome shit I’ve ever seen actually wasn’t inside a cave, but I can’t talk about it in front of strangers. I can’t talk about it at all. Instead I just flip off some remark about the unique limestone caverns of Britain and the kid nods with satisfaction. He is named John, just like his dad, and he wears his enthusiasm proudly. I already know he’ll be a lifelong caver. He’s at the point where he’ll never look at the upper world the same way again. I reached that point a long time ago.
John Junior is disappointed when I tell everyone we need to move on but time doesn’t stand still down here, no matter how much it seems otherwise. The tour is only supposed to last until five and it’ll take a good hour to squeeze Leah and her unhappy tits back through the narrow passages.
By the time we get back to the surface the bad boyfriend has changed his attitude. He’s probably realizing that he’s on his way to sleeping alone tonight and that Leah likely has a few better options. He’s now helpful and attentive, circling an arm around her possessively as she grins and blushes. But I don’t miss the way she looks back at me with a kind of puppyish longing just before he firmly leads her away.
John and John Junior shake my hand and say what a damn good time they had, and that this was the best caving expedition they’ve ever been on. I tell them there’s plenty more caves around if you don’t mind investing a whole day to hike deeper into the hills. I hand out my business card and tell them to give me a call if they’re interested. I really do mean it. I wouldn’t even charge them for the trip.
Once I’m alone I just stand there for a few minutes and breathe in the honeyed feel of mid summer. By early October the green on the hills will disappear, replaced by a wild explosion of autumn color. I expect I’ll be around to see it. I’ve been lingering here far longer than I’m used to hanging around a single place but I’m enjoying the break. With my apartment in the nearby small town of Jacoby and my job as a guide, it’s been peaceful, a little dose of serenity in a restless life.
The harsh calls of some nearby wild turkeys interrupt the quiet moment. I shoulder my pack and take a quick tour around the cave entrance to ensure that not so much as a gum wrapper was left behind to stain the landscape. Then I cover the half-mile walk back to my truck in five minutes before deciding to swing by the office, figuring Brock will be around.
Brock Gardner is a former nature photographer who suffered a broken spine when he fell from a steep cliff in New Mexico while trying to get some money shots of eagles in flight. We were already friends and I’d been scheduled to guide for that weekend trip, but a painful stress fracture in my right foot kept me off the trail and put Brock at the mercy of some novice who didn’t understand his own equipment. Brock’s harness hadn’t been fastened properly and when he leaned back to switch the camera lens one of the critical lines snapped. He only tumbled for about fifteen feet but the jagged rock he landed on cut right through the eighth spinal vertebrae and that was that.
If you ask Brock about his wheelchair and useless legs he’ll tell you the whole story with a matter of fact quality, like he’s talking about horse racing or lacrosse, one of those things people find interesting but don’t get all busted up about. That’s just Brock. He’s a no bullshit kind of guy who couldn’t swallow pity if you tried to choke him with it.
Brock had grown up in these mountains. When he made me an offer I was glad to follow him out here and take a job at his fledgling adventure tour company. He’s a good guy, and one of the few people on earth who knows a thing or two about me.
“Cheeseburgers,” Brock announces. He tosses me a greasy paper bag the second I open the screechy aluminum door of the single-wide trailer that serves as company headquarters.
I catch the bag and sniff at the contents, my belly rumbling expectantly in response. “You hauled your wheels to town just to buy me lunch?”
Brock grins and shakes his head, closing the silver lid of his Mac. “Nope. Ashley stopped by with the goods. That’s one cute slice of tender blondeness, Oz. Poor girl looked so crestfallen by the news you weren’t around I thought about inviting her to sit in my lap as consolation.”
“Maybe you should have,” I grumble and slide into a rickety folding chair as I open a paper-wrapped burger. I’ll have it swallowed in two bites.
“Well then maybe I will,” he says cheerfully, “if you’re sure you’re pulling back from the table.”
I grab Brock’s water bottle and wash the burger down with a hard gulp.
“Have at it.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Honestly, I never sat down at that table. I just paused and grabbed a few mouthfuls of the appetizer on my way out the door.”
Brock laughs. He knows I don’t lie.
Ashley is a local girl, a waitress at the only twenty-four-hour diner in Jacoby. She’s cute as hell but lives in the low tide pool of human intelligence. Even though we had some fun sweating it up at my place a few times, at the end of the day I want more in a woman than a pretty face and a wet pussy.
“Harsh,” Brock says when he’s done laughing.
I shrug. “Truth.”
So what the hell do I want? Not much, just mind-blowing sex with a brain attached, a woman who’s my match in words and action. Anyone can fuck, but I want to feel like I can’t wait to hear what comes out of her mouth almost as much as I can’t wait to be inside her body.
I want something I once had for a short, vanished season and haven’t been able to replace. I doubt I ever will.
“Oz.” Brock snaps his fingers loudly. “Oz man, you’re a million miles away.
It’s stinking hot in the trailer. I pull off my t-shirt and wipe my face with it. “I’m here. I’m just digesting, that’s all.”
Brock is studying me. He’s used to my casual attitude toward women so this fresh scrutiny has nothing to do with Cheeseburger Ashley. I meant it when I said he could take a crack at that if he wants to. Wouldn’t bother me at all.
“Got a call today,” he finally says.
“For me?”
“No.” He pauses. “California area code. Guy on the other end had one of those golden money voices that could probably convince a priest to shoot his own mother. He wasn’t looking for Oz Acevedo.”
My stomach does a sick little flip even though this isn’t unexpected. In the information age where everyone knows the location of everyone else’s last shit deposit, how long did I think I could hide?
Brock doesn’t need to say it but he does anyway.
“He thought he might be able to find a man named Oscar Savage here.”
I stare down at my knees. “He won’t.”
Brock’s voice is sympathetic. “I know. I told him as much but he knew I was lying like a dog. He asked me to pass along his contact info just in case Oscar made an appearance.”
I wish there was something stronger than water around. I don’t even ask. Brock is an old school teetotaler. “Did he say why Oscar should be interested in talking to him?”
“He said it was a family matter.”
My head whips up and I meet Brock’s curious green-eyed gaze. “He said that? Family matter?”
My friend nods and then grimaces as he’s hit with one of his frequent back spasms. “He did.”
When he’s done twisting his body sideways in the wheelchair, Brock hands me a bright yellow post-it with a name and phone number scrawled in black marker. I shove it into my back pocket and he tries to interest me in a fifty-mile drive to Gatlinburg for a better meal than cheeseburgers. When I shake my head he doesn’t push the issue.
“There a tour set up tomorrow?” I ask on my way out the door.
Brock nods. “Yeah, a quartet of old biddies who want to hike to the standing stones to perform some kind of female goddess worship.” He watches me. “New guy can take it if you’d rather have the day off.”
I cough. “Maybe.”
I feel like that damn post-it is burning a hole in my back pocket.
Brock bobs his head. “Just let me know by 6 a.m., okay Oz?”
“You got it.”
I try to calm myself while driving the five miles back to my apartment but my heart is hammering. I have the urge to peel rubber and be reckless on the winding country roads. Too many kids ride their bikes around here though.
When I get home, old man Johnson is out on the sagging front porch with a shotgun in his lap. That’s his usual position so it doesn’t bother me. I throw the truck into park and stalk across the front lawn toward the narrow staircase that leads to the converted living space on the second floor. I start talking to myself without realizing it until I hear my own words.
“Family matter? What the fuck?”
Old man Johnson seems startled by my grumbling. He swivels his egg-shaped body around to stare at me. He’s a sad, strange fellow who’s lived in this clapboard eyesore his entire life. He charges a cheap monthly rent and stays out of my face.
“Evening, Hal,” I say as my foot hits the bottom step.
Hal Johnson scowls and swivels back around in his chair to face the menace of the empty street. That’s fine because I’m not in the mood for a chat anyway.
It’s not until I reach the top of the staircase that I realize I have no desire to be inside, brooding and sweating in that empty apartment until I get tired. I hop back down the stairs and take off in the truck, leaving Hal Johnson to stare silently after me.
I gun the engine once and take off for the hills I left behind a little while ago. I don’t have anywhere specific in mind. I just want to be out there, on the loose.
By the time I reach a place that looks like it leads somewhere suitably wild and nameless, the sky is growing dark. I grab my pack out of the truck bed before heading into the darkening hills. Maybe I’ll just hang out in the woods all night. I’ve done it before.
The surroundings are familiar. I’ve been this way at least once. My sole bragging right in life is an uncanny talent for navigation. You could drop me anywhere on earth without a map and I’ll figure out how to get back to where I started.
After a few minutes of walking my foot knocks into a fallen tree. Abruptly I throw my pack down and sit on the trunk.
“A man named Oscar Savage.”
Quiet reigns all around me. Every living thing for a quarter mile radius has halted, breathless, awaiting the next action of this intruder, a man who sits on a hollow log in the coming darkness and stares at nothing.
Suddenly a battle for survival erupts somewhere in the brush off to my left and a small creature squeals in pain or fear. The nature of the conflict is savage, as wild things so often are.
Savage.
It’s a word that implies brutal ferocity.
It’s also a name.
But it’s not a name that can ever cross my mind without thinking of her. She’s bound to it as closely as she once was to my heart.
Five fucking years and I should be able to move on. I should accept that I’m not the same person anymore and it’s for certain she isn’t either. I should learn how to connect with someone else at this point. I should forget.
Of course I can do none of those things.
My cell phone reception is shitty this far into the woods. I’ll need to drive back to town in order to make a call. Which I have every intention of doing. Right now.
Because it’s a family matter.
And because I used to be Oscar Savage.
CHAPTER THREE
REN
Most people possess at least a few scraps of unique family lore.
Stories.
They filter down for several generations if they are interesting and are lost sooner if they are not. Usually they are not. Usually the only people who might raise an eyebrow and care about the dusty skeletons hanging out in the closet are the ones who share blood with either the old corpse or whoever stuffed it in there.
The Savages are different. Everyone knows everything about us. Since the explosion of the World Wide Web all you need to do is type our last name into the nearest search engine and you can learn more than you ever wanted to.
You can see that it started in the 1920s.
Charles and Mary Savage were Hollywood originals. She was a socialite from Minneapolis and he escaped a long line of cattle ranchers in the Nebraska Sand Hills. If they’d just stayed where they were they would have gone on to live quiet, ordinary lives and been long forgotten.
But they didn’t.
They landed in Hollywood at a fortunate time and became darlings of the silent film era. Their days of stardom were short-lived, ending with the popularity of sound in motion pictures. Mary had a high, reedy voice that grated like nails and Charles was a low talker with a chronic lisp. So instead they became powerful investors and iconic pillars of the film industry for the rest of their lives. They are widely credited as being among the early founders of the motion picture industry.
My great-grandparents weren’t happy people. They suffered a turbulent marriage punctuated by infidelity, alcoholism and the birth of three children. Maybe that’s why they never smiled for photographs.
Charles was hit by a taxi in 1952 while jaywalking. He died in the gutter of Hollywood Boulevard amid a throng of curious onlookers. He might not have minded. Reportedly Charles loved nothing more than a rapt audience.
Mary on the other hand hung around for more years than most human beings do, long enough to meet her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. My parents dragged us to the nursing home in Pasadena a few times to pay homage. I remember her as a miniature ancient woman who wore a wig of absurd blond ringlets. She yelled all the time, screeching “Get off my stage!” if you walked too close. I was nine when she finally died. A series of reporters came around to talk about her but no one was sad. After all, she was ridiculously old and her mind had been gone for decades.
My grandfather, Rex, was among the next generation of Savages. His older sisters, Anne and Joan, were more celebrated for their lifetime feud with one another than for their films. They traded husbands and lovers and publicly ridiculed each other, much to the delight of the fledgling tabloid industry.
Joan inherited her mother’s longevity and is still alive – broke and reclusive and living somewhere off the rocky coast of Oregon. Every once in a while her name will be trending on the search engines when a bored reporter seeks her out for an interview about places long gone and people long dead. Even in the twilight of her life she’s still obsessed with her dead (“That pasty witch was ALWAYS jealous of me!”) older sister.
Rex Savage, my grandfather, was the golden boy of his era. Tall, dark-haired and powerfully built, he was full of testosterone and charisma. An incorrigible ladies’ man who starred in a long line of pictures with names like Desperado Gunslinger and Cowboys on the Horizon, he was the archetypal Hollywood movie star and Hollywood was more than happy to have him. Sometimes when I catch a glimpse of one of his film stills I can’t help but do a double take because he looks so much like my brother Montgomery, right down to the curled-lip sneer. It’s fucking uncanny.
Rex met his match in a fiery Irish starlet named Margaret O’Leary. She was his costar in the 1951 hit western Desert Honor. It’s a rather ho-hum movie about a reformed desperado who shoots a bunch of leather-faced bad guys, adopts two orphans and marries the local schoolteacher. It wound up being the only project they ever worked on together but it was enough.
There was a bad kind of chemistry between the two of them. For a decade they married and fought and split and reconciled over and over, somehow creating two troubled children and a legacy of dysfunction. They had just remarried for the fourth time in 1961 when Margaret was killed in a plane crash during a blizzard in the Sierra Nevada mountains.
Rex was inconsolable. In fact he kind of pitched off the deep end. I guess it’s possible he would have turned into a blithering joke anyway, but to hear it told, the tragic loss of his wife and the upheaval of his film career had a lot to do with the downward spiral. His later interviews show a baffled old man with tangled nose hair droning on about how in the year 1965 he’d been abducted by aliens while stargazing at the Griffith Observatory.
Then came a morning when Rex decided it was a good idea wander around his wealthy neighborhood drunk as a frat pledge. He fell into a swimming pool and drowned, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a crucifix.
It was rather an ignoble end for a leading man. Everyone says so.
Margaret’s films are the only ones I’ll sit down and watch if I happen to be flipping channels and catch a glimpse of her brilliant red hair in a midcentury Technicolor world. My two sisters won the genetic lottery that gave them the same coloring, although Ava has been dying hers blonde since she was a teenager.
Not me though. Like my two brothers I inherited the wavy dark hair and near olive skin of Rex Savage.
Speaking of me, it’s a good thing Rex and Margaret paused their marital wars long enough to produce a daughter, Mina, and a son, August.
An unauthorized biography written shortly before his death three years ago described August Savage as ‘gloomy and morbidly disturbed’ throughout his childhood. He would collect dead birds from the corners of the family’s decaying Hollywood estate and leave them in various cupboards throughout the home. Supposedly he even stowed some in his pillowcase and slept on them. I have no idea if that’s true or not. Regardless of his strange fetishes, in his day my father had the ruggedly striking Savage profile and he happened to be a decent actor. In the late 1970s he starred in a series of critically acclaimed small budget films that were considered provocative, groundbreaking. In fact he was nominated for an Academy Award for Fist, a harrowing story about a young man who develops a disturbing obsession with his elderly neighbor. It’s the kind of movie you see once and never want to see again because by the time the credits roll you feel vaguely ill. He didn’t win. But it’s an honor to be nominated. Or whatever.
My father’s career came to a crushing halt in 1984 when a young photographer died of a heroin overdose in his bed. Although there was never enough evidence to charge him with a crime, he was tried in the media. According to their one-sided verdict, the strange, intense actor with a legendary family name had injected the drug into the woman’s veins while she slept. There were even whispers that he ah, abused the dead body afterwards.
Of all the rumors and bullshit that surrounds our family, that’s the one thing I don’t really believe. My father was far too confused about everyday life to be capable of harming anyone else. He never talked about any of it but the trial-by-media apparently devastated him and he lived like a recluse for a while. He was probably so lonely and vulnerable by his early forties that when a twenty-year-old radiology student encountered him at a local diner she had no trouble sinking her talons into his bewildered flesh and becoming a permanent appendage.
Here’s where we join the story.
It would be rather pointless, though maybe therapeutic, to sit here and count all the ways my mother, Lita Cohan Savage, was a heinous bitch. But I have a habit of not thinking about her any more than I have to. She left my father shortly before his sudden death but she and I were on the outs long before that.
About a year ago I was thumbing through a magazine while I waited for a flu shot and paused at a paragraph describing how Lita Savage, once married to the late August Savage, was remarrying.
“Lita is presently estranged from her children and they will not be on the guest list.”
Estranged. It’s always struck me as an odd word. As if one day the parties in question blinked and didn’t recognize one another. The truth is liable to be a bit more ugly and complicated. Like her.
Lita already had one foot out the door when August lost the crumbling deco-style mansion, among the oldest estates in Hollywood. She demanded something better. She demanded blood from a stone.
For once he stood up to her and moved us all out to the desert to the only piece of real estate his meager assets were capable of saving.
My father had always hated California anyway.
I have to believe that when he towed the lot of us out to the old western film set in the heart of the Arizona outback he had good intentions. He said he wanted to remove his children from the cold scrutiny of stardom and give us a chance to live somewhere we weren’t known, weren’t sneered at.
But at the time all I knew was that I was sixteen and outraged. It was really a bad plan. Eventually he learned that when you take a bunch of bratty teens out of their comfortable lives and deposited them in a dusty oven, miles from the nearest traffic light, something is bound to go wrong.
The place was called Atlantis Star but in a sarcastic twist, Monty and I rechristened it Atlantis Slum. It was run down and isolated, a vague whisper of the bustling studio that existed in the 1950s when Rex Savage (pre-alien abduction) filmed a half dozen movies in the area. Rex had been so taken with the backdrop he bought the entire make believe town when it went up for auction a few years later, after the old western film trend was finished.
These days my brother Spencer is the only one living there, ever since August closed himself in his study and was found dead three days later. An autopsy confirmed cause of death was an untreated rattlesnake bite.
In case anyone’s wondering, being slowly overtaken by snake venom is a painful, ghastly way to die. There’s no way to know what was going through his mind when he sat there, staring at dark wood paneling, refusing to seek help. About all he had left at that point was the skeleton of Atlantis, and even before he was gone, Spence had pretty much taken over the care of the place, though he’d barely graduated from high school. The rest of us don’t see much reason to set foot within a hundred miles of it.
Until now, that is.
Today there is a producer sitting across from me over a pair of wedge salads at the Bellagio. He is smiling. He probably smiles in his sleep.
“So Loren, how do you feel about returning to Atlantis Star?”
Gary Vogel is on the well-preserved side of sixty and has flown to Las Vegas just to take me to lunch. It isn’t necessary; I already signed the papers just like I promised Brigitte I would. I get the feeling he’s trying me out. He wants to see how tough it’s going to be to get me to bare my soul. I squeeze a lemon slice into my water glass and avoid an answer.
“Will you be there when filming begins?” I ask, coyly turning the tables with a question of my own.
Gary Vogel commands a half dozen of the most popular celebrity reality television shows. To him, this is just another one, a typical project. He hails the waitress for the check and offers me an artificial grin that he must practice ten thousand times a day.
“No, I’m afraid that’s impossible, Loren” he says smoothly pronouncing my name incorrectly as Lo-REN, like Sofia Loren.
But I am LAW-ren or just plain Ren. No need to be pretentious. I’m not Brigitte.
Gary gives me his best charming executive smile. “But my wonderful assistant, Cate Camp, will be there. You’ve talked to Cate. Cate is incredible. Cate is my proverbial right hand. Cate will make sure everything goes off without a hitch.”
I merely nod at his answer. I decide not to let him know that I’m glad he won’t be around when the cameras start rolling, which they will be doing exactly one week from today.
I haven’t packed. I don’t know what to bring. Production for this season will last for eight weeks. My sisters are already there. I haven’t talked to Spencer but he’s probably working hard to deal with the intrusion. Monty, like me, is waiting until the last minute.
How long has it been since we were all in the same place for more than a few hours? Four years? No, five years. Five years since that wonderful and terrible summer when the ground shifted and opened a wide, permanent fissure in my heart. Monty was the first of us to leave, abandoning August’s strange desert utopia.
No. That’s wrong. Someone else left before him.
Gary Vogel is a busy man. He brusquely thanks me for a productive meeting and regrets that he must reach the airport within an hour to return to Los Angeles for a vague but crucial reason. I get the feeling he just wanted to see me for himself. He wanted to see if I was under control, if the infamous Savage volatility applied to me.
A little drama will be good for ratings. Too much chaos will be disastrous for the show. Gary has worried himself unnecessarily, at least on my account. I shake his hand and nod mechanically.
