hadn’t.
She stared at the glass bricks, navy against black, like an empty night sky. Silently, she beckoned another car to splash the dark with color and life, Yarrow to offer something that would keep her from asking: “Are you sure it was Greg who said those things? Or was he the one who laughed at them, politely, halfheartedly, because he was watching how you moved rather than listening?”
Yarrow’s head tilted to the right. He leaned more heavily on the chair back, the pretense of not needing it rousted from his mind by the question. Finally, he said, “It was Greg who said them. I think.”
She nodded. Memories, she’d learned, were malleable animals. Wishes blended with facts and cemented into histories that people were shocked to find untrue.
“Greg was almost ten years older than me,” he said too quickly, as if to block out the altering memory. “He was an old hand when I was still green. I sat at his feet and admired him. You may have thought I was a pain in the ass with my motorcycle—”
Kiernan grinned. It was exactly what she’d thought.
“But back then, when I’d done a couple of gags, bought my first Harley, and figured I was the decade’s James Dean, if my head had been any more swelled, I’d have burst my skull. And even I admitted that Greg Gaige was something special. He was the best,” Yarrow said, softly. “When he was planning a gag, the rest of the world fell away. And when he was doing it, his whole body changed. It was like under his skin the energy was so compressed, so controlled, that there would be no way to stop it. But when he was doing a gag, his eyes shone, his jaw set, and it was like he wasn’t just doing the gag, he was a part of it. No, that’s not right. He was the gag.”
Yes.’ she thought. Of course, Greg Gaige would have enmeshed himself in the gags, just as he did the gymnastic routines. He would have been always working out, practicing, figuring how to add new levels of difficulty, or so the legends in the gym had proclaimed. “And the rest of the time?”
“It was like he didn’t belong. Like he didn’t know how to fit in. Like he’d put so much into his craft that there was nothing left for normal life.”
She could have asked Yarrow to elaborate, but she didn’t need to. She knew. And when she had first learned that, the shock had slapped her the same way it did him. She, too, had assumed that the man who perfected the Gaige Move would rate a ten in every other aspect of life. She could see the residue of disillusionment on Yarrow’s face a decade after Greg Gaige’s death. She could feel it in her gut like a swirl of crushed ice.
“He’d wander around the set like he had a day pass. On Bad Companions, I remember people saying he spent his time sitting in the shade of the catering truck, talking—or more likely listening—to whoever came by, from the grips to the line producer. If I hadn’t known him and you’d told me this guy was a tennis pro or a ski instructor waiting for the season to start, I wouldn’t have questioned it, except I’d have expected them to be more savvy socially. But then he’d start discussing stunts, and it was like someone pushed the plug in the socket. He just lit up.” He shook his head. “I was up and coming then, hot stuff. Figured that beam of attention was just for me.”
“And?”
“I grew up.” He let go of the chair. The front legs jumped and banged to the floor. Yarrow walked to the door in three uneven steps.
Behind him, headlights glowed white in the glass brick window. Kiernan realized with a start that she hadn’t noticed the engine roar worthy of Cape Canaveral. What had it been about Greg Gaige that called people to nurture illusions about him? Was it his total commitment? His innocence? The odd purity of the combination? Most people could never attain that purity, and if they were like her, they were very thankful they couldn’t. She forced herself to lean back in her chair and
She stared at the glass bricks, navy against black, like an empty night sky. Silently, she beckoned another car to splash the dark with color and life, Yarrow to offer something that would keep her from asking: “Are you sure it was Greg who said those things? Or was he the one who laughed at them, politely, halfheartedly, because he was watching how you moved rather than listening?”
Yarrow’s head tilted to the right. He leaned more heavily on the chair back, the pretense of not needing it rousted from his mind by the question. Finally, he said, “It was Greg who said them. I think.”
She nodded. Memories, she’d learned, were malleable animals. Wishes blended with facts and cemented into histories that people were shocked to find untrue.
“Greg was almost ten years older than me,” he said too quickly, as if to block out the altering memory. “He was an old hand when I was still green. I sat at his feet and admired him. You may have thought I was a pain in the ass with my motorcycle—”
Kiernan grinned. It was exactly what she’d thought.
“But back then, when I’d done a couple of gags, bought my first Harley, and figured I was the decade’s James Dean, if my head had been any more swelled, I’d have burst my skull. And even I admitted that Greg Gaige was something special. He was the best,” Yarrow said, softly. “When he was planning a gag, the rest of the world fell away. And when he was doing it, his whole body changed. It was like under his skin the energy was so compressed, so controlled, that there would be no way to stop it. But when he was doing a gag, his eyes shone, his jaw set, and it was like he wasn’t just doing the gag, he was a part of it. No, that’s not right. He was the gag.”
Yes.’ she thought. Of course, Greg Gaige would have enmeshed himself in the gags, just as he did the gymnastic routines. He would have been always working out, practicing, figuring how to add new levels of difficulty, or so the legends in the gym had proclaimed. “And the rest of the time?”
“It was like he didn’t belong. Like he didn’t know how to fit in. Like he’d put so much into his craft that there was nothing left for normal life.”
She could have asked Yarrow to elaborate, but she didn’t need to. She knew. And when she had first learned that, the shock had slapped her the same way it did him. She, too, had assumed that the man who perfected the Gaige Move would rate a ten in every other aspect of life. She could see the residue of disillusionment on Yarrow’s face a decade after Greg Gaige’s death. She could feel it in her gut like a swirl of crushed ice.
“He’d wander around the set like he had a day pass. On Bad Companions, I remember people saying he spent his time sitting in the shade of the catering truck, talking—or more likely listening—to whoever came by, from the grips to the line producer. If I hadn’t known him and you’d told me this guy was a tennis pro or a ski instructor waiting for the season to start, I wouldn’t have questioned it, except I’d have expected them to be more savvy socially. But then he’d start discussing stunts, and it was like someone pushed the plug in the socket. He just lit up.” He shook his head. “I was up and coming then, hot stuff. Figured that beam of attention was just for me.”
“And?”
“I grew up.” He let go of the chair. The front legs jumped and banged to the floor. Yarrow walked to the door in three uneven steps.
Behind him, headlights glowed white in the glass brick window. Kiernan realized with a start that she hadn’t noticed the engine roar worthy of Cape Canaveral. What had it been about Greg Gaige that called people to nurture illusions about him? Was it his total commitment? His innocence? The odd purity of the combination? Most people could never attain that purity, and if they were like her, they were very thankful they couldn’t. She forced herself to lean back in her chair and
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