Dear Mouse,
It was an idea. The National Tabloid Rag and Bone
Society, or whatever they call themselves, once named James Garner the Friendliest Celebrity of the Year, because he kept sending in stories about himself. How many lurid James Garner headlines have you ever read? I thought it might work for your Dad, Mouselet. After we moved, I took the page from the envelope, and found my way to Alpine Vista, Florida.
The Probe’s logo spreads across plate glass, as if they’re proud of what they do. I put on my glasses, got into a needy bore character, ordered my skin not to crawl visibly, went in.
An expensive receptionist behind the desk cracked gum into her phone system. She dealt neatly with three phone calls at once before she teethed up at me, chewing. I pulled out the Famous Grin. “Hi, there. I’m Matt Logan. This page—”
“Ooh! Matt Logan! I love Strongbow! Ever since I was a little girl, I’d pretend I was Red Eva, and I’d gallop into battle at your side. It is so cool, the way you took a true historical figure, and followed the actual legend of the real Strongbow.” She gave me a special, gum-filled smile, launched into the Strongbow plot with a true fan’s disregard for time or convenience. “When you helped the MacMorrough fight off the Danes, he said you could have his greatest treasure, only it was his daughter, but her face was dirty from the battle, and she was six feet tall, and you thought she was a hag, but she grabbed that soldier’s helmet and dipped it in the well, and washed her face, and she was beautiful! I loved that part! And you weren’t just a mercenary, you were the Earl of Pembroke, all the time!”
“I—You’re very kind. You know a lot about it.”
“I wrote a paper about the Earl of Pembroke in high school. I got an A-minus on it.” She reached for her phone system. “We got a thingie about you. You want to see it?” She used the phone and hung up as I brought out the page from my journal. “Ooh, no, is that the page we’re missing?”
“I—yes—I’m offering—I’m making a new movie, Demon Dun, a horror-romance—You can add this page to the—”
“Ooh, I’m sorry, we can’t. It’s out. You want to see it?”
A folded paper was thrust in my face. I didn’t want to believe it. There I smirk on the front page, Everyman with a hangover, a lousy picture taken with your mother six years ago. I look half-squiffed, probably was. Nancy looks brave and unhappy. Probably was. The headline wails: “Strongbow Agony! Letters to Mouse!” (continued to the center spread).
As I opened it, I heard a familiar sound. A camera clicked and buzzed as someone took serial close-up pictures. I hadn’t fooled anyone. I ordered my face to stay still and let it happen. If you try to escape, these people get worse. Think of your Aunt Meranda. I don’t know how I got away. I don’t think I stopped moving until I arrived in our room at Tara that night.
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The Probe hit the stands today. Crystal’d got more pages of my journal than I thought. The article quotes bits dating back two months. Of course they’ve skewed most of the facts: my sister’s a “dethroned princess” (unnamed); I’m still a “major star”; your mother is identified as “Mouse”; she was in the car when I crashed. I collected every page of journal I’ve written since the night Crystal Beller broke in, stuffed them in the old manila envelope, and threw it into the dumpster.
I’m an idiot. Maybe an hour later, I sneaked back to the dumpster and climbed in to pick through flimsy plastic bundles of who-knows-what. The dumpster pealed around me like a gong. I straightened up, envelope in hand.
“Mr. Logan? What are you doing in there?” The owner of the motel peered over the edge of the Dumpster, mascara tangling around her hard eyes. Once a six-foot biker queen, she became a Southern belle after she won a lawsuit, bought this place and named it Tara. Her make-up is always perfect, her hair aggressively golden and curly, her dresses floaty and ruffly. Under the thin fabric, a skull is tattooed high on one breast. Once you know it’s there, it’s hard to look anywhere else. Her name’s Sharon Beller. I only dare to call her Ma’am.
I offered the Famous Grin. “Hi, Ma’am. I—I threw this away. By mistake.” Iron-faced, Ma’am let me clamber out.
Geez. Here I sit, writing again, beneath a white plastic column. Early moths make love to the “Vacancy” light. Behind me, Dora and Tony shuffle schedules in our room; before me, our camera operator springs on and off the retaining wall, hefting the hand-held camera like Styrofoam, shooting moonlight footage of one hundred seventy well-placed pounds of recreational gear. His name is Dakota Smythe, and Phina plans to talk Tony into hiring him as a dolly grip.
We’ve settled into our new home: Tara, the motel version.