“Hey!”

As in a comedy routine, I was now knocking on air, as the door flew swiftly open. I stumbled into the kitchen. Its tiled floors were littered with the remains of china.

Troy, who had let me out, was walking quickly away, his back to me. I saw that he was pressing a dish towel to the side of his face. The freezer hung open. An empty ice tray was in the sink.

“Are you all right?” I called after him.

“Fit as a fiddle. Thanks for asking,” he muttered, through cloth. “No man is a failure when he has friends.”

He walked, quickly this time, to stairs leading up. The cliché from It’s a Wonderful Life hung in the air like a moldy smell.

I moved to a window of the house and pulled aside its curtain. I saw a car peeling away from the curb. It wasn’t the dinged-up Honda of my nemesis, that was for sure. It was a fancy Mercedes.

Troy, I knew now, had problems of his own.

MY PROBLEMS, THOUGH, WERE ABOUT TO BE SOLVED. THE PHONE WAS RINGING, and I answered it.

“Good news,” Dena said, out-of-breath. “I got the film.”

“What? That’s fantastic!”

“The bad news is … I can’t watch it.”

I stopped for a second, not sure what she meant. Then, carrying the cordless, I shut the door in my ground-floor guest room. “Slow down and back up.”

“I went through everything in my father’s place here, in Bar Harbor. It wasn’t easy. He seemed never to have thrown anything away. But at the bottom of one drawer seemed to be his most private things. Bank books, emergency phone numbers, porn magazines, more pictures of me.”

“Sweet.”

“And, wrapped in a plastic bag, was a videotape.”

“So. He’s had it for a while.”

“Looks that way.”

Under my door, I saw a light going on and off in the hall. Then I heard footsteps so light they could only have been Marthe’s. I lowered my voice further.

“This comes at a good time.”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“I said, this comes at a good time. I’m pretty sure things aren’t kosher here.”

“Well, it is L.A.”

Spoken like a true trivial person, I thought; maybe there was hope for Dena yet. I realized suddenly, caught in this house of has-beens and half-perceived truths, that I missed her. I also realized something else.

“How do you know it’s Clown? Was there a label or something?”

“You mean, one that says ‘Priceless Unreleased Film’? Roy, that’s beneath you.”

Dena was taking a mean mother tone. I didn’t miss her so much now. Still, I thought my question was valid.

“The fact is, you don’t know. It could be more porn, may your father, uh, rest in peace. Why can’t you watch it?”

“I don’t know how to work the VCR. It’s an old one, anyway. His apartment’s sort of a dump, to be honest. And, sadly enough, I think it belongs to me now. I don’t know the New England real estate market well enough to—”

“Look, I don’t mean to interrupt—” I heard footsteps from the room next to mine. The wall was creaking. Was someone leaning against it, listening? “But how are we going to know for sure?”

“Well, you’ll watch it out there. I mailed it to you.”

“Here?”

“Don’t worry. I FedExed it.”

I didn’t know why it seemed like a lousy idea, but it did. Something told me it wasn’t safe to have Troy Kevlin anywhere near the film. Besides, what if it got lost? There were trivial cops; maybe there were trivial mailmen.

“I put it to your attention, Roy, don’t worry.”

For all her common sense and competence, Dena still lacked the essential irrational paranoid quality that distinguished the trivial. I liked her and hated her for it. Regardless, it was too late to do anything but wait.

“When I get it, I’m going home. Even Abner is better than this.” I surprised myself, saying it. But as my wall creaked again, I began to prefer the devil I knew.

“Keep me posted,” Dena said, warmly.

“I will.”

Neither of us spoke then. Between Dena’s father and my mother, I supposed we were filling in as family for each other. Maybe that would explain the awkwardness about everything else. It also explained why, when I hung up, I felt alone. And a little afraid.

I tiptoed out of my room, carrying my toiletries. I looked to the left, saw the bathroom. I looked to the right, saw the room next to mine.

The door was open a bit. The light was on, and I heard strange, shifting movements. Then I heard a woman’s voice.

“Roy?” Marthe called.

I cursed, silently. A little earlier, I would have welcomed more contact with her. Now I dreaded it. Things change—and faster in L.A.

“Yes?” I said.

She didn’t answer. I had no choice but to enter the room.

Marthe was indeed alone. She was lying on her back in the middle of the floor. She wore only a leotard, and her long brown legs were sticking straight up in the air. She brought them down slowly over her shoulders. Then she rested her knees on the yoga mat beneath her.

“I’ll be right with you,” she said.

I sat in a chair, as she breathed in and out, meditatively, curled in her half-circle. I tried not to stare, to respect the contemplative nature of her activity, but soon simply had to. The backs of Marthe’s perfectly shaped thighs, covered in black tights, rounded near her ears, were too compelling.

“Do you mind my doing this?” she asked, moving slowly back to a seated position.