“Would you like to say good-bye?”
He was unconscious in the bed when I walked into the room. He looked paler than normal, but they had cleaned him up a bit. There was no longer blood everywhere. I could see his handsome face.
“He doesn’t have long,” the doctor said. “But we can give you a moment.”
I did not have the luxury of panic.
So I got into the bed with him. I held his hand even though it felt limp. Maybe I should have been mad at him for getting behind the wheel of a car when he’d been drinking. But I couldn’t ever get very mad at Harry. I knew he was always doing the very best he could with the pain he felt at any given moment. And this, however tragic, had been the best he could do.
I put my forehead to his and said, “I want you to stay, Harry. We need you. Me and Connor.” I grabbed his hand tighter. “But if you have to go, then go. Go if it hurts. Go if it’s time. Just go knowing you were loved, that I will never forget you, that you will live in everything Connor and I do. Go knowing I love you purely, Harry, that you were an amazing father. Go knowing I told you all my secrets. Because you were my best friend.”
Harry died an hour later.
After he was gone, I had the devastating luxury of panic.
* * *
IN THE MORNING, a few hours after I’d checked into the hotel, I woke up to a phone call.
My eyes were swollen from crying, and my throat hurt. The pillow was still stained with tears. I was pretty sure I’d only slept for an hour, maybe less.
“Hello?” I said.
“It’s Nick.”
“Nick?”
“Your driver.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes. Hi.”
“I know what I want,” he said.
His voice was confident. Its strength scared me. I felt so weak right then. But I knew it had been my idea for this call to happen. I had set up the nature of it. Tell me what you want to keep you quiet was what I had said without saying it.
“I want you to make me famous,” he said, and when he did, the very last shred of affection I had for stardom drained out of me.
“Do you realize the full extent of what you’re asking?” I said. “If you’re a celebrity, last night will be dangerous for you, too.”
“That’s not a problem,” he said.
I sighed, disappointed. “OK,” I said, resigned. “I can get you parts. The rest is up to you.”
“That’s fine. That’s all I need.”
I asked him his agent’s name, and I got off the phone. I made two phone calls. One was to my own agent, telling him to poach Nick from his guy. The second was to a man with the highest-grossing action movie in the country. It was about a police chief in his late fifties who defeats Russian spies on the day he’s supposed to retire.
“Don?” I said when he answered the phone.
“Evelyn! What can I do for you?”
“I need you to hire a friend of mine in your next movie. The biggest part you can get him.”
“OK,” he said. “You got it.” He did not ask me why. He did not ask me if I was OK. We had been through enough together for him to know better. I simply gave him Nick’s name, and I got off the phone.
After I set the phone back in the cradle, I bawled and I howled. I gripped the sheets. I missed the only man I’d ever loved with any lasting meaning.
My heart ached in my chest when I thought about telling Connor, when I thought about trying to live a day without him, when I thought of a world without Harry Cameron.
It was Harry who created me, who powered me, who loved me unconditionally, who gave me a family and a daughter.
So I bellowed in my hotel room. I opened the windows, and I screamed out into the open air. I let my tears soak everything in sight.
If I had been in a better frame of mind, I might have marveled at just how opportunistic Nick was, how aggressive.
In my younger years, I might have been impressed. Harry most certainly would have said he had guts. Plenty of people can make something out of being in the right place at the right time. But Nick somehow turned being in the wrong place at the wrong time into a career.
Then again, I might be giving that moment too much credit in Nick’s own story. He changed his name, cut his hair, and went on to do very, very big things. And something tells me that even if he had never run into me, he would have made it happen all on his own. I guess what I’m saying is it’s not all luck.
It’s luck and being a son of a bitch.
Harry taught me that.
Now This
February 28, 1989
PRODUCER HARRY CAMERON HAS DIED
Harry Cameron, prolific producer and onetime husband of Evelyn Hugo, died of an aneurysm over the weekend in Los Angeles. He was 58 years old.