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  “I must not have heard it,” he says, his voice cracking.

  “You sound like you were sleeping.”

  “I was.”

  His father hesitates. “I’d really like you to be down in the lobby in five minutes. George will be there, and he’ll take you over to the set. We’re almost done setting up the street scene outside the Ursulines, and we’ll start shooting in the next half hour. I’d like you to be here before we do.”

  “Who’s George?”

  “The same person who picked you up at the airport. Didn’t you introduce yourselves?”

  “We shook hands, but he didn’t tell me his name.”

  “You might have asked him.”

  Will is silent.

  “Five minutes,” his father says again. “Can you be ready?”

  “Yes.”

  George is sitting on a sofa reading the newspaper when Will appears in the lobby ten minutes later. The driver stands up and folds his newspaper when he sees Will. His father’s reprimand still stings, and he doesn’t ask the older man his name when they face each other for a moment before George directs him outside to the car. He sits in the front instead of the back seat this time, guessing that the driver finds this preference strange, but neither of them says a word. There are dozens of tourists in the streets, some moving slowly in the heat with their heavy bodies and melting frozen drinks in plastic souvenir glasses shaped like a naked woman’s torso, but the drive takes only a few minutes, the convent only eight or nine short blocks from the hotel. He could easily have walked but knows that his father told his driver to take him so that he wouldn’t dawdle in his room.

  Before he gets out of the car, George looks at him and says, “I think your dad’s grateful that you could be here right now.”

  Will stares at him. He would sooner have expected the driver to reveal a humiliating affliction than to comment on his effect on his father’s well-being. “He is?”

  “Yes.”

  He falters. “Okay, well, thanks for telling me.”

  George nods. “You’re welcome.”

  He wonders if the driver is his father’s confidant. His father’s friends, for the most part, are other actors, but Will wonders how close most of these friendships really are, if jealousy keeps them from confiding in each other.

  There is a small crowd of spectators near the set, several of them members of a sunburned family dressed in New Orleans Saints T-shirts and ill-fitting shorts. They stand squinting on the sunbaked sidewalk near the white utility trucks that have been transporting the movie equipment from one end of the city to the other for the past four weeks. The catering van is surrounded by a half dozen crew members, each sweaty and tired-looking and holding a bottle of water or Diet Pepsi. His father isn’t in plain sight, but Will’s phone rings as he walks toward the crew.

  “I’m here, Dad,” he says. “By the catering van.”

  “Can you come around to the west side of the convent? I’m over here with Marek and Elise, getting ready to start shooting.”

  “Okay, I’ll be—” But his father has already hung up.

  Marek and Elise are Bourbon at Dusk’s stars, the brother and sister trying not to self-destruct. Will has met Marek once or twice, but not Elise, who is just beginning her career and is two years younger than he is. She is from Dallas and has a southern accent that she only reveals in interviews. He doesn’t think that she has been allowed to use it for this film either; if so, Marek would also have to speak with an accent. Elise is beautiful, tall and slender with strawberry blond hair and hands that gesture animatedly when she talks. Will watches entertainment news shows and other junk TV that his sister doesn’t have time for and his mother says that she has no interest in, though he knows she follows his father’s career closely. She sees his movies in their first week of release, but rarely has anything good to say about them. After fourteen years, it bothers him that she is still bitter about the divorce, but Anna sees it differently. “I think she feels like she failed him. She would never admit it, but I do think it’s true.”

  He didn’t call his mother before he left for New Orleans, not wanting to bother her in New York with news that was likely to annoy her. He could imagine her pretending not to mind Renn’s offer and Will’s acceptance of it, but she would mind. She has never remarried but has had male companions. None have lasted for more than a year. It must be hard on them, Anna once mused, to feel like they could never measure up to Dad.

  His father is standing on the sidewalk in shirtsleeves and khaki shorts, sweating in the afternoon heat as he talks to Marek and Elise. His chest hair is visible in the V of his green cotton shirt, and he wears sunglasses, Ray-Bans that look like the ones Will gave him for his birthday the previous April. The cameraman is several feet away, making adjustments to his complicated and expensive device. Two sound guys with the boom mic that they’ll hold above the actors’ heads, just out of range of the camera, stand a yard or two away. There is also an electrician inspecting one of several cords snaking out of a power strip, a makeup artist powdering Marek’s face and neck, and a couple of older men, one heavyset, the other tall and almost gaunt. Will guesses they are the film’s producers. He sees Elise staring up at his father, her tanned, perfect face rapt, and his breath catches. It looks like she is in love with him, a man who is probably older than her own father. Perhaps she is already his girlfriend.

  His father glances away from Elise and spots him. He smiles and motions for Will to come closer, hugging him briefly and hard before introducing him to Marek, then Elise. The actor has professionally mussed hair and three days’ worth of whiskers. Elise’s hair is in uneven braids, and there are dirt smudges on her chin and right cheek. Her hand is damp in his when he shakes it. She smiles and says, “You look just like your father.”

  He doesn’t think that he does, but feels his heart leap at her words. Maybe to her they do look alike. Or else she is a canny liar. “Thanks,” he says. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m a fan.”

  Her smile widens. “You’re so nice to say that.”

  “We’re getting ready to do the scene with the argument about the money Tim lost in the card game,” his father says. “Tim is Marek’s character.”

  “I remember,” says Will, feeling his face flush. “I reread the script this morning.”

  “Let me talk to them for a couple of minutes, and then I’ll tell you what I need you to do.”

  Will smiles at the ground, incensed that he was ordered to rush over to the set in spite of his exhaustion. He goes back around the corner to get a drink from the catering truck, feeling his father’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t turn to say he’s not going far. He thinks that he has made a poor choice, that he would have been better off staying in L.A. and waiting for Danielle to come back and do what they usually do together—eat in restaurants and shop and see movies and the occasional play. He knows that he should be studying for the LSAT and researching law schools, making plans for his future that are more solid than any others he has made in the past. But he isn’t sure if he wants to be a lawyer. He doesn’t know what he wants to do tomorrow, or the next day either. It is a problem that has plagued him since childhood—there have always seemed to be so many choices, a fact that strikes him as more oppressive than having no choices at all.

  He takes a bottle of Gatorade from the ice chest at the foot of the folding table, where a scattering of apples and plums lie on a bed of rapidly melting ice. A few of the crew members smile at him, but no one tries to talk to him. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone either. He can feel the approach of a headache, and the heat is a heavy sheet that sticks to him like a suffocating second skin.

  His phone rings. His father again. He walks back around the corner without answering. Marek and Elise have taken up positions on the sidewalk a few yards from where they were standing earlier. The makeup artist, a ponytailed woman wearing a jean skirt and red Converse hi-tops, is now dabbing at the smudges on Elise’s face. Will’s father hands hi
m a piece of paper with several names scrawled on it. Underneath each one is the name of a periodical. “Can you call Fran and ask her to call these people and try to schedule phone interviews for me for Saturday from seven to ten p.m.? I can give them each fifteen or twenty minutes. She knows that I’ve talked to them all about past projects. They’ll do some advance press for Bourbon.”

  Will blinks. “Fran?”

  “My publicist. Her number’s at the bottom of the sheet.”

  “I thought your publicist was named Barbara.”

  “No, I had to hire a new one last year. Barbara retired with all the money I’ve paid her over the years and moved to Florence.” He pauses, smiling. “After that, I want you to have George take you to buy me ten pairs of white running socks. The short ones, ankle-length, and a dozen white V-neck T-shirts, a hundred percent cotton, extra large. Nothing fancy. He knows where there’s a Target. I need some sunblock too, sixty SPF or more. Four or five bottles should do it. Neutrogena, not Coppertone. I can give you some cash right now.” He reaches into his front pocket and removes a small wad of folded bills. “Here,” he says, pulling loose three fifties. “This should be enough. If you need anything, you can use whatever’s left over.” He also hands Will one of his two cell phones. “Use this to call Fran. She won’t pick up if she doesn’t recognize the number. If you get any calls on this phone too, let me know. Someone at Sony called me twice yesterday from a general line but he wouldn’t say who he was or what he wanted before he hung up. I don’t think I gave anyone there this number either. Maybe he’ll tell you what he wants if he calls again.”

  “Okay,” says Will. “I guess I can try to get him to talk to me.”

  “He probably won’t call, but just in case,” his father says.

  On the way to the store, Will dozes instead of calling the publicist. George doesn’t try to talk to him as they drive out of the city toward the commercial sprawl on the outskirts, but when they arrive at the store’s bustling entrance, Will asks him a question that he abruptly wishes he could withdraw. “Is my dad dating Elise Connor?”

  The driver doesn’t turn to look at him. “I don’t know,” he says.

  Will studies the back of the older man’s gleaming, hairless head, feeling his face turn hot. “Sorry if I put you on the spot.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. She is beautiful. She’s a nice lady too.”

  “Yes, I guess she is.”

  George hesitates. “You’ll have to ask him if they’re dating. I really don’t know.”

  The store is crowded, its fluorescent lights overly bright. Parents of whining children listlessly push carts filled with boxes of cookies and chips and diapers. He finds the things his father wants and picks up some Oreos and cashews for himself. For what feels like the hundredth time that day, his phone rings. His father’s, however, has been silent.

  “You’re in New Orleans, aren’t you,” says his mother.

  “Yes. As of a few hours ago.”

  He hears her sigh. “I hope you won’t let him boss you around too much.”

  “Lucy, I’m supposed to be working for him.” He knows that she dislikes it when he uses her first name, but he can’t keep himself from goading her.

  “Yes, child,” she says. “I know that, but don’t let him take advantage of you.”

  He looks down at the bag of Oreos in his basket and sees that he has gotten double-stuffed instead of regular. “When are you coming back from New York?”

  “Tonight. I was hoping you or your sister would be able to pick me up from the airport.”

  “Anna’s probably working.”

  “She is. I’ll take a cab.” She pauses. “How’s your father?”

  “He’s fine. Maybe a little stressed, but since this is only his second time directing, I guess it’s—”

  “I remember The Zoologist, Billy. Maybe he’ll have better luck with this one.”

  “I didn’t think The Zoologist was that bad.” It wasn’t bad. His father had wanted it to be better, but he wanted all his films to be better, even the ones that had won awards. His last two films, which he had acted in but had had no part in the direction or screenwriting of, had not done as well as expected. Will knew that this was one of the main reasons why there was such an air of urgency surrounding Bourbon. If it didn’t do very well either, he would be very curious to see how his father reacted.

  “You can say hello to him for me if you think of it,” his mother says. “How long are you going to be out there? Your sister said a month.”

  “That’s probably about right.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “You could come visit.”

  She laughs. “No, not in a million years. Who’s he dating now?”

  “No one that I know of.”

  “I’m sure he’s with someone.”

  “He might be. I haven’t asked him.”

  “Well, never mind. Call me when you want to, Billy. Love you.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  They are in the middle of shooting the scene when Will gets back to the set. From where he stands on the periphery, he can see that his father’s shirt and hair are drenched. He stands next to the cameraman, watching the two leads confront each other over the money Tim has gambled away. Elise and Marek are very good, Will thinks, and seem at ease in front of the camera, but his father finds fault with their interaction many times, telling Marek to look at once more guilty and defiant as he apologizes to Elise. Another time he tells her to be more physical, to push at Marek’s chest, to raise her voice. He doesn’t call them by their characters’ names, which Will knows that some directors do. Despite the complaints that are often made against actors’ public personas, his father has not, to his knowledge, been called a phony, at least not with any frequency. Many people like him because he seems, despite his considerable fame, to be a person who is not overly impressed with himself.

  It is six thirty when the company wraps, a two-minute scene that took three and a half hours to film to his father’s satisfaction, not including the four hours spent on setup. When they are done, his father pats Marek’s shoulder. Elise looks like she wants to kiss Renn when he tells her that he can see great, shining rewards in her future. Will guesses that he means an Oscar, but it’s bad luck to talk about the Oscars or the Golden Globes during a shoot. “What about me?” says Marek.

  Will’s father turns to face him, opening his mouth, but before he can reply, Marek says, “I’m just giving you a hard time.”

  “You too,” says Renn. “I’ll do what I can to help you both get your due.”

  In the car on the way back to the hotel, his father is buoyant with the pleasure of the day’s work done well. Will listens to him and the driver talk about the catering company, one that was contracted for a reasonable price. “They make the best jambalaya I’ve had in years,” his father says, turning to look at him. “Did you try some?”

  Will shakes his head. “I bought some nuts at Target. I had a few of those.” He doesn’t tell him about the Oreos. It seems a childish confession.

  “Is everything good for Saturday?” his father asks. Will gives him a blank look.

  “The interviews for the glossies. You called Fran, right? Has she gotten back to you yet? Where’s the phone I gave you?”

  The phone is still in the side pocket of his cargo pants. He has not called Fran. In the excitement of watching the shoot, he has forgotten to take care of this task. When he confesses this, his father exhales loudly. In the rearview mirror, George’s eyes meet his boss’s for a second, but the driver keeps his face neutral. Will can feel himself sweating.

  “Maybe you don’t really want to be here, Billy,” his father finally says. “Is that what this is about?”

  “No,” he says, voice cracking. “That’s not it at all. I’m really sorry.”

  His father closes his eyes and presses his fingertips to his eyebrows. “Then what are you doing?”

  It is a question Will wants to
be able to answer without sounding like an irritable child. Although he has never said it directly, he suspects that his father has thought of him as one for years. My son the leech, the slacker, the listless, the attention-deficit-disordered, the spoiled brat. The jobs he has had since college: day trader, entrepreneur (with two friends, he founded a dog-walking business and a personal-assistant service), health-club manager, and furniture salesman, all failed to hold his interest for more than six or seven months. Because he has not needed to work to eat, he has never felt the same urgency as his coworkers about keeping a job. He has wondered how much time people spend doing things they’d really rather not do, and he knows that there are two probable answers: (a) at least half of it, or, (b) most of it. But unlike him, they can claim that they are doing something with their lives every day. They are setting goals, and in some cases, achieving them. His parents and sister have all done this, whereas his main goal each day is to resist inertia.

  “I was so tired earlier,” he says, not looking at his father, “that it slipped my mind. George and I went to Target, and I got sidetracked. I’m really sorry.”

  His father emits a small, harsh laugh. “If this is going to work, you need to do everything I tell you as soon as I tell you to do it.”

  “I’ll call Fran right now.”

  “You can try,” he says gruffly. “She’s not going to like having to spend the evening making phone calls for me.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “I was going to say that we should go out for dinner, but you’ve got work to do now. Ask Fran if you can help her contact the journalists. You can call room service for your dinner. The food at the Omni is all right.”

  George pulls up to the front of the hotel, and his father thrusts open the car door and doesn’t wait for Will to climb out before he strides into the lobby. From the car’s floor, Will grabs the bags of socks and cookies and T-shirts and follows his father, feeling like he has just shown him a report card filled with Ds and Fs.