Bedlam and Other Stories Read Free Page A

waterline.
    â€œIn my life,” he said a few minutes later, “I’ve been in three places. I’ve been in Vermont, I’ve been in Vietnam, and I’ve been in the Army.”
    An old joke. She didn’t smile.
    â€œBut to see someone actually get a stomach cramp,” he said, “I had to come to Florida.”
    Now she smiled. Faintly. She lay on her side with her hands on her stomach.
    â€œYou owe me one, Ronnie.” The point came out just right, dealt from strength. Handed down like an order. “Take me and show me what you’re doing with my life.”
    The shooting site was lit up incredibly. The brightness of the lamps and reflectors seemed that much more ferocious against the Everglades swamp growth and the heavy sundown colors, a spectacular purple gloom. Hartley, looking at the sky reflected in the swamp water, was reminded of the pads on animal paws. They’d set up practically at the water’s edge. Then Hartley saw the actor playing Hartley, a lean kid he recognized from a TV series set in the 1950’s. He remembered once getting upset at a reference to underground papers on the program. That was a lie; they didn’t have underground papers in the 1950’s. Hartley stared at the actor. The kid’s face—he was staring back—had been so painted up that in the spotlights it glimmered like the surface of the swamp. Hartley studied the fatigues, the P HARTLEY tag over the chest pocket. He envied the actor his paratrooper boots, muddied and scuffed all day to get the proper effect.
    But something was very wrong, something absolutely off. The smell of the place. Hartley started to move away from the lights, filling his nose with a falseness that would never show on television. This scene they were shooting now was supposed to take place in the prison camp, but it smelled like jungle. The air here gave the impression of continual ripening, the heady effect of violent blossoms. Whereas in the prison camp it had reeked without end of decay, of clotted water and smoke. Hartley still became edgy whenever someone doused his barbecue coals at the end of a summer party. And here, in the Everglades, a man at least could find that odor from the marrow of a carcass. Hartley moved farther from the lights, towards the purple shimmer of the pool. The ground sank beneath his beach sandals; he felt mud between his toes. Yes here at least a man found the genuine shit. Uprooted tendrils of ancient trees stank as they died. Reptiles prowled the muck.
    Garbeau called him back to the shooting site. In one hand she held a clipboard and despite her bikini she looked all business again. Hartley returned slowly, savoring the atmosphere. He stopped as soon as he saw what they were doing. The actor who played Hartley sat wrapped in a blanket. He held a guitar. Around him settled three other actors: a muscular black, an urban Hispanic type, and a Midwestern-looking blonde. The four were huddled around a small campfire.
    â€œThis is the Christmas scene,” Garbeau said. “I thought it would give you a good idea what we’re up to.”
    The actor who played Hartley called for some help with his makeup. He said the blanket and the fire were making him sweat too much.
    â€œWhat about the fan ?” Garbeau shouted.
    â€œA campfire?” Hartley was asking quietly, beside her. “No way we could ever have a campfire.”
    â€œIf we use the fan,” a man with another clipboard shouted, “we’ll have to boost the footage back at the shop.”
    â€œIt wasn’t that kind of camp,” Hartley almost whispered.
    â€œWell so?” Garbeau shouted. “So what’s the hangup? We got the montage to patch in anyway. Let’s get it.”
    A fan came on, making Hartley’s shirt billow.
    â€œIt was windy back there in wintertime, right?” She spoke to Hartley now, her voice back to normal.
    â€œAre you kidding me?” Right away