Now the porn star seemed to be bleeding to death in the young man's hands.
If this were a movie, the flashback would have had him thinking of how he met her. How he saw her from the stage and how disorienting it had been for him to see her in the little Midwestern exurban bar that his band was playing in.
He had recognized her right away. She wasn't just a porn star. She was the porn star of the moment and he recognized her instantly from Penthouse magazine. She was stunningly beautiful, smaller, younger and more innocent looking than he would have expected. But it was her. No doubt.
He would have remembered that fantasies were realized that night.
He would have visualized the months after that night when they grew to know each other and he would have seen images of letters written on paper and mailed with stamps, of long late-night talks on telephones attached to walls with cords.
He had learned of her dreams. Normal, tender dreams of a disarmingly normal, tender young woman. Dreams of love. Dreams of escaping the world she had unintentionally and, she admitted, maybe naively fallen into -- even though she didn't hate it, she had said.
There had been hints, too, of a world of drugs, money, sex, predatory older men and a boyfriend that was in prison. But they didn't talk about it much and he wouldn't have thought of it then.
His mind may have flashed images of the glamorous version of Los Angeles he had envisioned from his home in the Midwest. Or perhaps the imagery would have shown the far less glamorous version he had encountered on his arrival just the day before.
But he didn't have a flashback. People don't when they're holding a gravely wounded friend in their arms. Mostly, they just panic because they don't have the slightest idea what to do and they aren't really sure if there is anything they can do anyway.
Gasping for breath, gurgling really, she wasn't dead. Her blue eyes were half open. But the blood on the wall, the rifle on the floor, the surprisingly small hole visible through her now bloody blonde hair told him things he didn't want to know and wouldn't let himself comprehend.
The paramedics hadn't arrived yet. They had been called. Someone said that.
"Hang on. Hang on, Cathleen. You're going to make it. Just hang on." He didn't believe it, but he was pretty sure that was what he was supposed to say. She wasn't hearing it anyway.
He held her hand. He stroked her arm. He used his hands to open her mouth, clearing her tongue away to help her breathe. He turned his head towards the small group of Cathleen's friends standing uselessly behind him and screamed "Call the fucking cops again!" "Somebody go outside and wait for them."
The next day, he went to the ICU. Cathleen's mother was there. She had flown in overnight after a phone call from the hospital during which she was told ''Cathleen's condition is that a bullet went in one side of her head and came out the other side. What do you want me to tell you?''
Cathleen's mother was a typical Midwestern, Catholic Mom. The young man was far from respectable looking, with long permed and bleached hair that, from just the right angle, made him look a little like Roger Daltrey. They had never met before. Even so, she seemed relieved he was there. At least he was from back home. He wasn't one of those L.A. people.
They stood on opposite sides of the bed in which her 20 year old daughter, now motionless and silent except for the rhythmic breathing apparatus, was dying.
The doctors had already told her there was no hope. There was no activity in Cathleen's brain.
The young man told her what he could about what happened. He had stayed with some of Cathleen's friends while Cathleen went across the street to her house to shower. Talking to Cathleen's friends, the young man learned that Cathleen's cocaine use had been heavy lately and that she had reluctantly agreed to shoot some more films, to support her habit they thought.
Cathleen had been gone for awhile when a guy, Tom, came running in screaming "I think she's dead, I think she's dead. Somebody help me." They ran over to the house and found Cathleen in her bedroom, lying on a mattress on the floor beneath a blood splattered wall.
Tom and Cathleen had been in the house alone. The house belonged to Cathleen's much older boyfriend and Tom was watching the house -- and probably Cathleen -- while the boyfriend served a short jail sentence for a parole violation. Tom said he had heard a pop but didn't think much of it because it wasn't very loud. Some time later, he wasn't sure how long, he realized he hadn't heard Cathleen for awhile and she didn't answer when he called for her. That's when he found her.
As the young man talked to Cathleen's mother, he learned that Cathleen had spoken of him often. Cathleen's mom knew that he was working his way through college by singing in a band. She knew that he was going to law school in the fall. The young man learned that Cathleen had told her mom she had "met someone."
He felt sad because, though she didn't say it, he had the sense that Cathleen's mom had hoped Cathleen would come home for the young man. The young man realized that he would have had no interest in having a drug addict porn star come home for him. That made him sadder. She was dying. Her life was a mess. And she was not going to get a chance to fix it.
In the weeks that followed, there was a police investigation. Questions were raised about the boyfriend and about Tom. There was speculation that the boyfriend was not happy that the young man was coming to visit while the boyfriend was in jail. There were questions about whether it was physically possible for Cathleen to pull the rifle's trigger given the angle of the mortal wound.
The police ruled it a suicide.
Back home, the young man, with the help of five men he didn't know, carried Cathleen's casket to her grave.
© copyright June 23, 2006 Jake S.
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Comments: 42
I am giving this a 10 because it deserves it.
Magi
Seriously, this is an amazing story ... well written, capitivating, beautiful and very tragic.
Bravo Jake!!!
Between extremes, there is always a very small island where best and worst mingle. You did a very good job of describing one of those islands.
George Corneliussen said:
"Between extremes, there is always a very small island where best and worst mingle. "
It is quite wonderful to see the evidence.
A love story, yes, but also a commentary of our times.
Yes, I have ot catch up with all my favorites.
This is such an amazing work, nearly a novel, in so few words.
And like any good writing strikes that important emotional chord.
I've had my priorities all wrong reading all the crap about gather. This is brilliant. Thank you for sharing it.
Ratings bomber -- kiss my ass.