He died before I could reach him–I never even got the chance to say goodbye. My father, my funny, caring, supportive father, the man who gave me his blessing when I said I wanted to be an actress. I called the company in Berkeley, told them I was staying for the funeral.
My mother wanted a closed casket. Because of this, and because I’d never seen him ill, I couldn’t really bring myself to believe he was dead. I had dreams where I’d talk to him, laugh at one of his silly jokes, and then suddenly realize that he wasn’t supposed to be there. “But you’re dead,” I’d say, horrified. Sometimes he’d disappear at that moment, sometimes he’d put his finger to his lips, as if to tell me that these were things that shouldn’t be spoken of. Once he told me that he wasn’t really dead, he’d just been away on a secret mission somewhere. And every time when I’d wake up my cheeks would be wet with tears. I hadn’t known you could cry in your sleep.
The third thing that happened–well, it wasn’t as bad, I guess. Certainly no one died, I didn’t lose anyone I loved. I got back to Los Angeles to find out that Jessie had auditioned for a part in a major motion picture, and that the director wanted to see her again.
We rehearsed together. I took the part of the boyfriend, which Jessie told me would be played by Harrison Ford. I barely remember what the movie was about, to tell you the truth. I was numb with grief, still coming to terms with all the holes in my life left by my father’s death. And I was depressed over my career, the way it seemed that everyone was getting ahead but me.
Jessie tried to be supportive, but she was too excited about the direction her own career had taken. I couldn’t blame her, really. The morning of her audition she rented the white BMW and left for the studio. I didn’t hear from her until she called at five o’clock that evening.
“I got the part!” she said, a little breathless. “They all loved me, said I was perfect. I did those scenes we practiced with Harrison–what a sweetie he is!”
“That’s nice,” I said. “Listen, I’ve got to go–I’ve got some reading to do.”
“Sure,” she said. She sounded a little puzzled. Did she really not understand my jealousy? Was she really that naпve?
So I got to watch as Jessie became the next hot actress–this year’s blonde, she joked, brushing back her masses of dark hair. Her conversation became thick with the names of famous actors, directors, producers. She rented a condo in Malibu. I thought for sure she would buy that damned BMW she was so proud of but she went one better and showed up at my apartment complex in a silver Jaguar.
“I couldn’t resist,” she said. “Do you like it? You know how the British pronounce Jaguar? They say Jay-gu-ar,” and she told me which famous British actor had taught her that.
“It is not enough to succeed,” someone in Hollywood had once said, I think Gore Vidal. “Others must fail.” I tried to feel happy over Jessie’s success, I really did, but I was sunk so deep in misery I couldn’t do it.
It all started with that damn book, I thought. It’s all because I took that book down and opened it. “And he who reads the following words will be plagued by ill fortune for all his life,” it had said. “Trogro. Trogrogrether. Ord, mord, drord. Coho, trogrogrether.”
You look up a moment. The birds have stopped singing, a cloud has moved in front of the sun. You thought you were reading a story about someone struggling with death, with bad luck, with her own inner demons–Hamlet’s outrageous fortune. You certainly had no idea you would become involved this way. It’s too late, though–you’ve read the words, just as I have.
No, you think. She’s imagined the whole thing. Sure, a lot of bad things have happened to her, but it’s probably all just coincidence. A bunch of words in an old book–how could that possibly affect me?