“There he is!” Mitch yells. “First scene. How you feelin’?”
I cross the line.
“Great,” I lie.
Mitch stands up from his chair, says something to the cinematographer and hands his script to an assistant. He walks up to me until we are nose to nose. Mitch stares into my eyes.
“Iasked,” he screams in my face, “howthe fuckare youfeelin’?”
His breath is all coffee and hypermasculinity.
“Let’s do this!” I yell, giving him what he wants.
The crew applauds my crazy act.
Mitch puts his hand on my shoulder.
“This scene sets up the entire fuckin’ movie, man. Your character is the reason for this sequel. You, man!You!”
Mitch slaps me on the back.
“I want you to walk into the Ozarks bar that Billy and Loretta own like you’re a stray fuckin’ dog that found its way home after being lost in the woods for years,” he says, outlining the scene. “You are broken but you found the strength to crawl back to your family. Loretta will take your order, and when you say ‘Missouri Mule,’ she’ll look up, immediately knowing it’s Levi because he was the only man she ever knew who drank that. As her face changes from disbelief to confusion to concern for her and Billy’s safety, you will launch into your big speech. As you do, Loretta will slowly dissolve into tears, the camera will close in on her eyes, and there will be a flashback of her remembering when you stopped a bear from attacking her as a girl by being the toughest, most badass brother anyone could ever have. She’ll walk around the bar and embrace you, and when you two finally hug—bam!—I’ll circle the camera from her face to yours, where a tiny smile will cross your lips, and the audience won’t know if it’s because you’re happy to see her or if you’re planning your revenge. Got it?”
“More than you will ever know,” I say. “This is the role I was meant to play because I want revenge on all those who doubted me.”
“Fuckyeah!” Mitch yells. “Let’s roll. Places, everyone!”
A camera wheels into the bar, and when the saloon doors open, I see what I believe is a fire burning in the back: It is Ida Red reprising her role as Loretta, laughing, drying a beer glass with a towel.
She looks up and sees me. Ida nods and shoots me a wink.
The camera moves toward the bar and then turns to face the doors. As the doors continue to swing, I see Kyle standing at a table off to the side, talking to some extras, his perfect thighs encased in skintight jeans and a flannel shirt open to show his hairy chest and perfect pecs.
He smiles at me just as Mitch yells, “Action!”
I don’t even feel myself walking. In fact, I am not of this earth any longer. I am floating somewhere over Joshua Tree, watching this happen, out of body.
I see my wounded dog self push through the swinging doors. I take a seat at the bar. Loretta approaches, cleaning a glass, totally exhausted, not looking up at me.
“Missouri Mule,” I say in an Ozarks lilt.
She finally looks. Tears pool in her emoji eyes.
“I tried to help you, sis,” I say, my face contorted with emotion. “They threatened to kill me, too, so I had to run and hide. I ended up in the hills of West Virginia where no one would ever find me. I had no one.” I hesitate. “Until Mary.” I clamp my eyes shut. My chin trembles at the mention of her name. “I married the love of my life, and we had a family—a boy...” I stop and pull my cell from my jeans pocket. I show her pictures of my son. “Levi Jr. looked just like his daddy, and little Lori...” I show Loretta a photo of my daughter with flame-red hair “...well, she looked just like you. She wasnamedfor you.”
I stare at the picture of my little girl, chin now quivering.
“The others found my family and killed them. I came home and discovered them all in bed, as if they were waiting for me to tuck them in and kiss them good-night.” A lone tear weaves its way through my stubble. “I’m broken, sis. I have no one. Ihad nowhere to go.” I look up at her. “I need a family.” I reach out and take her hand in mine. “I need you.” I set my jaw. “I need revenge.”
I can see the memory of me protecting her from the bear flashing in her eyes. Loretta weeps. She walks around the bar and whispers the line people have been waiting for her to say. This time, however, it is spoken softly, tinged with love and regret.
“We is blood relatives,” she whispers into my ear, holding on to me tightly.
The camera pans around to my face.
Slowly, so very slowly, a smile crosses my face.
“And cut!” Mitch yells.
