Fallow Park Today Read online

  It might have seemed to him a necessary moment of gruffness, a justified act to assert his authority and discourage the familiarity of what he deemed to be an underling, but Dr. Makepeace sealed his fate with the entire crew and the production’s host in that instant. Although a hush fell upon the group, and one of the interns expressed his discomfort with a girlish giggle, Meredith contained her reaction. Too soon, she reminded herself, too soon. Best to remain noncommittal.

  Bill boldly introduced himself at this point. “I’m just Ms. St. Claire’s assistant. Probably I should call you Doctor Makepeace, too.” This prompted a few more giggles. Meredith cringed as he said this. It was clear this Doctor Makepeace would not appreciate having his pomposity held up to ridicule.

  Doctor Makepeace flashed him an imposing glare, intended, one would assume, to convey, “How dare you?”

  The awkward silence threatened to drag on for several moments, potentially creating an irreparable riff between the V.I.P. visitors and the staff. Meredith preferred to ignore the growing melodrama. To the nearest employee of the park, a gentleman in work pants who seemed to have wandered into the scene, she said “Hello” with assumed mirth. “I’m Meredith—some people call me Merry—I don’t know why! Oh, I don’t mean to suggest that I’m not merry, I just don’t care for the nickname.” She proceeded to meet the collection of staff members and pointedly shook each one’s hand and offered some word of greeting. She had no illusion that she would remember any of their names, but she repeated each one’s name and title as though making a mental note of them, as the starry-eyed congregation passed before her with routine words of praise.

  “Ms. St. Claire,” one woman said when it was her turn to meet the star, “I’ve just always loved you from afar since I was a little girl and you were on Pots of Luck.”

  More staff members joined the party, gradually emerging from offices along the hallway as though they were making carefully timed stage entrances. Her eyes now better adjusted to the indoor lighting, Meredith noted that the hallway was naturally dark. The paint looked reasonably fresh, or at least free of obvious scuffs. The bits of furniture placed about appeared older, but still in presentable condition. Certainly it was clean. Had it been given a spruce up for their visit, she wondered, or was its largely presentable state a reflection of the fact that the “top” employees were housed here?

  “Oh, thank you, dear,” Meredith said automatically.

  “I really ought to blame you for my terrible love life in high school,” the woman continued in a mock-scolding tone. “You see, I would never go out on Friday nights. I just couldn’t miss your show. But I’m not sore—I bear you no malice—I could never hold a grudge against you! Oh, far from it! And, in truth, I should be thanking you for my wild life in college.”

  Meredith raised an eyebrow to express her intrigue, but did not bother to ask for clarification. The woman was certain to provide it without prompting.

  “We used to watch the reruns in the afternoon. We turned it into a drinking game. I got pretty good at it!” In a confidential tone she added, “I was always you—I mean Lucy. So I had to drink every time you popped into a scene. My roommate was Dr. Campbell—she developed a drinking problem a little bit later on. And everyone had to drink whenever Dr. Lindsey or the queen of the leprechauns had a line. Pretty ironic, isn’t it? I mean, the show that kept me so isolated as a teenager was the center of a social activity just a few years later.”

  Meredith attempted a convincing laugh and again thanked the woman for her kind words. Two other staffers, both women, had similar faux complaints and seemingly happy memories of the dreadful situation comedy. One, an administrator who oversaw the park’s food service, boasted that she still owned the Pots of Luck lunch box from her childhood. Her coworkers chuckled at this, prompting her to add: “Well, it’s quite valuable; the thermos is still intact.”

  When the introductions were completed, much of the production staff went about preparing the next set-up. This was to be Meredith’s interview with Dr. Makepeace in his office directly off this main hallway. Four technicians followed Austin Green into the office to make necessary alterations. Despite Dr. Makepeace’s protestations that he had made the room “camera ready,” many pieces of furniture began to emerge from the office. To the interns—two students, a man and a woman, both in their twenties—fell the task of placing the various objects—chairs, end tables, plants—along the hallway.

  Dr. Makepeace, suddenly beside Meredith, whispered, “Have you had an opportunity to look at the questions you’re going to ask me?” He struck her as almost child-like in his apparent need for her approval.

  “I haven’t,” she confessed. He pushed his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout at this. Meredith was uncomfortable by his display; this was a side of the park director for which no one had prepared her. She felt she ought to offer something. “But I trust you and the writers have done a fine job with them.”

  “Oh, I wrote the questions all by myself,” he interjected, much like a boy boasting of dressing himself or using the bathroom without assistance for the first time. “And this man actually instills confidence in his staff?” Meredith asked herself. She wished the cameras were on him during this candid moment. Presumably the man would project a greater degree of self-assurance and maturity when the time actually came to perform.

  “I think that’s just great,” she said with a quick nod designed to convey more interest than she felt. “I’m so pleased that you’re so invested in this project.” She cringed at the thought of what those questions must look like. Facing the interview filled her with dread. She turned to her assistant on her other side and whispered in his ear. He whispered back a quick response.

  “Before the next set-up,” she said loudly to those still remaining in the lobby and adjoining hallway, “I do need to get my hair done.”

  The hairstylist, still wielding a brush and spray bottle, greedily stepped into Meredith’s line of vision.

  “Not by you!” Meredith snapped. She maintained eye contact with the woman as she backed up a step. It struck Meredith that the young woman held her tools of trade before her almost as though they were weapons in her arsenal. Meredith had missed the juggling act she must have performed as she held these items while she was shaking hands with the Fallow Park staff moments before.

  “Meredith, honey, we’ll be set to go in just a few minutes,” Austin said to her. He waved more of the crew ahead into Dr. Makepeace’s office. “Besides, not five minutes ago you thought your hair looked fine.”

  “It did—” She stopped cold. Something would come to her. Then: “for an outdoor scene. Now it’s impossible—”

  Austin had stepped back into the office, now occupied by seven people. Doctor Makepeace tried to follow, but was edged out of the room. “We’ll call you when we need you,” an impatient voice informed him. He smiled at Meredith and Bill as he reclaimed his spot beside them in the hallway. To the handful of his staff still milling about he said, “They’ll call me when they need me. I thought the office was already prepared for the interview,” he said in an almost apologetic manner. “I guess Hollywood has its own way of doing things.”

  When the office door sprung open again, Meredith seized her chance to step in and raise her voice above the general buzz of the crew: “I know my hairstylist from Pots of Luck lives here at Fallow Park; I was planning on getting him to do my hair for the entire shoot.”

  Austin started at this, but it was Dr. Makepeace, who had approached his office again, who spoke first. He cleared his throat a couple of times before he said, “That’s probably not a good idea. It looks as though you’ve got a hairstylist on your staff—”

  “Nonsense,” Meredith said to both of them, rotating her head back and forth as she attempted to keep Austin and Makepeace in sight. “Tyler knows we’re here and he’s counting on helping me out. And most importantly, he knows my hair! I think I need to see him next.”

  Austin stepped out of the office
and claimed a space between Meredith and Makepeace. He placed his hands on his hips, tilted his head down at Meredith as though to exaggerate the difference in their height, and squinted.

  “Ugh,” Meredith thought. “He’s one of those types; he’s going to make a point of chewing me out in front of the crew to establish his position.” She conveyed none of her annoyance and disgust. She just returned his cool glare.

  Finally the director spoke: “You look fine,” he said calmly, as though he were talking to an out-of-control child: You. Look. Fine.

  “But Meredith, I mean Merry,” Dr. Makepeace offered, “by the time we track him down and get your hair done, we will have lost a lot of valuable time. You need to understand how very important it is that we do this interview with me. It sets up the whole show. You’ll want this as your frame of reference before you do anything else.”

  Meredith was offended by his condescension, but knew this was not the time for a showdown with him. She commended herself for resisting the temptation to slap his face. She smiled as she reminded herself that, at least according to tabloid reports, she reserved such antics for people who work at ticket counters in airports and front desks in hotels.

  “I just don’t see why,” Makepeace said, “when you’ve got a perfectly competent looking hair woman, excuse me, I mean a competent hair person, right here—I’m sorry Miss,” he said to the stylist, “I don’t recall your name.” He continued his patronizing speech to Meredith before the stylist could answer: “I don’t understand why you don’t make use of her talents.”

  “It seems to me we’re here to visit with the people who live in the park,” Meredith interrupted in her iciest voice, so icy that Makepeace visibly bristled at it, although she directed the observation towards Austin Green, the director. “We’re here for five days. If that isn’t enough time to shoot all the canned questions prepared for me, maybe we should think about cutting this interview scene. It certainly can’t be one of the more important ones.”

  “Oh, no, we mustn’t do that,” Makepeace interjected with unmistakable concern as he stepped between Meredith and Austin. And then with the self-importance of someone making an executive decision he proclaimed: “Yes, Ms. St. Claire should visit with her hairstylist friend first.” He looked about before he recognized some members of his staff. He snapped his fingers over his head repeatedly to get their attention. “John, Melissa, let’s make that happen, shall we?” He turned again to Meredith. “Now, if you’ll just give us a couple of minutes, we’ll find out where your friend lives.”

  “He’s in Building D, and I know the way,” she told him. With that she set off with Bill the assistant, waving over her shoulder at the collection in the lobby as she ventured back out into the Minnesota winter.

  Chapter Two

  Meredith and Bill collected themselves in the entryway of Building D. They had exchanged few words on the walk over. There were a good many things Meredith wanted to say—it was all she could do to contain her joy—but conversation had been essentially impossible as they walked into the bracing wind. The temperature had dropped noticeably and the gusty, crystalizing air—so cooperative earlier that morning—was now raging out of its slumber. It was challenge enough to take a breath of the frigid air. Unable to find a clear path, they had crossed through a tundra of snow. The wind had blown some patches of the land nearly bare, but in some places they had trudged through ankle-deep sections of it. Now as they stomped their feet on a saturated rug they were able to speak freely.

  “That was an important first hurdle,” Bill said. He, too, was obviously pleased. “What’s that guy got a Ph.D. in?”

  “Some area of crime—criminology studies. He was the warden—”

  “At Attica. I know, I know.”

  “I don’t think they’ve made the connection at all,” Meredith said. “They seemed genuinely surprised that I wanted to see Tyler and that I expected him to do my hair this week. I would say they were actually quite pissed.”

  “You played it beautifully,” her assistant said.

  “Was I, perhaps, a little too bossy? Too demanding?”

  “Absolutely! A perfect diva.”

  Meredith was aghast, for this was never a term of endearment in her profession. She involuntarily braced at its utterance. Yet Bill beamed. After a moment’s reflection, she nodded her head slowly. “I suppose,” she reluctantly ventured, “it won’t hurt me any to have them think as much. The sooner they write me off as a flake, the sooner they’ll come to accept, even expect, bizarre behavior from me. If there’s any chance they’ve cast me in the role of a cooperative, good girl, it’s necessary that they set that conception aside. Now they’ll be less inclined to look for motivation in my actions. ‘Oh, that’s just Merry. Hollywood, you know.’”

  “And, as you noted, your insistence upon breaking from their schedule met with some consternation. They clearly didn’t see it coming. This is good news.”

  She nodded her head.

  “It would be concerning if they weren’t a little taken aback that you were so insistent upon seeing your hairdresser.”

  “They did act as though it came out of the clear blue,” she agreed. “I would say they were genuinely perturbed.”

  [JK1] [JK2] “I don’t see how it could have been anything but authentic. There’s no way they’ve had the opportunity to coordinate some kind of a trap for you. And since they didn’t see it coming—your little scene back there—I think it’s fair to say you’ve cleared an important hurdle. I have that impression, anyway. And that means they aren’t reading the mail as closely as we feared—at least not his.”

  “I think you’re spot on with that; we’ve learned something about them. Still, I was wise to write all my letters and emails with great care, using very vague terms about the nature of my visit. Over the years Tyler and I have developed an informal code. Unfortunately, our private language never contemplated a visit of this nature. It will be so nice to talk to him plainly—without innuendo, and wink-wink, and ‘I’m saying this, but I really mean that’.”

  The lighting was so dim—even dimmer than in the Administration Building—it took a minute before they could make out the details about them. As he stepped off the drenched rug, Bill skidded on the tile floor, slick from the melting snow tracked into the building. He instinctively grabbed the only thing within reach for support, Meredith’s arm.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Nearly took a fall.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she told the assistant. “They should put more rugs down—especially at this time of year.” She cautiously continued down the hallway, maintaining the grip they had on each other. “It doesn’t help that there’s so little light.”

  “I know,” he noted, “an ounce of prevention. The time, trouble, and expense of putting down more rugs—and replacing them with dry ones—would be more practical in the long run than dealing with the broken hips, wrists, and ankles that could result from this unsafe situation. Furthermore,” he continued, now seemingly smitten with his analytical powers and the chance to use them, “if they used more rugs, each one would last longer, because none of them would get this worn out. In the long run they’d probably save money.”

  “That would require long-term planning,” Meredith interjected, but by now her attention had drifted beyond the entryway. Her eyes now somewhat adjusted to the hall before them, she reacquainted herself with the ugly building. It reminded her of a 1950s dormitory. She believed they could not have achieved the effect more completely if they tried. Details like the chipped paint on the concrete block walls added to the general feel of institutional apathy.

  “He’s on the fifth floor,” she said. “The elevators are this way.”

  “Out of order,” Bill said as they stepped up to the set of elevators.

  “Both at the same time? That’s weird.”

  “Ms. St. Claire?” It was a male voice emanating, it seemed, from down the hall.

  “Yes,” Bill answered for her as they a
pproached the voice. No one was visible in the hallway, yet the man was unmistakably close. Bill pointed to the stairway some yards beyond them.

  “Someone must have called ahead,” Meredith observed. “So much for surprises. Yes!” she called out, “I’m Meredith.”

  He was even more handsome than she had expected; she had seen photographs of him—was even carrying one with her—but the pictures had not done Carl Kwan justice. Despite the poor lighting, or perhaps because of it and the shadows it created, and the planes that emerged through the shadows, she could tell that Tyler had found himself a looker.

  The man bounded down the last of the stairs and approached with great eagerness. Meredith smiled as he hurried towards her. He does have the energy of a teenager, she thought to herself. She had thought this description had been just so much hyperbole on Tyler’s part, no more than the gushing excesses of a man in love.

  “You must be Carl,” she said as the forty-ish man of mixed Asian background stepped forward. “Tyler writes about you all the time.” The air of familiarity she had hoped to strike sounded off-key, even to her ears. God only knew how poor an impression she was making on the man. Bill, she noticed, had respectfully turned away. She attempted a quick recovery with, “I mean when he writes, he always tells me about you.”

  “Yes, I’m Carl,” he said. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.” There was an awkward hesitance as he approached. The handshake versus hug moment when a person tries to read the expectations of another. Carl resolved the matter by quickly embracing and releasing her. “I apologize for Tyler. He doesn’t handle the stairs so well and we try to limit the number of times he has to climb them.”

  Meredith hugged Carl again, but this time as hard as a long-lost friend returned to her.

  “How long have the elevators been out of order?” she asked when she finally released him.

  “Couple of months this time. We’re afraid they may be permanently out of commission.” She bit her lower lip at this, suppressing the urge to speak out. Carl must have read concern on her face; he hurriedly added: “Oh, don’t worry; the plans are already underway to move us to a ground floor unit. We’re just waiting for one to open up somewhere. We’re very high on the waiting list.”