Weston

By Gregory Attaway

“The world was never innocent. But I was.” –Benjamin Camden

Benny Camden is the mind behind the most innovative show on television. When his brother dies in an attack at the onset of the Vietnam War, he uses his power and position in an act of protest without considering the consequences. As he wrestles with his grief, his future and his place in his family grow more uncertain until he decides to free himself from them both.

Benny’s quest leads to some of the most legendary moments in film history. Behind his larger-than-life persona hides a broken man searching for a muse. With every step, he strays further from the only thing that can save him.

His true legacy to the world will not be his movies or his talent as an entertainer. It will be his daughter.

If you like gripping drama with strong, complex characters set against the dazzling lights of Hollywood, you’ll love Weston. It’s the first chapter of an epic saga spanning three generations – the first chapter of Gregory Attaway’s The Great Ones. It’s the story of a man’s quest for identity and purpose. For love and family. For his soul.

See the world through the eyes of the greatest Hollywood legend that never was.

Get your copy and start reading now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregory Attaway
• Release date: May 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311924414

Gregory Attaway

Gregory Attaway lives in Irving, Texas (a suburb of Dallas), which suits his literary leanings well since the city is supposedly named for Washington Irving, famed writer of Rip Van Winkle and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. He has lived in and around Dallas for most of his life, having also lived briefly on both coasts. A graduate of the University of North Texas, Gregory lives with his two dogs, Cara and Lois, and his imaginary friends.A writer since the second grade, Gregory’s completed projects include The Glen Headwood Show – exclusively available for free to subscribers to his e-mail list. Sign up at www.gregoryattaway.com!He has written three other books in The Great Ones series – Weston, Joe, and Freshmankind. The fourth book, Dreams, will be released on December 26, 2018. It started as a series of six screenplays written in the early 2000s, and there are more books coming in the next few years.Other stories are in the works as well. For information on upcoming releases and other updates, make sure to sign up for his e-mail list (and grab your free book).Feel free to follow him on Twitter, get in touch with him on Facebook, or send him an e-mail (through his website). He looks forward to hearing from you, and will answer all e-mails personally.

Book preview

Benjamin

1965

FEBRUARY

Open your eyes!

The tinny, familiar voice puffed out of the tiny television speakers as smoke wafted from Private Frank Harper’s cracked lips in the emptied chow hall. Dishes were stacked in the back against metal-plated walls, and the television was perched on the edge of a rear table, divested of its condiments and napkin holders. The tip of Harper’s cigarette dripped hot ash. Dog tags dangled over his sweat-stained undershirt. He took a long drag, focused on the glowing black-and-white image. On the screen, Jackie Gleason made a spectacle of uncovering his face. The audience cheered and applauded, the comedian pacing around the stage while Glen Headwood, the host of the show, mimicked his movements.

Harper snickered. Funny shit. The two other men lounging around the table looked up to the screen. Something flashed across Harper’s eyes as he leaned into his chair. I seen this before.

It’s a rerun. Beside him, Private Joseph Kenneth Belanger leaned in, watching the act. His wrinkled shirt hung loose and unbuttoned, exposing his slender shoulders and a thinning undershirt that hinted at the trim body underneath.

I know it’s a rerun, dumbass. Feels like I seen it somewhere else.

"Did he do this bit on American Scene Magazine?"

The third member of their late-night trio kicked his boots up, half-watching The Glen Headwood Show and half-reading his weekly letter from his kid sister. Private Charles Camden, still in full uniform, neatly pressed, drew a hand over his nostrils, waving away the smoke as he put down the note and perused the playing cards in his other hand. No, it’s new.

Belanger turned away from the flickering footage, glancing at the discard pile as he drew a new card. How do you know?

Camden watched those familiar black-and-white faces. Headwood glowed with his badger-smile, his teeth exposed with savage glee, his cool eyes shrunken to make room for the oversized grin. Just like the last time Camden saw him, doing his ventriloquist act. Trust me. It’s new.

Harper’s attention shifted from the show to his companion. You really know Gleason? He dropped the three of hearts as he sucked his cigarette.

’Course he knows him, Belanger said. His whole family’s…didn’t your granddad pick up Charlie Chaplin’s sloppy seconds?

Camden shifted the contents of his hand.

Holy shit, I love Gleason. Harper watched the little man making faces at Glen Headwood. "I remember when we got our first set, I couldn’t get enough of The Honeymooners. I thought Ralph Kramden was the funniest thing I ever seen."

Gin. Camden spread his spades and clubs for the others, shifting his boots without looking up.

I’d love to get my hands on some gin, Harper said.

A loud slamming, clanking noise came from the latrine, echoing through the place like a gunshot. Camden froze in his seat, body going rigid and tense, the others matching him. Headwood’s voice was the only sound. All eyes were on the distant door, off to the side in the darkened hallway. What the hell? Harper finally whispered when nothing followed the crash. Camden hopped up, waving for them to be silent, and moved across the room. He stepped in and found the usual row of toilets. He checked the stalls – all empty. His lungs clutched as he peeked into the last one; someone had forgotten to flush. The smell of it always made him want to dry heave.

Nothing. He resumed his spot in front of the television as they lingered, leaning in, waiting for his assurance. Seat fell on one of the commodes is all.

Shit. For a second I thought we were busted, Harper said.

Yeah… Belanger collected the cards and shuffled. We probably ought to call it quits on our little insomniac society.

I just can’t sleep, plain and simple. Harper stabbed his butt in an ashtray like he wanted to make sure it was good and dead. It’s this Pleiku air. ’Nam just smells funny, you know? Can’t go to sleep unless it smells like America.

What exactly does America smell like? Camden asked.

Oh, you know, popcorn and pussy. Harper shook his head and scooped up the cards Belanger had dealt him. He bit at the corner of his lip as he rearranged his hand. Camden kept his own lips from smiling; Harper always chewed on that corner when he had bad cards. One thing Charles Camden had learned from his kid brother – how to read faces. I fucking hate it here, Harper said, glancing back at the set. Gleason had left the stage.

It could be worse, Belanger said.

Camden took a look at his hand and wanted to fold. He watched the show, remembering the last time he saw Headwood in person. Out at Benny’s beach house. Fourth of July. Cold cherry Popsicles and warm ocean air as the sky lit up in reds, whites, and blues. Benny up on the balcony with Mary. Home.

I should have listened to my old man, Harper said. He tried everything shy of a court martial to keep me from joining up. He got me in at Harvard Law, full ride. Came in all beaming about it, like he’d done me some favor. I told him no. He got drunk and tried to beat the shit out of me. Tried.

Yikes, was all Belanger said as he drew a card. Camden had seen that same kind of gleam in his own father’s eye more often than he could recall. That flash that made all the kids want to hide under the bed or in the back of the closet. It was never directed at him, though. Never at him or Lara. Always at Benny.

Old man breaks down and starts bawlin’ like a baby, begging me not to go. All worried the same shit’s gonna fall on me as fell on him. He had, uh…shellshock. All my life he preached at me about it, all I ever wanted to be was a soldier. When I was a kid, I wanted to be like him. But the worse it got, it wasn’t about that anymore.

Sorry. Camden looked back at the door to the latrine, shaking off the lingering pulse of queasiness from that unflushed toilet.

Eh, don’t sweat it. Just fuckin’ fathers and sons.

Fathers and sons, Belanger repeated.

He was right, though. Camp Holloway…Pleiku… Camden could imagine a tear hiding behind Harper’s hard eyes. I had no idea how right he was.

I enlisted as soon as I graduated, Belanger said. I couldn’t wait to get out of there, see the world, serve my country. I had twelve brothers and sisters back home, so I was used to no privacy, used to everything always going on even when I needed to be alone sometimes. I guess I picked a good place to come. Sure is easy to be alone out here. Feels that way, anyway.

The set droned on, the only sound in the room other than the constant flicking of Harper’s slim blue lighter. You set the place on fire, they’re going to know we’re up, Camden said.

You’re right, Ken, Harper said. So fucking quiet out here sometimes, I could go crazy.

I think that’d be an extreme reaction, Belanger replied.

"Psycho. They both turned to Camden, and he could see them questioning his comment. That’s a line from the movie. More or less."

Mr. Hollywood over here, Harper laughed, flicking his lighter one last time to start a new cigarette before stuffing it in his pocket. Laughter from the set brought them back to the show for a moment. You really know Gleason, huh?

Who do you think the Kramdens were named after?

It just figures, with your family, you’d end up in Tinseltown. Not Pleiku. Harper dug a tooth into his chapped lip again, drawing a drop of blood.

My dad was a soldier too, Camden said.

Is that why you’re here? Belanger asked.

Who knows? It’s funny. I know he was at Normandy, but not much else. He never talked about it, and we never asked. The three of them watched as Jackie Gleason joined Glen Headwood again, this time with Benny Camden. Cheers of female adoration went up from the crowd. Benny gave them all that easy smile, that flicker of amusement in his eye that always made Charles jealous, even if he never said so. That messy muss of hair that he spent twenty minutes styling, the way he wore the suit and tie like a robe and pajamas, the perfect gentleman and the perfect flirt in a single pair of loafers.

Your brother’s the shit, Harper said.

When I told him I wanted to enlist, Dad took me out for a steak dinner, Camden continued, ignoring the comment about Benny but silently agreeing. Talked show business, didn’t mention a thing about what I was about to do. Didn’t tell me stories, didn’t try to talk me out of it. I still don’t know what unit he was in, where he was stationed. Then when the check came, he paid it and said, ‘You be careful out there.’ And that was that.

Why didn’t you end up in show business? Belanger asked.

Camden smiled at his brother’s image. When Benny was five, he’d interrupted a dinner party with an impression of Charlie Chaplin’s tramp that he’d spent weeks practicing. The flawless awkward sway of the hips, the lopsided walking, the perfect tip of the bowler, and of course the legendary smile. Chaplin had never gotten so many laughs. We all wanted to. But Dad thought we’d end up making fools of ourselves, never get a moment’s peace. My sister and I, we listened. Benny just never quite got the hint.

Your pop didn’t want you making people laugh, but he’s cool with you putting your ass in the line of fire? Harper asked.

I guess so.

Boom. The three of them froze, heads turned, ears primed as, in the distance, a dreadful thud rippled through the camp. The ground shook beneath their feet, cards scattering to the floor. Then silence. What was that? Belanger asked. Other than the cards and their reddened faces, nothing seemed out of order. Earthquake?

Do they get earthquakes here? Camden asked. His stomach hardened like quick-drying concrete. He’d lived through enough Southern California tremors to know one when he felt it. On the television, his brother had taken center stage for his weekly close of the show.

Beats the shit out of me, Harper said as all three put their hands on the table, cards abandoned, feeling nothing but the reassuring coolness of the particle board. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if–

Boom. Boom. That’s no earthquake. Belanger shot to his feet as the ground vibrated from whatever remote source had shaken them. Faint, in the distance, they heard the crank of the air raid sirens stir, crescendoing by the second, waking up Camp Holloway like a rooster from Hell.

Camden stood also. He played the three sounds over in his head, back to back, all together. The room flashed white and cold in his senses as the others turned to face him. His mouth was dry. Mortars!

Frank’s eyes flew wide. Holy shi–

A crack ripped across the ceiling faster than Camden could follow, spreading out like breaking ice on a frozen river. The plaster splintered into chunks and powder, raining down on them and smashing the room apart like cannon fire. Shielding his head and forgetting, for the moment, his friends, Camden could see directly into the latrine, the wall fragmenting and blowing apart under the weight of the collapsing ceiling. Busted pipes sprayed everything with water as the power cut out. Normally the room would be completely dark without electricity, but lights were streaming in from above, from where the roof had been seconds earlier. Voices hovered around outside – indecipherable shouts of concern and alert. The whole 52nd Aviation Battalion was up now.

You guys OK? Belanger coughed as a cloud of particles blew across them.

Camden’s ears rang loud, and he put a hand to his head as he pulled himself back up. His nose filled with dust and decay and blood as he shielded his eyes. The television set laid crushed and gutted, screen splintered into shards, tubes sparking in the back. Yeah, fine, I think.

Frank? Belanger knelt over their friend, and Camden winced as Harper coughed, blood spraying out with his saliva and painting a red line down his sweaty cheek. Camden could hear the liquid in his friend’s breaths and tried not to picture his lungs filling up.

Oh…fuck… Harper wheezed, loud and squealing. He gasped like an asthmatic under attack.

Charles! Help me! Belanger put Harper’s arm around his shoulder.

Camden fixed his eyes on the piece of drywall separating Harper’s large intestine from his small. You can’t…move him like that. Belanger grimaced, looking from one to the other, clutching at Harper’s chest. You can’t!

He’s…right… Harper said. Boom. Oh…fuck!

The hinges on the main door gave way, and it collapsed inward, narrowly missing Belanger as Captain Markos took a step inside, glancing at the remains of the ceiling, hesitating to move in further in his bare feet. None of them had ever seen the captain out of full uniform before. His soft eyes and round face were hard and square when Harper let out a wet and frightened cry. What’re you doing in here? Markos asked.

Captain, we need a medic! Belanger said.

Captain Markos waved them forward. The whole battalion’s going to need a medic if we don’t hurry!

Camden grabbed Belanger’s arm and pulled him up, both of them still watching Harper. He just lay there, fading into the rubble with a final wheezing gasp as they fled the building. The air was still and dense, but a sudden breeze blew across the camp, filling their nostrils with traces of citrus and sulfur. Even in full uniform, Camden’s skin pricked against the early morning cold.

What’s going on, Captain? Camden asked.

Sappers! We have to man the perimeter!

The sound of the mortars meeting their targets hummed in harmony with the high streaks that sang out as the projectiles plummeted down on the camp. The descending whistles filled Camden’s ears and froze him to the ground. Above him, rockets lit up the sky like uncoordinated fireworks. Red glares. Bombs bursting in air. One of them arced, growing louder and hotter by the second. The others were watching it as well. He took off for the barracks, going for his weapon, no time to guess where it would land.

- - -

Something was wrong.

Benny Camden hovered at the edge of the stage, just far enough back so the audience couldn’t see him. The cast and crew of The Glen Headwood Show took their places. The usual crowd filled the studio, and he recognized a few of the girls that always trailed him to the bars once the cameras shut off. He had forgotten their names. His attention couldn’t move past the two empty seats in the front row, reserved for his mother and sister. They’d never missed an episode.

Benny sucked down a glass of lukewarm water, letting a line of drops trace his clean-shaven jaw. His mouth was still dry; he wished he could have something stronger, but he’d gone out there drunk once and his father had nearly pulled the entire show, permanently. Lloyd normally sat on the sidelines of each episode, second-guessing Benny’s every move, but none of his family was there that night. Benny turned from his father’s empty chair to his fellow producers, who kept sneaking occasional glances at him. He thought they were whispering among themselves.

Glen and his costars brought in laughs as they always did, but Benny couldn’t focus. He couldn’t stop thinking about those two vacant seats. When he took the stage for his weekly closing cameo, those girls near the front cheered for him like always. Henry Louden, the head of Camden Productions’ television wing, stood just behind the curtain, waiting for him, his usual tie missing, shirt uncharacteristically unbuttoned at the collar. Benny heard the applause, but it all came in as a muffled blur.

He ducked away as Henry offered him a fresh glass of water. Thanks, he said, flicking a bit of it on his face.

Welcome.

You get a hold of Dad?

A tuft of chest hair showed through Henry’s unbuttoned collar, much darker than the traces of gray shooting across his head like the first drops of rain in an afternoon shower. He broke Benny’s gaze, hedging back a bit. You were kind of rushed in the end, there.

Henry.

The man’s mouth fell open, but he only spoke in indecipherable grunts, the embryos of words.

What happened?

Henry’s face locked up with the same gnawing cancer that filled Benny’s stomach. You better…

One of the girls in the audience waved in the background, giving him a pretty pink smile – a cute brunette he’d met at some party or another, but Benny ignored her. You’re scaring me, man! Is it Mom?

Henry’s shoulders dropped as his voice came out soft. It’s not your mother…

-

On January 23, 1907, Camden Drive appeared on a map of a new community called Beverly Hills. Nine days later, construction began on the first house on the street, a project that had taken over a year to complete. The three-story home that sat behind a garden, a gazebo, and a winding gravel driveway had been remodeled four times since, including the additions of a swimming pool, a tennis court, and a small stable in the back of the grounds. Soon hidden within iron gates and between other one-of-a-kind residences, this house was part of Hollywood history. United Artists was conceived at a New Year’s cocktail party in the Edison ballroom. Walt Disney brought Pamela Travers to supper there while trying to convince her to sell the rights to Mary Poppins.

Benjamin Camden was born there.

The front doors of the mansion let out a creaking echo into the dim foyer as Benny slammed through them. The place was dark and lifeless, but he knew no one would be asleep. Not on a night like this. Hello? he shouted. No answer. He secured the locks and dragged himself across the white marble, not having thought beyond getting to the house. As he passed the staircase, he noticed a faint glow along the line of Charles’s door, not fully closed. Lara probably waited for him up there.

He turned on the lights and continued inside. Everywhere he turned he saw Charles: a child scurrying by in his swim trunks, a teenager lounging in the parlor with his friends, their mother adjusting his army uniform as his bags lay at his feet. Benny paused for a moment at the family portrait hanging outside the theater room. How he’d hated sitting still for that painting. Now he wished he had a hundred more.

Then, in the distance, he heard the television. He took one last glance at those happy faces and approached his father’s den.

Lloyd Camden sat trancelike before the flickering images on the screen. His weathered skin caught the light in a dead sort of way, absorbing it more than reflecting it. The man’s dark glare glistened the way it always did whenever he shared the only two war stories he ever told. Benny hung in the doorway for a moment, watching the news of the escalating conflict in Vietnam. Lloyd didn’t acknowledge him, so engrossed he was in the broadcast. He fixed on that report with wide eyes, as if Operation Flaming Dart had been launched in retaliation for the death of Charles Camden.

Dad?

Lloyd’s fingers gripped the armrests. Benjamin. I didn’t hear you come in. He leaned back in the chair, eyes synchronized with the planes taking off in black and white. Years of honing the skill of reading faces had begun with an intense study of this man’s, and Benny knew from Lloyd’s dodgy avoidance that he was lying. Worse, he knew his father would know he knew.

Dad! Where were you?

We’re finally doing some good out there, Lloyd said. Air strikes. About damn time.

This was the only room in the house Benny dreaded. He couldn’t remember how many times his father had brought him in there to scold him, to warm his backside with the heel of a Sunday shoe. Even now, the potpourri of old cigars, some bitter and some sweet, made him cringe. How could you do that to me?

Lloyd plucked his gaze from the screen and directed its intensity toward Benny. To you? He coughed. What did I do to you?

Let me go on out there tonight like everything was fine! You kept me from knowing… Benny shut off the set.

Lloyd half-smiled, his lips flickering with baffling inconsistency. Benjamin, Son, this isn’t about you.

The emptiness and pain in his father’s face had vanished, leaving Vietnam behind and shrinking the entire world down into that dim little den. Challenge. Even now, even with his oldest son dead, that was the best that Lloyd Camden could give him. Dad… The power that had sent him cowering as a child and had molded his brother into a soldier now bore down on him again. Benny’s eyes went warm, and he fought to keep them from going wet. Everyone else knew. Everyone else was here. He waited for a response, then gasped in a voice he knew could not stand up to the man, How could you do that to me?

He knew the typical response. I didn’t want it to affect the show. Surely his father could give him something better than that.

Lloyd licked away the smile from his lips. Why don’t you take a look around and think about someone besides yourself for once? Your mother… No grief. Just stone. …just lost her firstborn son, and the country’s going to Hell. What does this have to do with you?

I should have been here with you! Not at the studio!

You should have been there with him!

Benny’s tongue moved, but he couldn’t think of a thing to say. He just stared at the man. Lloyd pushed out a weary breath and dropped his gaze. With your brother gone now, you’ve got to step up, you know.

I’m not stepping anywhere, Dad!

You’re the oldest now. You’ve got to act that way.

How am I supposed to act? Be the tough guy? Be the new Charles? Don’t give me that bullshit.

Don’t talk to me that way, his father said.

Enough!

Lloyd shot to his feet so quickly that Benny had no moment to prepare for the man looming over him – maybe only by a few inches, but those few inches were all it took. Don’t you raise your voice to me! They glared at each other, and although he hadn’t been struck since he was a child, Benny could feel his father’s fist against his face. Instead, Lloyd put a hand on his shoulder. Your mother needs you now, Son. Go on up to her.

Dad…

Let’s both…let’s both say goodnight, all right?

Benny saw the wisdom in that. Fine. Goodnight, Dad.

Goodnight, Benjamin. Say a prayer for your brother.

A little late for that, isn’t it?

Benny wandered through the expanse of the house and slumped into a chair in the dining hall. He didn’t bother to flip the switch, leaving the two crystal chandeliers hanging dead. The last traces of a turkey dinner still floated in the air, but he wasn’t hungry. It would have been no trouble at all to find a bottle of Scotch older than he was, lurking in the liquor closet in the wine cellar through the doors at the other end of the room, but that didn’t move him either. He just stared into the dark windowless void for a good while before remembering that faint glow upstairs.

Benny cracked open the door to Charles’s room. Lara and his mother sat on the floor, backs against the bed, cradling Charles’s favorite childhood toy – a stuffed tiger the boy had named Johnny Destructo.

He knelt beside them, leaning in as they embraced him without words.

MARCH

After a long plane ride, Benny rode in the back of an open-topped taxi along the broken pavement of the road into Corsier-sur-Vevey. He’d already been to Switzerland in the last year, but in order to properly deal with the death of one Charles, he needed the comfort of another. His great-uncle’s house appeared over the horizon, and he exhaled more of the California soot that clogged his lungs and his mind.

Two stories of beautiful white walls were capped off with an arching blue-gray roof and a matching cover that ran around the first floor, bathing the tall lower windows in afternoon shade. The house was surrounded by such a diversity of vegetation that Benny liked to believe there were no two trees the same – not a leaf nor a color nor a height. Monet’s best couldn’t have done it justice.

Charlie Chaplin, though not an actual blood relation, had marital ties to the family and had always regarded Benny’s mother as a niece. He had been a frequent fixture at the mansion during Benny’s childhood, always bringing him a present, some memorabilia from his latest film. Charles Camden had been named after the man, and Benny had loved that Chaplin didn’t let that influence him in showering affection. Surely Benny Camden was Charlie Chaplin’s biggest fan.

As the cab rolled to a stop, Benny saw him there on the porch, beneath a thin blanket, hair now lighter and grayer than ever. Charlie set down a book and rose from his seat, bracing himself against the armrest of his chair, and offered Benny one of the most famous smiles in the world.

Back so soon? Charlie asked, rising and tossing aside the blanket. Benny hugged him in silence, and Charlie patted his back. I’m sorry.

The familiar sent of lavender and talcum triggered more than just memories. Thanks for having me. I really needed some air.

Air we have, lots of it.

Right.

Charlie perused his face. I think what you really need is some rest.

If I can fall asleep, the trip will already be worth it.

After a restless nap, Benny joined Charlie, reclining on the curving veranda, cooled by an evening breeze and warmed with snifters of Cognac. It struck him how different Charlie looked after his years in Europe. The eyes hadn’t changed, but the rivers of time had carved canyons in his skin. White shrubbery was all that remained of the dense black forest of his hair. In many ways he was no longer the man who shocked audiences with his bold politic in The Great Dictator. In many other ways, he would be that man forever.

When I was ten, I spent a whole month watching your Mutual films over and over. I wanted to be a comedian more than anything in the world.

Those were good times, Charlie breathed. Good times indeed.

I miss kidding around and pulling stunts. The old days.

Me too.

You could do anything you wanted, and nobody cared as long as nobody got hurt.

I remember, Charlie said.

Not anymore, though. Someone always has to tell you what to do in your own backyard.

Seems that way.

Benny pictured himself with Charles and Lara, playing in the dry grass beyond the house. I want to do something about it.

I thought you were a pacifist.

Not like that. I mean something like you’d do.

The Cognac traced the sides of the snifter as Charlie swirled it. Do you know what I miss the most about America?

What?

The people’s undying belief that they are free.

Americans are free, Benny said.

If that were true, I would still be there.

Silence on the veranda.

Be careful, Charlie said.

You weren’t a citizen.

A smooth lip, once home to the most famous mustache in the world, pressed against the old man’s teeth. There are other things they can do.

Benny remembered well the day he learned they wouldn’t let Chaplin back in the country. They can’t shut me up just because I say something they don’t like. That’s what art is all about.

Yes. But remember, true art is always controversial, because true art is always ahead of its time. Art does not reflect what a society is. It reflects what a society is becoming. And sometimes, people don’t want to accept what they’re becoming.

Then it’s our job to wake them up!

Maybe it is. But you have to ask yourself…what are you willing to lose? I lost my home, where I lived for decades. I lost my power. Yes, I still make films, but I won’t fool myself.

It’s not the Fifties anymore, Benny said.

Chaplin’s smile tugged his brow down, filling his face with remorse. So you’re saying…you have no idea what you might lose.

- - -

Benny shifted from one foot to the other, too wound up to sit. The audience was full – of course it would have to be full. The lights powered on as a hush fell in the room. Benny’s mouth was dry, but he stood with his back to the water pitcher and the stack of plastic cups. His head throbbed with tiny pulses of pain, precise and punctual. No aspirin. No water. Nothing to distract him from what he had to do.

As the cameras rolled, Benny watched his mother and Lara, sitting in their usual front row seats. Virginia Camden’s face was rimmed in shadow, but her smile was the smile of the woman who taught him the tango in the Green Room of the Camden mansion, who tickled his feet when he was a child squirming helplessly to get away from her fingers, more delighted than when watching any Chaplin film.

Glen told his opening jokes, most of which Benny had already shared with them. They laughed as if hearing it all for the first time. He tried to follow the show, but his thoughts kept drifting to the two of them, there in the sea of unaware faces. He kept a feeler out for his father as well. Lloyd mingled with some of his friends, further back and out of sight. Just where Benny wanted him.

Every ripple of laughter, every satiated grin, every sound and sight pricked him like pins. Every puff from the vent above him sucked breath from his lungs. Sweat clung to his face as he rubbed his arms against the chill. He heard echoes, not words. Saw blurs, not faces. The clock drew his constant attention, and his fingers itched to loosen his tie.

As Glen’s final bit finished, applause rocked Benny back to the moment. Time to mount the stage for his weekly benediction. He could barely summon the courage to move, but he found Lara in the crowd, lovely Lara looking so much like Charles. He pulled himself together and stepped out in front of the waiting audience.

We hope you enjoyed the show tonight, he said as a spotlight blinded him. He focused past it, glad he couldn’t see all those faces as clearly. We’re so fortunate to be here, to breathe the fresh air and feel the sun on our skin. The sun’s gone down for the day, but somewhere on the other side of the world, it’s rising for our brothers out in the east, in Vietnam.

His eyes adjusted to the expectants out there, waiting for his jokes. He wished for a blindfold, for two fingers, neat – the brand didn’t matter. The air was cool against the back of his neck as a line of sweat rolled down between his shoulders.

Brothers...brothers have a special bond, don’t you think? The kind that’s deeper than anything. He had to have drawn his father’s full attention by now. This was not in the script, and he guessed it would take Lloyd at least a few seconds to react.

"I had a brother. Private First Class Charles Camden of the 52nd Aviation Battalion, United States Army. He set out for the other side of the world, and now he’s never coming back.

We lost him at Camp Holloway, along with eight other brave Americans. Silence blanketed the audience as a tear traced his cheek. And now we’re going to lose so many more. Today… He swallowed. Today we sent thirty-five hundred more troops to South Vietnam. Thirty-five hundred more brothers. How many of them are never coming back?

He watched Lara turn her head at the murmur behind her, the whispers and grumbles.

I love America as much as any of them. And that’s why I would do anything to bring them all home alive. I would do anything to keep any more from going out to lay down their lives in a foreign land. Benny lifted his hands so the audience could clearly see the box of matches in his left and the single match in his right. Pulse pounding, he brought them together, striking the head of the match along the side of the box, letting his lapel mic capture the hiss of life as the tiny pin of fire erupted. He held it there, thrusting his left hand into his pocket, letting go of the box and slowly pulling out the mock-up draft card he’d printed. We can be the light of the world. But we can’t set it on fire. He moved the match to the card in front of him like a magician performing a trick, and the edge turned black as the sides lit up with flame.

Lloyd signaled to cut the feed as people jumped to their feet, booing and shouting at him. The card dissolved into cinders as he dropped it to the stage. The light blinked off on the camera and Benny just stood there, fighting the overwhelming urge to run.

Virginia and Lara shrank in their seats as everyone bustled around them. Benny looked from his mother to his sister, hoping for a sign of understanding. He smashed the remnants of his statement under his foot like a used cigarette, but the smoke, weak and wispy, still floated in the air.

- - -

Lloyd’s erratic pacing ruined the rhythm of Frank Sinatra crooning Day of Wine and Roses from the little radio on the windowsill but couldn’t be heard beneath the whirring of the oscillating fan. The blinds were open, the sun hitting Benny in the face the way the lights had when he stood out on the stage. Lloyd glared with unblinking eyes, and each step of his pacing was the ticking of a timer. Benny rubbed his temples, reliving the moment when the tiny flame lit up the audience. The three shots of Glenfiddich he’d belted before the meeting were taking their time to kick in.

What the hell were you thinking, huh? Lloyd finally said, sinking into his plush chair. You know they’re probably going to pull the show now, don’t you?

It wasn’t even a real draft card!

Louden’s still at NBC. Trying to clean up your mess. I mean, what the hell were you thinking?

Come on, Dad. I think it’s pretty obvious.

Be obvious on your own time! When you’re off the clock and off the air, and you’re not putting other people’s jobs at risk! Do you know what a stunt like this does? Do you? It never goes away. It’s the kind of thing that stays with you for the rest of your life.

Benny pressed himself further down into the chair.

They’re not going to remember Benny Camden, that funny guy from that TV show. They’re going to remember Benny Camden, that son of a bitch who shot off his mouth on live television. Nobody’s going to trust you anymore.

Benny blinked, warmth blossoming out from some unknown source within him. Warmth and softness. His pulse still pounded, but with a softer mallet. It wasn’t a hammer as much as a hand gently keeping rhythm on a knee. One, two, three – forty years old, single malted, and as smooth and cool as the rocks he used to pluck from the sand on Malibu beach when he was a kid. Pacific Ocean rocks, brushed to the shoreline from somewhere on the other side of the world. Scotland, perhaps. I don’t think it’s as bad as you say.

Well, I’ll tell you this much. We’re having a press conference, and you’re going to march your ass out there and apologize. You should start by apologizing to Glen.

What about the show?

I don’t know. We may have to can it. If we don’t…I don’t know, Son. You may be off it.

You’d do it without me? Benny asked.

I’m not sure what’s happening. Right now we need damage control. Ratings–

Ratings are up, Benny cut him off, and Lloyd leaned hard into the desk, glaring at him. I bet next week they’ll be even higher.

That’s not the point. Lloyd stuck a finger in his face but didn’t offer any words to go along with it.

Benny laughed, but he didn’t know why. As the sound passed his lips, he pressed them shut again, remembering the night of the filming of the first episode, when his father smelled the whisky on his breath. Dad, when you’re famous, people are going to love you and hate you at the same time. That’s just the way it is.

Benny… he sighed. Why’d you do it?

He pointed at a newspaper lying on the desk between them. Vietnam’s tearing itself apart! And we’re getting right in the middle of it! Charles died for nothing!

Lloyd’s nostrils flared as he towered over Benny. You shut your mouth!

- - -

Journalists swarmed the lobby of Camden Productions like ants after someone had given their anthill a good kick. Benny thought journalist was a strong word considering how trivial his guppy of a stunt was in the broad sea of newsworthiness. He locked eyes with Glen, standing off to the side between Lloyd and Henry. He’d been so fired up to make a statement that he hadn’t stopped to consider who it might have hurt.

Benny stepped behind the bank of microphones set up for him in the corner which usually housed two sofas and a small potted fig tree. He looked out into the expectant eyes of the media, smelling the flames of protest and reform now smothering under a blanket of empty platitudes.

"I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for the things that I said on The Glen Headwood Show earlier this week. My actions were not approved by NBC or by anyone at Camden Productions. I sincerely apologize to any and all who were offended."

Mr. Camden, one of the journalists replied, raising a cautious hand. What were you trying to say?

Benny glanced at Lloyd, who gave him a Be Careful glare. I just miss my brother, that’s all.

JUNE

Benny sat in the cramped confines of Wayne Armstrong’s booth at radio station KMOD. Wayne, a popular disc jockey, sported blue shades just wide enough to cover his eye sockets. A faded gray t-shirt with a picture of the Temptations too small to see properly hung loose on Wayne’s wiry frame. He