I had been a die-hard fan of the television series American Gothic since its first episode. In fact, I was one of the founders of the show's online newsgroup. I had the instant envy of all the other fans when I won the contest. You know the contest: "Send your name, address, etc., to the address on your screen, and you'll be entered in our contest. One lucky winner will be picked at random for an all-expense-paid trip to Wilmington, North Carolina, where he or she will spend a day on the set of American Gothic, meet the cast, and even have a walk-on part in an episode."
One lucky winner. That was me! I was going to have an entire day immersed in the environment that created the only television show that had ever given me nightmares. I would see how they made it all happen, and have a part that would be the high point of my career as a struggling actress. I'd get to hang out with Gary Cole, the talented – and tasty – actor who gave life to Lucas Buck, the deliciously evil sheriff who ran the town of Trinity, South Carolina – who destroyed people's lives just for the fun of it, but did it with such panache that I couldn't help but enjoy watching him in action. Maybe I'd have enough courage to ask him if he thought that Lucas actually had supernatural powers, or if he was just an expert at tricks and misdirection. And I'd meet the rest of the cast, too, of course.
My flight was scheduled to leave Newark Airport at 8:00 a.m. I, the avowed night person, was so excited that I was wide awake at 5:00 and was waiting at the gate over an hour before I needed to be there.
The flight itself was the longest hour of my life. It's a good thing that I know how to pack light and had only a piece of carry-on luggage. If I'd had to wait for checked baggage to be unloaded, I think I would have exploded with frustration.
A driver was waiting for me outside the baggage claim area, holding one of those funny cards with my name on it. I introduced myself. "Where's the rest of your luggage?" he asked.
"This is all of it," I replied, holding up my backpack, slightly annoyed. Not every woman packs the house when she travels!
It was a regular car, not any kind of limo. Probably just as well, I told myself. My hands were shaking with nerves. If I'd had one of those limos that came with a bar, I probably would have ended up wearing any drink I tried to pour myself. Not that I would have minded a cup of coffee… Then again, I thought, catching a glimpse of my wild-eyed reflection in the rearview mirror, maybe I should stay away from the caffeine for now.
I don't remember much of the trip from the airport. At first I was too busy trying to calm down and stop bouncing up and down like a five year old. Then all my attention was focused on looking for the signs of a major TV show on location – trailers, cameras and crew, barricades to keep out the curious citizens, people standing around with styrofoam cups of coffee… Down, girl!
And there it was, even busier than I had imagined. The car stopped in front of one of the trailers. I hopped out, too impatient to give the driver enough time to open the door for me.
I was greeted by a young woman with a clipboard, glasses, and a worried expression. She told me her name, which went in one of my ears and directly out the other. (I'm always bad with names, and on a day like that, when I knew very well who I wanted to meet… I'm afraid I didn't retain a single one of the unfamiliar names I heard that day.) She found me a safe place to store my backpack and then took me over to the catering tables and left me to introduce myself to coffee while she went off to find the director.
A burned tongue and half a cup of coffee later, she was back with the director – a somewhat condescending forty-something-year-old man with another unfamiliar name that has disappeared into the void inside my head. While he took me on a flying tour of the facilities that gave me time to finish settling down, he started to give me a reverse sales pitch on how the wonderful world of television wasn't as exciting as most people think. . .
"I know," I interrupted, before I could lose my nerve. "I've done some extra work. In the snow."
The look of relief on the man's face was hilarious, though all he said was, "Good. Then I won't be shattering your illusions when I tell you that you won't be doing a big love scene with Gary Cole."
"Aw, shucks," I quipped. "And I brought all my dominatrix gear."
That got a laugh and a description of the scene I would be in. Nothing very complicated. Picture me sitting on a bench in an open area of a park. Gary/Lucas walks by on his way to somewhere important. I wave. He smiles. He and the camera move on.
"Am I doing anything in particular? I mean, does it matter what I'm doing?" I asked.
"Why? Do you have something in mind?"
"Well…" I hesitated, feeling presumptuous but unwilling to let the opportunity pass without giving it my best shot. Ah, what the hey. The worst he could do was laugh at me. "I sing, too, and play guitar. And I have a song that was inspired by the show."
"By our show?"
I nodded. "It's from the point of view of someone who falls for Lucas Buck even though she knows better."
He snorted. "That makes sense."
One of the women on the crew was a struggling musician, and she lent me the guitar she kept around for practice during breaks. I found a place to sit down, so I'd be less likely to let the instrument slide out of hands that were dripping wet with sweat, and sang for a small crowd that included some of the familiar faces that I was there to meet. I'd be lying if I said I sounded like the next Sarah McLachlan, but I did well enough to get the director's stamp of approval on my singing in the scene.
I hurried to return the guitar to the temporary custody of the woman who owned it before he disappeared again. That's right. Him. Gary Cole.
Looking back, I almost wish I hadn't caught up to him, considering some of the stupid things I said. He was as nice as can be, and astonishingly patient with my tongue-tied self. And those eyes… It's a good thing my singing was only going to be in the background. I had so much trouble breathing when I had his undivided attention that I hated to imagine what my singing voice would sound like.
I didn't have nearly as much trouble with the other two cast members I met, but then I didn't care as much about them. Joyce Nesbitt – the obligatory ingenue who stumbles on the town's deep dark secrets – didn't come across as "the fastest horse in the stable," to borrow a Lucas line, which matched my perception of her acting. Mark Crane, who (over)played Lucas's main adversary, seemed to be trying to convince me that he was the real star of the show – or at least that he should be. He reminded me a bit of someone I knew from a play, a classically handsome leading man type who didn't bother to learn all his lines and expected the rest of us to cover for him.
I was promised a chance to meet the rest of the cast later in the day.
It was only an hour before they were ready to work on "my" scene. Since I was playing a folk-singer type, my jeans and plaid shirt passed for costume, and my hair and makeup were equally simple. It was fun, though, having someone make me up and brush out my hair, instead of having to do it myself.
I used the rest of the time to practice the song and build myself a character. Hmm. Let's see. First, name her. How about Miranda, complete with a romantic, "brave new world" outlook. But the way I wrote the lyrics, she understands – and accepts – that Lucas can be a 24-carat S.O.B. So why is she singing the song in the public park? Sour grapes, maybe? A desire to expose him for anyone who hasn't caught on?
That was as far as I got before they were ready for me.
They set me up on a bench in the middle of a clearing, guitar in hand and case open in front of me as if to collect money from passers-by, with a paved path in front of me and level grass behind. Gary/Lucas would come toward me from my left, cross in front of me, and keep going. The camera would start from a stationary position to my left that was out of my line of sight, pick up Gary/Lucas as he passed it, follow him on tracks that ran behind me, and keep going with him. If nothing got cut, I would be on screen for about five seconds.
We rehearsed the sequence twice, mostly for my benefit, I'm sure. The first time was a simple walk-through, so I could get used to singing and nodding and smiling at Lucas(!) all at the same time.
The second time, Gary became Lucas, and the difference in the personality he projected was something I could feel from the six-foot distance that was the closest he came to me. I don't know how else to explain it. There was a small part of him that was still Gary Cole the actor, but the rest was… different. And so strong that it helped me become more the character I created for myself.
Then came the real thing – Take One. Everyone moved away until all I could see was empty park. I heard the director yell, "Action," waited five seconds as instructed, and started singing.
"I awake in the heart of the night
with your kiss on my memory's lips.
The sheet soft-sliding against my skin
recalls the arson of your touch…"
I reached the end of the first verse and began the second –
"The scent of your body lingers on
in the creases of my own…"
That was Gary's cue to enter the scene. My peripheral vision, which had caught his movement at about that point in both rehearsals, did not pick up anything this time.
I finished the second verse and started the chorus.
"My sleep-fogged mind weaves delicate dreams
of sweetness we've never shared.
"What are you thinking? – Midnight thoughts.
Where are you wandering? – Beyond light…"
Still no Gary/Lucas.
"What do you want from me? – Everything.
Where are you waiting? – On your grave tonight."
OK, I thought. Someone is being a wiseguy, playing a joke on the "lucky winner." Fine. I'll play along. They'll have to say, "Cut," before I stop. They're not going to rattle me! I closed my eyes and focused my whole being on what I was singing.
"You are the shadow to the light I serve,
a challenge to integrity,
and yet your eyes – your lips – your hands
compel me to trust and forgive.
"What are you thinking? – Midnight thoughts…"
By the time I reached the bridge, all I cared about was finishing the song.
"I've touched the demon behind your eyes.
I can almost count down the days
until you tear my soul to rags,
but I don't care. I can't care. I won't care.
I don't care!
"Your victims' eyes peer over your shoulder,
but icy glares melt on the hearth
of homefire hellfire fueled desire
that celebrates mortality.
"What are you thinking? … "
The song came to an end, and I heard one person clapping slowly. I opened my eyes and saw Gary/Lucas standing just beyond my guitar case, smiling crookedly at me. Finally, I thought. The applause stopped.
"Well, hello," I said sarcastically.
The smile broadened. "Why don't you come over here and give me a real hello?"
"Why not?" I replied. I can handle this. I can handle this, I told myself, putting the guitar in its case. I stood right in front of him and looked up into his eyes, refusing to show him anything but professionalism. "Hello."
He put his hands on my shoulders, bent toward me, and kissed me on the lips. It was not the kind of kiss that an actor gives an actress for the benefit of camera and audience. It was the kind of kiss, deep and intimate, that spoke of a relationship of some long standing. For a moment my knees forgot which way they were intended to bend, and I lost my awareness of anything beyond my senses.
The moment passed. I became conscious of a feeling of wrongness in what was transpiring, and in the man who was touching me so expertly. In the same way I had detected a difference between Gary Cole as himself and Gary Cole in his Lucas Buck persona, now I sensed a difference between this man and the Lucas Buck had "met" a short time earlier.
He released my lips and shoulders, and stepped back. "Hello," he said with a twitch of one corner of his mouth. His eyes held mine captive, and my uneasiness increased.
"Are you done for the day?" he asked, indicating my guitar with a tilt of his head.
"I guess so." I turned away from him. As I knelt by the guitar to close the case, I sneaked a glance in the direction of the camera. It was not there. There was no camera or cameraman, no track running behind the bench, no director, no actors standing by for the next scene – and no indication that they had ever been there.
My hands worked on autopilot - lifted the guitar, scooped up the loose change and lone dollar bill that had magically appeared in the cheap cardboard case, shoved the money into my pocket, replaced the guitar, and closed the case – while my brain went into overdrive. All signs of television production were gone. My song ran about three minutes if I didn't rush. As efficient as the crew might be, that was simply not enough time for them to clean up all that equipment – in total silence, no less. Therefore… what? My mental wheels spun.
I pulled my fingers back to avoid the latches of the guitar case, which seemed to snap down by themselves to secure the case. Surely I had moved them and was simply not paying attention.
"Can I give you a ride somewhere? We need to talk." Lucas's voice was the same, but I realized that his accent was not identical to what I was accustomed to hearing. I remembered someone mentioning that Gary's accent was closer to Boston than northern New York with a slight British influence. One more piece to the puzzle? But did I want to see the whole picture - and did I have a choice?
"Sure," I replied, picking up my guitar. "How about home?" I was curious to see if he would actually take me anywhere. If this was an ever-more-elaborate joke, how far would it go?
"Let me take that," he said, reaching for the guitar.
I took a step away. "No, thanks. I've got it."
He chuckled. "Oh, yes. I forgot. It's your baby." His mocking tone put quotation marks around the last two words. "Never mind. It's all yours, Miranda."
I stopped dead and stared. How did he know the name I had assigned my character only that morning? I had never mentioned it to anyone on set.
He noticed that I was no longer walking with him and turned back to me. "Well, come on, Miranda. You may not have anything else to do today, but I have a job, remember?"
I nodded, and we proceeded to the car I remembered so well. He opened the passenger door and, with exaggerated courtesy, helped me and the guitar into the front seat. While he walked around to the driver's side and let himself in, I examined the interior for any sign that the vehicle had ever been used as a prop. Nothing.
"Did you lose something?" he inquired, as he started the car.
Your marbles, maybe? I asked myself. "No, nothing," I assured him, settling back in my seat.
"Good," he drawled, his voice sinking to the bottom of its range. "Then perhaps you can explain something to me." He gave me one of his patented you know what I mean, and you'd better agree with me on this looks.
I nodded hastily, though I felt acutely uncomfortable agreeing to something when I had no idea what I was agreeing to.
"What the hell did you mean, singing that song in public? I told you last night that was private business, and to keep it between us." His words sounded more clipped, almost British. Fury blazed in his narrowed eyes.
"But – but – It's just a song," I stammered, trying to buy myself some time. Last night? But we had just met this morning! And Gary Cole was a superb actor, but this anger felt real.
"Just a song? Is that how you think of it? You must be even less intelligent than I thought!"
That hurt, though I wasn't sure why. "But, Lucas – " I couldn't help it. The name just slipped out. I bit my lip and turned to look out the window.
What I saw only added to my confusion. The neighborhood I remembered riding through on the way to the park had been the city's financial district – modern banks and office buildings, all concrete and steel and glass. City skyline had been visible in all directions over the treetops of the park. Now we were passing wooden houses with lawns and trees of their own. I turned all the way around to look back over the park. Nary a building could be seen above the foliage.
I moaned quietly and leaned my head against the headrest, fighting back tears of distress. Now we seemed to be in the center of town. We passed several stores, and a gas station, and structure labeled United States Post Office – Trinity, South Carolina. My reaction was halfway between a sob and a laugh. All right, I thought. I give up. I surrender.
Lucas reached over and rubbed his thumb across my cheek. I pulled away sharply. "Now, Miranda, don't be like that. It was early, and not many people heard you, so I won't have to take any drastic action as long as you promise not to do it again."
His sideways glance at my expression must not have pleased him. I heard the jangle of strings from inside the guitar case, though the instrument was clenched between my knees.
"You know how I feel about having attention drawn to certain matters," he continued. "Most people are happy with the world as they see it. I would hate to have their illusions disrupted for no reason. Wouldn't you?"
"Yeah. I guess," I replied reluctantly.
"That's my girl." He swung the car in to the curb in front of a grubby, formerly-white house and cut the engine. "Would you like some company?" he asked, giving me a suggestive smile that I felt down to my toenails.
I drew a slow, deep breath. "Not this time, Lucas," I forced myself to say, regretting it even as I spoke. "I need time to…"
"To contemplate the error of your ways?" he finished for me. "I wouldn't dream of keeping you from that. Tomorrow, then?"
"Yeah, tomorrow," I echoed, fumbling for the door handle.
He drove away while I was still wrestling with the rusty latch on the gate in the rickety picket fence.
There was grass poking up through the cracks in the flagstone path to the front door, and the garden was growing a bumper crop of weeds. Each step creaked as I climbed to the splintery front porch. The top panel of the screen door had torn loose in one corner.
I double-checked all the pockets of my jeans to confirm that keys had not materialized during my stay. They had not, but – blessings on that small-town mentality – it didn't matter because the front door wasn't locked. I wondered whose house I was entering uninvited.
The bulb in the front-hall light blew out when I flicked the switch. I had better luck with the one in the living room.
Each room showed the same signs of disrepair as the exterior. Judging by the minimal possessions scattered around, and the few coins in the jar in the kitchen, the occupant did not have the financial resources for so much as a box of nails or a can of paint.
I was looking at the can of beer and three slices of stale bread that were the sole contents of the refrigerator when the telephone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Miranda." The voice on the other end of the line was light and female.
"Hi. Who's this?"
"What do you mean? It's Gail." Right. That would be Gail Emory. In the TV series she was carrying Lucas's child against her will, a story line developed because the actress playing Gail was five months pregnant, and she was too good to be written out of the show. "Are you all right?"
"Uh, sure. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Well, because it's only 3:00, and you're usually out singing until after 5, and I noticed – " She was interrupted by the loud cries of a baby. "Gotta go," she said quickly. "Three weeks old and he already bosses me around. Like father, like son. Bye now."
"But – Bye," I said to the dial tone.
What is Gail to me? I wondered. Or to Miranda, rather. Assuming there really is a Miranda. Is she a close enough friend to clear up some of this confusion? If so, how do I find her? I hadn't seen anything that looked like an address book, or even a copy of the local phone book.
I wandered upstairs and used the bathroom, still uncertain about how to proceed. When friends and I had joked about a vacation in Trinity…
The picture I found in the bedroom made my decision for me. It was a sunny, smiling portrait of Lucas Buck and a woman who looked uncannily like me, down to the scar on my forehead made when my dog knocked me into a wall when I was two. The burst of adrenalin made my heart skip a beat. In that moment I knew that I could not stay there.
But where could I go? For that matter, where exactly was I now? Trinity was supposed to be somewhere in small-town South Carolina, which was several hundred miles from the nearest major city. Was that where I was? How could I find out? How did I get here, wherever "here" was?
Things had progressed far beyond the scope of a television crew's practical joke, and I was not important enough to be the subject of a conspiracy. But if this were neither joke nor conspiracy… What? That was where logic failed me. I couldn't really be in a fictional town, could I? Could I?
Perhaps it didn't matter – or perhaps I could make it not matter. Wherever I was, it was obvious to me that I did not belong. Even if no one else seemed to realize that, I did. So, then, the solution might be to get back to where I did belong: New York City. A return to sanity might be accomplished by simply getting on a bus.
A thorough search of the house yielded another $20.00 from the sock drawer – just where I keep my emergency money at home. That and the coins from the kitchen joined what I had in my pocket. I grabbed the guitar off the living room floor and ran out, not even bothering to latch the gate behind me.
I sold the guitar, case, and my watch at the hock shop in town. The cash, added to what I already had, was enough to buy me a one-way ticket to New York City, with $11.27 left over. I finished my purchase just as the bus pulled into the station.
From my window seat I mentally waved good-bye to the town and the dream visit turned nightmare. I'm going home! I thought. I hope… In a world that had produced a real Trinity – a real Lucas Buck – I had no guarantee of what New York would hold.
The bus must have stopped at every station along the coast. After the first few hours, exhaustion got the better of me, and I slept. If I had any dreams, I don't recall the contents.
Eighteen hours after I climbed onto the bus, I staggered off in the Port Authority Bus Terminal, creaky-jointed as an old lady. Everything seemed normal, but then, considering the wide variety of people who pass through the terminal, it would be difficult to identify anyone or anything as out of place.
I felt like I was wearing the whole bus trip – no, the whole day – so I braved the public restroom and used a paper towel to scrub as much of me as I could without becoming indecent. Even that was an improvement, though the idea of a long hot shower made me positively nostalgic.
On an impulse, I used a quarter to call my answering machine to check messages. There was no answer. The machine did not pick up, which was possible if one of my cats had knocked the phone off the hook, but then there would have been a busy signal. There was not.
Suddenly I was afraid to go home. I had no keys, and I was afraid to ring the superintendent's bell and have a stranger come to the door. I needed some confirmation that I was who I thought I was, and not a character I made up for a television show.
There was a place I knew near the bus terminal, where they sold Internet time by the hour. I went there and spent all of my remaining cash for an hour online and a cup of coffee. The dollar bills trembled as I handed them over, and the person behind the counter had to hunt for a couple of coins that escaped my shaking hands.
For a moment I could not remember the procedure for accessing my online service. When the login box appeared, I watched my fingers carefully as I entered my username and password, no longer trusting the touch-typing skills that almost a decade of secretarial work had given me.
I caught myself holding my breath during the login process, which seemed to take an obscenely long time. Still, I was encouraged by the fact that – eventually, finally – the Internet provider found my ID and passwork acceptable. At least that much of my life hasn't changed. That's a good sign, I reassured myself. And if anyone will know me…
So now I ask you, my online friends: Do you know me? Do you know who I am? Please answer quickly. My hour is almost gone.
I am waiting. I am waiting.