“Yes.” Alice’s hands are shaky, partly from age and partly from emotion. She strokes a spotted thumb over her own face.
“And who’s the other girl?”
She’s silent for a long time. “Tammy.”
I don’t know if she’s misremembering or if she’s serious. Tammy was the name of the protagonist’s dead friend—and possible queer crush—fromChompin’ at the Bit. The story goes that every year on Halloween night one zombie rises from the cemetery beside the protagonist Robin’s church to get a final night to take care of their unfinished business. It really subverted the preconceived notion from other exploitation films that zombies were mindless flesh-eaters. Instead of hunting for brains, James was searching for closure.
Despite not knowing if she buys into the town lore, Robin camps out there because that year Tammy passed away in a car accident, so she thinks Tammy might be the one to emerge from the earth. If that’s true, she wants to be there to see her one last time.
From the few reviews that were published and are still accessible, I remember the actress’s name was Anya. Was Tammy a real person? Did the movie have some basis in the Kelly sisters’ real lives? That didn’t come up in my research. I want to ask, but Alice sets down the photo with such force that I’m thrown from my speeding train of thought.
“That’s good for today,” she says.
“We’ve only done one coat,” Derick says.
“I said that’s good for today. Don’t make me kick you out.” She wrings her hands as she walks toward the door. “I’ll sic the dogs on you.” Today I noticed a ton of untouched bowls of kibble lying around on the floor.
Something tells me the dogs aren’t real and the BEWARE OF signs outside are false illusions of protection. I don’t test her claim though. Derick and I collect our belongings and see ourselves out.
“That was weird,” Derick mumbles when the door slams shut behind us.
I just nod, already setting a reminder to do some research:Tammy, car accident, obituary, 1960s.
Derick is smiling widely when we reach the edge of the porch.
“Did I miss something?” I ask, gesturing to his general expression.
“Just…that was fun,” he says. “This is fun. It’s interesting. I’m excited. Alice seems cool and her movie seems cooler and you…”
“Please, please, please don’t say I’m thecoolest.”
“Aye, aye, boss.”
“Aye, ayeis for captains.”
“All right, then. Aye, aye,CaptainWrenji,” he says. I unlock my car and step toward it, but then he calls after me, “Permission to deboard, Captain?” He’s standing in a yoga pose, foot to knee, on the edge of the last loose step. His right hand is raised in salute.
I salute back. “Permission granted, sailor.”
As I get into my car, I swear I hear him murmur to himself, “Ha, sailor, love it.”
***
Around 8:00 p.m., after a dinner of pad thai in the living room with Mateo and Avery, I close the door to my room and launch an internet search. I put my sleuthing cap on. If only I had a kick-ass monocle to match.
I sift through digitized newspaper prints with different obituaries circled in red. I’m surprised that there were five total county-area crashes involving a young girl named Tammy around that time. It was a popular name, I know, and it seems drunk-driving accidents were far too common. I hate how macabre my evening has become, but this feels important to unlocking Alice’s overall frame of mind around the movie. Something Oscar would have to uncover for a special podcast episode.
What she won’t tell me, I’ll need to find out for myself.
The more I think about maybe being on Oscar’s podcast, the more nervous I become. I’m not used to being in the public eye in the way that would entail. I’m largely an introvert. I like my small group of friends, my safe spaces, my insular life. I get my fill of adventure from the movies. Safe and at a distance. I much prefer my synthesis to be in writing, read from afar, critiqued without my knowledge.
An hour into my hunt, I read about Tammy Wilson, a senior at Willow Valley High, two years behind Alice. As I learn more about the accident that ultimately led to her death—on impact, no pain, thankfully—I’m shocked when I read the name of the surviving passenger: Annie Kelly.
Alice’s sister.
The new information locks in like the missing number in a secret code. The safe of Alice’s life swings open in front of me. Alice wrote the screenplay about her deceased best friend.
I’m even less shocked when I see where Tammy was buried: Saint Thomas, right off Broad Street, a side road diverting from the Willow Valley main strip and not far from Wiley’s. It’s the white, tucked-away building with a tall steeple and cross-shaped layout. Behind it is the small Catholic cemetery that was the set of Alice’s movie.
