What are passwords? Birthdays. The name of a wife or a pet. Things people never forget.
Hmm. She tried the obvious ones first: CandyGirls. His birthday. His wedding anniversary. On the last, it opened right up. Bennett was right. People really were predictable.
There were more than a thousand messages. Belinda started at the top.
5
He found a hotel off Sixth Avenue, in what used to be called Skid Row, down near the Greyhound station. A narrow storefront of chipped brick with dead neon declaring it THE AMBASSADOR. Daniel was fairly sure it wasn’t a favorite of the diplomatic corps; the lobby was parquet and piss, the counter was sealed behind an inch of Plexiglas. The clerk looked like she had rollers in her hair, but didn’t. Her eyes were locked on a twelve-inch television.
“I need a room.”
The woman just held up a finger for silence. On the TV screen, a square-jawed man in a doctor’s coat stared into the middle distance as the music swelled.
“Hey.” Daniel rapped on the Plexi. “Aunt Bee.”
She looked over. “Excuse me?”
He pressed a wad of twenties against the glass. “I need a room.” The walls might once have been white, but were now a palimpsest of stains he didn’t care to look closely at. His neighbor had an affinity for game shows and a gargling cough like drowning. A radiator hissing in one corner heated the room to sweltering. Daniel opened the single window, then plugged in the laptop. He entered the password, and once again programs teased their familiarity, folders beckoned with secrets, and a nun flipped him off.
He took a deep breath, put his fingers on the keyboard. Suddenly nervous. There would be so many answers, so many details. The record of his life in minutiae. But it was minutiae that made things real. What if he didn’t like what he found? What if it turned out that he was a violent man, that Laney was frightened of him, that their marriage was a sham, that she was unhappy . . .
Moment of truth, my friend. Time to face the life you built. It’s something most people never have to do. How many, given the chance to be something different, to start fresh and be whatever they wanted, how many would take it? How many marriages survive out of habit, how many lives are lived in quiet desperation?
What if yours was one?
He looked out the window. Purple clouds moved in Mark Rothko gradients. A packed bus rumbled by, not one white face on it. In the distance, police sirens.
On the other hand, that does beat a life of noisy terror.
Daniel smiled and dove in.
5
There was so very much of it. Thousands of e-mails in scores of folders, and a thousand more that hadn’t been sorted. Long threads discussing the best way to handle a casting situation on the show. Short exchanges with people he apparently had known well, planning lunches, drinks, parties. Notes to his agents, the producers, the studio execs, his lawyer. Catch-up rambles with people he hadn’t seen in years. And Laney. So many e-mails with Laney, ranging from . . .
From: Laney Thayer (malibubarbie27@gmail.com) To: Daniel Hayes (DHayes@comcast.net) Sent: 07/23/08, 7:54 PM Subject: Pavilions
Grab toilet paper on your way home?
. . . to . . .
From: Laney Thayer (malibubarbie27@gmail.com) To: Daniel Hayes (DHayes@comcast.net) Sent: 9/10/08, 9:23 AM
Subject: Saturday . . .
Can we please lock the doors and turn off the phone and spend all day under the covers watching Battlestar Galactica?
From: Daniel Hayes (DHayes@comcast.net) To: Laney Thayer (malibubarbie27@gmail.com) Sent: 9/10/08, 9:25 AM
Subject: RE: Saturday
Can I pretend I’m in bed with Starbuck? ;)
From: Laney Thayer (malibubarbie27@gmail.com) To: Daniel Hayes (DHayes@comcast.net) Sent: 9/10/08, 9:27 AM
Subject: RE: RE: Saturday
Why not? I’m planning to.
Love letters and bill reminders. Jokes and forwarded baby pictures. Links to articles on politics and bitchy rants about colleagues. He read for hours, his eyes sore and dry, words starting to wobble. It was like trying to navigate a forest by turning a random direction every time he came to a clearing. There was simply too much information, and not enough context.
He moved on to the pictures. There were tons of them, he and Laney on vacation, on the set, in the car, in their house. An early morning shot of him with his hair pulled into a wacky tangle. Laney holding someone’s baby, making the little girl wave at the camera. Shots of dinner parties and Christmas trees and friends. But by and large, the photos were of the two of them, individually or together.
A world of two.
It was surreal. He had the queer sensation of eavesdropping on his own life. And that was before he discovered the videos.
5
INT. DANIEL & LANEY’S KITCHEN—EVENING
A cook’s dream—a six-burner Viking stove, butcher block countertops, a window on the back wall to an avocado tree in a small enclosed yard. Two bottles of wine, one empty, one half, and a couple of glasses.
LANEY THAYER, casual in jeans and a pink tee worn over a black long-sleeve shirt, stands at the counter. Strands of hair slip from her ponytail, and she is caught mid-giggle.
DANIEL (O.S.)
Okay.
Laughter bubbles through his voice, and it sets Laney off again. The video is grainy and wobbly, obviously shot with a simple digital camera.
DANIEL (O.S.) All right. Okay. Okay. So. (collecting himself, then adopting a theatrical voice)
And now, Laney Thayer, star of television’s hit series Candy Girls, performing her rendition of The Peanuts Christmas Movie.
Laney sets down her glass of red, turns to face the camera. Her smile could power a city. It is nothing at all like her signature Candy Girls pout.
She launches into song.
LANEY
Hawrk the herald ang-gels siing
(she stops, changes to a laughing tone.) You know, with their heads thrown back and mouths all wide—
She opens her mouth hugely, uses her hands to mark an imaginary Pac-Man maw.
LANEY (CONT’D)
(singing again)
Glo-ree to, the new bowrn king.
(talking)
Remember? Remember?
Daniel’s answer is a laugh that shakes the camera.
LANEY (CONT’D)
And then they dance.
(she sings the soundtrack)
da-na-na-nanana-na-nah, da-na-na-nah . . . da-na-na-nanana-na-nah, da-dada, dadada . . .
Her dance is silly, a jig of hopping from foot to foot, arms behind her, head thrown back as she sings her own soundtrack.
LANEY (CONT’D)
Bah-dah-dah-dah! Doink-iddie doink-iddie, doink-iddie, Bah-dah-dah-dah! Doink-iddie doink-iddie—
Her voice dissolves into champagne bubble laughter. She poses for a moment, then sweeps out a deep, showman’s bow.
LANEY (CONT’D)
Yup. That’s it. That’s how they do it.
The video goes wonky, twisting sideways, then upside down. There is a clear flash of her shoulder, then a blur of hardwood floor, then something fuzzy and dark, perhaps a sweater.