“I wasn’t ready.” Saying it aloud for the second time only solidifies it for me. Reminds me that there’s nothing wrong with it. There’s nothing wrong withme.
“You may never be ready, but love is fleeting and so is life. Grab it by the lapel while you got it or”—she inhales sharply—“it might not be there when you are.”
While I can’t expect her to understand my position completely, I’m still aching to understand hers. How she lived and navigated the world back then. I decide it’s time to tackle the tough topic. “Chompin’ at the Bitis a love letter to Tammy, isn’t it? Everything you didn’t get to say to her before she passed away?”
Some directors pride themselves on an aesthetic distance, telling their stories with a sense of detachment. We’re looking in on the action, judging a character through the lens. Even from the most horrendous reviews ofChompin’ at the Bit, I could tell that the movie was shot and made with heart, a spirit people couldn’t yet appreciate. Bad zombie makeup and probably too-dark lighting don’t discredit any of that.
She only gives me a nod. It says everything I need to know, and when I ask if I can hug her, I’m surprised when she nods again. We both need it. I’m even more surprised when it’s not a joke. Shakily, she stands, and I embrace her. This cactus-like woman doesn’t prick me, forcing me to shoot away stuck with thousands of needles. Instead, she softens and lets me wrap my arms around her.
“Did anyone know?” I ask.
“Only my sister, Annie. It’s the reason she fought for me to direct the picture. She wanted me to imbue a film and a fictional character with the arc of my young life. The screenplay was an exorcism for me. One my ex-husband despised from the moment he saw me writing it.”
It’s sad how a toxic business burned an avid film lover. It’s even sadder how she’s had to abandon the medium as both a form of expression and a means of entertainment. If I lost my love of movies, I think I’d lose my sense of self.
“Does that mean you’re bisexual, then?”
“I never used that word. I lost Tammy while I was at film school. I ran away to New York after graduation with the intention of never looking back—the farm life was not for me—but I was in love. It does something to the brain. I found myself coming home to her, not telling my parents, and hiding out in her attic bedroom. She had a neglectful family who didn’t care what she did. Annie was always covering for us.” Melancholy pinches the sides of her mouth. “Then, I lost her and it was heartbreaking, and I swore off Willow Valley with every fiber of my being. I think that’s why I fell into Peter’s arms so easily. He made it simple to forget. He had a magnetism, a power, hard to pull from, harder to process…but he knew. Deep down, he knew when he introduced me to Betty, years later, that something shifted.”
Alice moves to grab her box off the mantel. From it, she produces a photo of her and Betty, ripped at the edges and slightly out of focus. They’re sitting in directors’ chairs, peering over the backs with open scripts in their laps.
“I’ll have you know, I never cheated. I loved Peter. I was faithful. That was that. But I will say that Betty and I grew close, something straddling the line between friends and emotional lovers. She was the only woman I’d had real attraction to after Tammy, and I counted that a blessing that I’d never act upon.” I hand the photo back to her, afraid the glass cleaner on my fingertips might tarnish the image more than it already is.
“In short, yes, but it wasn’t until the seventies when that word was hitting the mainstream and my career was hitting its stride that I even formulated that. Then, everything happened all at once. I got the idea for the movie and I ran with it. Peter stole the script one night out of my locked desk drawer and threatened to torch it. My mother had her first run-in with cancer around that time, so I lied and said I had to fly home to be with her. I did that, but really Annie and I got a small crew of old New York friends together to shoot my proof of concept.”
Before she sits, she brushes her shirt clean of crumbs. There’s a border collie embroidered in the center, and I wonder for a split second if that’s the breed of dog she used to have, the kind she still advertises as guarding the property. Her loneliness becomes more and more apparent the closer we get. I want to hug her again but don’t press my luck.
“You must’ve really loved her,” I say and then clarify, “Both of them, but I’m talking about Tammy.”
“What we had was special.” A fresh tenderness crops up in her voice. “Something like what you boys have.”
I blink hard and swallow harder. “How do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb. Go on the trip. Apologize as best you can for hurting his feelings, and explain your situation. Make it happen while it’s here, or you’ll regret it.”
From my vantage point, Derick is framed by the windowpane. He lifts the bottom of his tank top to sop up the sweat on his upper lip. His farmer’s tan is prominent in the afternoon sun. My heart swells.
“I came up with a demand for my premiere, by the way,” she says, unpausing her show. “I want an exclusive screening spot. Somewhere private for me to watch where I won’t be bothered or gawked at or asked of. I want to lay low.” She smacks her lips. “But I want snacks. Lots of snacks. Those strawberry doughnuts!” So much for her blood sugar.
I can understand why she’d want to stay incognito, after what she went through. “We can make that happen.”
The door opens behind us. Derick stands in the foyer holding the ornament from the fallen weather vane. The bronze rooster hovers in the air on its back.
“Think it might be time we set this back?” he asks Alice.
She nods briskly. “You can head upstairs and out through my bedroom window. First door on the left. Be careful on the roof.” She juts her chin in my direction. “Take this one with you for balance.”
It sounds as if Derick is about to protest so I chime in first. “I’m happy to.”
I’m unhappy to actually. My fear of heights hasn’t magically disappeared. But I guess if I’m about to go out on an emotional limb for him, it makes sense I should go out on a physical limb too. This is how I show him I’m serious about moving on from what happened.
At the top of the rickety stairs, we enter Alice’s bedroom. It’s the only untouched place in the whole house. The frilly, cream-colored curtains are spread open, spilling sunlight into the space. There’s no dust in the air or off-putting smells. No unnecessary dog food bowls.
The wardrobe is closed and neat. The desk is stacked and clean. The bed is made so crisply you could bounce a quarter off it. This is where she holds her control. There’s so much story in here, from a stunning hand-carved vanity by the window to a crocheted pink baby blanket slung over a rocking chair.
Derick opens the window and hands me the ornament without asking. He dips out, then turns back, plunging his hands through the pane to grab it back. I think, for a second, he might not help me, but he sets the rooster down on its side and then offers me a hand. I take it.
The slope down is scary. Shingles are loose beneath my sneakers. My flight urges kick in, but I fight back. Derick’s grip on me never falters as we climb up to the summit. My foot slips once, and I don’t dare look down when it does.
