Zahna knew, nor a former colleague or fan of the late Jack Nathanson simply interested
in owning a part of his legacy. This woman was damaged goods, like herself, and Zahna’s instincts told her that the damage
was somehow attributable to the ghost whose palpable presence stalked these rooms among his own worldly possessions.
Zahna stood a few feet away as Meg Davis presented a credit card that had to be verified—it was a joint card in her mother’s
name, she heard her explain. She paid $1,400 for the movie prop; Zahna had the feeling that, like herself, she had paid a
whole lot more than that in emotional currency. The woman picked up the cross in both her hands and headed uncertainly toward
the exit. Zahna followed her out the doors.
“Hi there,” Zahna said, catching up. “What’d you buy?”
“Oh, it’s just a prop from one of his movies,” Meg Davis answered.
“No kidding—which movie?”
“Uh,
Black Sabbat.
It’s the cross that the minister used to ward off evil,” Meg Davis said. “It’s sentimental to me.”
“Yes, you played the child in
Black Sabbat,
didn’t you?” The two walked together toward the parking lot. “You were great,” Zahna said.
“It was a long time ago,” Meg responded. “Excuse me; they’re bringing my car.”
“I’m Zahna Cole. I knew Jack, too. Would you like to have a drink?” she asked, extending her hand.
Meg accepted it uneasily. “No, I have to be somewhere,” she said, “but thank you.”
“I have some really good grass,” Zahna whispered, smiling.
Meg hesitated. It had been a long time since she’d toked up, and it was tempting. “No, I don’t have time,” she finally said.
“I have to get out to the beach.”
“Oh, do you have a date?” Zahna asked. She had a compelling need to talk to
somebody
about Jack, but there wasn’t anybody. In those rooms full of people at Sotheby’s, there were many who knew Jack Nathanson,
but none she could talk to. She sensed that Meg Davis was a kindred spirit, would have stories to share.
“No,” Meg replied, “I just like to sit on the sand near the ocean—it calms me.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” Zahna returned. “I could use some calming myself. Would you mind if I tag along? I’m a disc
jockey and I work nights, but not on weekends, so I’m loose tonight, and I don’t feel like going home just yet.”
Meg shrugged. “If you want to,” she replied, feeling some kind of kinship with this offbeat woman, and thinking that it would
actually be nice to smoke a joint again. “Just follow me,” she said, and she climbed into her car.
Meg waited until she saw Zahna’s car come up behind her, then headed out to the beach. She would listen to music and concentrate
on this interesting new acquaintance, and try to keep the thoughts from taking over.
She focused on the headlights
of
the dented black Volkswagen Rabbit. She didn’t want to lose it; she was looking forward to getting high now. Meg had made
frequent forays into drug rehab over the years; now the twelve steps didn’t seem to mean much in the ragged framework of her
life. She’d dropped out of high school, moved into her own apartment, had a series of sexual encounters and love affairs,
two abortions, a short-lived marriage to a guitar player in a rock band. She hadn’t achieved any real success at acting. She
had always been famous, of course, for her role in that one very famous movie, but she’d never again come close to that single,
memorable, brilliant performance.
Six months ago, when she became unable to care for herself physically, emotionally, or financially, she’d moved back in with
her mother, who was married to a good man, Dr. Alexander Shine, a dermatologist. But her presence in the home put a tremendous
strain on her mother’s marriage. Tension hung in the air, all generated by Meg and her formidable problems. Husband and wife
decided to try a separation, and mother
in owning a part of his legacy. This woman was damaged goods, like herself, and Zahna’s instincts told her that the damage
was somehow attributable to the ghost whose palpable presence stalked these rooms among his own worldly possessions.
Zahna stood a few feet away as Meg Davis presented a credit card that had to be verified—it was a joint card in her mother’s
name, she heard her explain. She paid $1,400 for the movie prop; Zahna had the feeling that, like herself, she had paid a
whole lot more than that in emotional currency. The woman picked up the cross in both her hands and headed uncertainly toward
the exit. Zahna followed her out the doors.
“Hi there,” Zahna said, catching up. “What’d you buy?”
“Oh, it’s just a prop from one of his movies,” Meg Davis answered.
“No kidding—which movie?”
“Uh,
Black Sabbat.
It’s the cross that the minister used to ward off evil,” Meg Davis said. “It’s sentimental to me.”
“Yes, you played the child in
Black Sabbat,
didn’t you?” The two walked together toward the parking lot. “You were great,” Zahna said.
“It was a long time ago,” Meg responded. “Excuse me; they’re bringing my car.”
“I’m Zahna Cole. I knew Jack, too. Would you like to have a drink?” she asked, extending her hand.
Meg accepted it uneasily. “No, I have to be somewhere,” she said, “but thank you.”
“I have some really good grass,” Zahna whispered, smiling.
Meg hesitated. It had been a long time since she’d toked up, and it was tempting. “No, I don’t have time,” she finally said.
“I have to get out to the beach.”
“Oh, do you have a date?” Zahna asked. She had a compelling need to talk to
somebody
about Jack, but there wasn’t anybody. In those rooms full of people at Sotheby’s, there were many who knew Jack Nathanson,
but none she could talk to. She sensed that Meg Davis was a kindred spirit, would have stories to share.
“No,” Meg replied, “I just like to sit on the sand near the ocean—it calms me.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” Zahna returned. “I could use some calming myself. Would you mind if I tag along? I’m a disc
jockey and I work nights, but not on weekends, so I’m loose tonight, and I don’t feel like going home just yet.”
Meg shrugged. “If you want to,” she replied, feeling some kind of kinship with this offbeat woman, and thinking that it would
actually be nice to smoke a joint again. “Just follow me,” she said, and she climbed into her car.
Meg waited until she saw Zahna’s car come up behind her, then headed out to the beach. She would listen to music and concentrate
on this interesting new acquaintance, and try to keep the thoughts from taking over.
She focused on the headlights
of
the dented black Volkswagen Rabbit. She didn’t want to lose it; she was looking forward to getting high now. Meg had made
frequent forays into drug rehab over the years; now the twelve steps didn’t seem to mean much in the ragged framework of her
life. She’d dropped out of high school, moved into her own apartment, had a series of sexual encounters and love affairs,
two abortions, a short-lived marriage to a guitar player in a rock band. She hadn’t achieved any real success at acting. She
had always been famous, of course, for her role in that one very famous movie, but she’d never again come close to that single,
memorable, brilliant performance.
Six months ago, when she became unable to care for herself physically, emotionally, or financially, she’d moved back in with
her mother, who was married to a good man, Dr. Alexander Shine, a dermatologist. But her presence in the home put a tremendous
strain on her mother’s marriage. Tension hung in the air, all generated by Meg and her formidable problems. Husband and wife
decided to try a separation, and mother
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