From the Rafters

There were many days in my childhood where I would wake to find our apartment in a state of horrible stillness. I would creep out quietly from my place beneath the bed and make my way to the icebox, digging through to the back in search of something not covered in a layer of white fuzz. Usually I would settle on scraping the frost from the sides into a glass.

I would then stand in the doorway of the bedroom, watching my mother as she rested in bed. I would wait, and try to make out if she were alive, squinting to see if her chest rose and fell, or if the drugs and the drinking had finally caught up to her. I would think to myself, I should cross the hall, to Mrs. Haversham’s apartment and borrow her phone to call the police, so I might still save mother’s life! But instead I would just stand, watching.

Without fail, my mother would rise, and her heavy footsteps would vibrate the loose floorboards, and I would hide under the bed, holding my breath and waiting to see if she would come looking for me or if she would (mercifully) head out to do whatever it was she did during the days. I would hold my breath deep in my lungs until I turned blue in the face. Sometimes it worked. Those were good days. Sometimes it didn’t.

After she left, I would crawl out from my hiding place and begin my day. Mostly it consisted of reading. I had four or five books I’d stolen from school, and I would choose one and read it aloud to the mice in the walls, acting out the different parts and doing the voices as best as I could manage. I loved my alone time, it was quiet, and there was no one around to make me feel bad for being poor, or to call my mother a whore, or myself a bastard child. It was peaceful and precious to me, and I excelled at it in my own way.

I began my career as a model, then worked my way up to showgirl, and then Bernie Masterson found me and made me a star, for the small, small price of my virginity. And what was that worth, really? I certainly got the better end of the deal. I was in three pictures in a year, first as Gene Wilmer’s love interest in A Longing Night in Paris, and then as the leads in Bionica and The Emerald Tragedy. And people loved me! I was unstoppable. I finally had everything I ever longed for as a child—a house in Hollywood, friends, and food in my belly (but not too much food, I had a career to consider).

All that was left to want was the quiet I had once so enjoyed. At first, the noise pollution and the people didn’t bother me so much. I was thankful for my good fortune. But soon the voices of my friends (were they even really my friends?) became grating, and curled my nerves against my stomach, making me sick. I became curt and short with them, but still they visited and threw parties in my name, and spent my money and latched on to the teat of my fame. I hated them.

Then it was 1953, and I was filming in Africa with Roger Kelly for The African Princess. These days no one would dare make a movie like that, but back then it was a hit. Anyway, we were setting up for the next shot high over a river that cut sharply between two tall walls of rock. There ought to have been some sort of barrier to protect us, but it was a different time, and safety wasn’t yet a concern.

I stood on the edge of the canyon, and I wondered. I wondered what would happen if I were to throw myself off of this cliff right this very moment, would they ever find my body? Or would I end up washed away, food for some wild beast?

Roger startled me, and I almost found out.

“Woah there, old girl!” He said, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from my perch. I politely shifted my arm away from his grip and adjusted my shawl.

“Don’t call me that, Roger. I’m only twenty.” I looked down at the river coursing through. He laughed.

“I know,” he stepped closer to the edge and closer to me, though he had a great deal of caution in his movements. “I’m only joking.” He whistled, “Gee, this sure is high up, huh? Hope you’re not afraid of heights.” He looked around, and leaned in. “Thank you,” he said.

“Whatever for?” I asked, but I knew. Two nights prior I’d mistakenly walked into his tent and caught him with one of the cameramen. He’d chased after me and begged me not to say anything, offered me whatever I wanted—money, sex, a part in every film he ever made. But I didn’t care—the only thing I wanted, I told him, was to read my book in peace.

So we stood there on that ledge, and he told me something about us being friends now, and I felt my blood begin to boil. Another friend. Another person to make noise, just as he was making noise now, with his endless chattering about being grateful and never forgetting this. God! When would it end?

I turned and I looked at him. He didn’t notice at first, but when he did, he stopped talking. I must have been watching him strangely, because the blood drained from his face, and he gulped. “What is it, Edith?” he asked. “Have I got something on my face?”

And then, without much thought to it, I pushed him. It caught him by surprise, and he toppled over the edge, facing me the whole way down. You should’ve seen it! His face, I mean. His eyes were large and round, and his mouth formed this great big O shape. Maybe he cried out, but I didn’t hear it. It was just (finally, blissfully) quiet.

And then I thought I didn’t want to get caught, so I screamed. I screamed the best scream I’d ever done, from deep in my gut. And when people were around to catch me, I fainted. It was a wonderful performance.

After that, I was a new woman. It was as if all this time, a bubble had been forming inside me, pressing against my insides and causing me great discomfort, and when I pushed Roger into that river, it popped, and released everything I was feeling, and my soul could finally breathe again. It was the greatest feeling in the world, and I highly recommend it.

I did some of my best work on that high. It lasted two whole years. I did four pictures and two musicals, and nearly won an Oscar. Nearly.

But eventually, the feeling began to fade. I began to panic, lying awake at night and feeling it slip away from me. And then I realized—all I had to do was kill someone else! I settled on my boyfriend, Dick. He was a handsome man, and for some reason I thought that would make it even better. Besides, if I suffered a tragedy like that, I’d get more work, and less pressure to marry, since I’d be in mourning. Yes, Dick would be perfect.

I invited him over for dinner. I made his favorite. Even though it was my night, I thought he should die having had a good last meal. That’s what they do in prison, right? And if prisoners deserved it, Dick certainly did. He was a good man, overall. Quiet, which is what I liked about him. Even so, he had to go. The bubble was forming, and I couldn’t stand the pressure.

I wanted to try stabbing, so I excused myself from the table and went to the kitchen, finding a steak knife in one of the drawers. In hindsight, I ought to have grabbed a bread knife, because when I crept up behind him and plunged the little knife into his chest, he simply pulled it out with a grunt and turned to me. I tried to grab the knife from him and stab him again, but he held it high above his head. He didn’t say anything, just went to grab my arm to hold me there, I suppose until the police arrived.

I thought about prison. I would be stuck with all those women who were just like my mother, and I couldn’t do that. And were there books in prison? I didn’t know, and I wasn’t going to find out.

I dodged his grip and ran. I ran out of the house and didn’t stop until I made it to the studios. The guard recognized me and let me in, and I hurried to Studio 6, where I had filmed the rest of The African Princess.

It was empty. I made my way up to the rafters. I climbed up and up and up until I was so high I felt like God. I heard people coming. I kicked off my heels, watching them fall to the ground. I counted the seconds. One, two, three, four… five. Finally the hit the floor with a loud clatter. I took a deep breath. It was my turn.

I remembered the stupid look on Roger’s face when he fell, and I resolved not to have the same look on mine. I would look beautiful when they found me, peaceful. I smiled.

And then I jumped. I don’t remember hitting the ground. But I remember that I smiled the whole way through.

Now I can get whoever I want. Every now and again, someone will see me walking up in the rafters, and I smile and give ‘em a big ol’ scream, just like I used to.

I have all the alone in the world now.