Island of Despair

Maria went to her trailer, and I went to mine. Forty minutes later, we were back together, watching my stunt double having it out with the other double playing Sven. Anyone with even a few years of Hollywood experience could see this entire fight scene was rushed and hastily choreographed. I never saw him, but Dak had made his way behind Maria and I, and was suddenly hollering at the director to cut.

"What kind of amateurish bullshit is this?" he blurted out in dissatisfaction. "You call that a fight, for fuck sake?" He wasn't wrong. But then he made what became the mistake of a lifetime.

"Why don't you let Chase and I get in there?" he told anyone who could hear. "The script said 'pummel.' I'll show you what a damn good pummeling looks like."

Then he looked directly at me and smirked. I'd met Dak for the first time one week before we started reading lines for the show. While he would never be considered a good friend, Dak and I were friendly. Maria and I had been out to drinks with him and his then girlfriend, before Maria's pregnancy. I'd helped him, after his car was totaled by a friend he loaned it to, by picking him up two weeks straight and driving him with us to the studio. Dak bought Maria and me a weekend package on Catalina Island for that. He was surely a self-centered and burly Scandinavian, but he had a kind side that shown occasionally. He was a bull in a china shop, and he was proud of it.

If it wasn't for that smirk, all of the strange feelings I'd recently had, would never have coalesced - not the behavior of my wife, not all the whispers and halted conversations by my fellow actors when Maria was home with our newborn. Suddenly, her odd looks the previous day were directly in line with Dak's smirk. I tried with every fiber of my being to dismiss it - to cast it aside just like Desperation Island. But I couldn't. I turned away from him, casting my gaze in the opposite direction. Maria looked at me worriedly - perhaps frantically was a better description - and then she shot Dak a filthy look.

The rest of that day, I barely remember. Several times, my scene atop the mountain was cut and restarted. I wasn't sharp or focused. Of course, I'd had less than twelve hours to memorize my lines, for what was to be a series finale. My final scene occurred at sunset, on top of that island clifftop, which in reality for me, was a green screen atop a plastic mountain about six feet tall, with a soft bouncy thing surrounding the base. I didn't do a swan dive. The execs decided I should just feel sorry for myself, and then simply roll over off the side. I found the ending to this show so distasteful that I could barely say my good-byes to cast and crew. And just fuck the execs.

Maria kept poking me in the ribs and whispering, "Dammit, Chase, you're embarrassing me. What the hell is wrong?" as the rest of the crew were wishing each other well, and hugging. I was making a beeline for the taxi service beyond the set.

Dak came up to me as I was heading off, after filming the final scene. He reached for my hand. "Chase," he said in an apologetic tone, "Hey man, nice work there. I'm sorry about what I said earlier, you know? Just my big mouth and mojo getting in the way. No hard feelings, I didn't mean nothing by it. Why don't you and Maria catch me later in the week, and we'll do dinner?"

"Nah," I answered sarcastically. "I think we're good. We have a baby at home to spend time with, now that this bag of shit show is done. Good luck to you."

I never shook his hand, and Maria looked perplexed until the shuttle got us back to our car at the hotel. Then I guess she decided that anything she said was going to go all wrong, so I was given the silent treatment the rest of the way to the airport.

Once we arrived home seven hours later, I spoke with our nanny and discussed changes to the following few weeks' scheduling. I then walked into the nursery, and Maria was breastfeeding Matthew. It's amazing how much a baby's looks change in the first few months. His mother had spent his first three weeks with him. I hadn't seen him, except for a few minutes here and there on Facetime for five-and-a-half weeks. I studied that little face. He certainly had his mother's good looks, defined cheekbones, and blue eyes. But I had brown eyes. So what were the odds?

Matthew's hair was blondish, but so was Maria's. Another person who was blond-haired and blue-eyed was Dak. I wanted to walk away. I wanted to go get myself a double Maker's Mark and forget this whole shitty week. I wanted to but I couldn't. I slowly looked down at little Matthew's feet.

They were absolute paddles - just amazingly huge for a newborn - and he had stubby toes. My feet were thin, and I wore a size ten-and-a-half. Not even good enough to get any 'big dick' comments in high school. I did, however, have long thin toes. You know the kind - with the extra knuckles. So did Maria. We'd been barefoot on location for over two years now. I'm not big on feet, but when you're sitting around eating lunch, or on a tech break, it's hard not to notice when everyone's working in swimsuits.

Maria was in bed long before me that night. She was exhausted, or so she said. I was getting drunk. My wife wanted to talk the next morning, not even giving me a chance to nurse my hangover. She wanted to help me get over my grieving about the shock of the show and all that had happened. I told her I was fine and didn't need her help. She got a little pissed with my attitude and decided to go on offense, saying she was just trying to help, and I didn't have to be so insensitive. That is until I walked out on her. She followed me to my Maserati and demanded I come back inside and spend time with her and Matthew. For the first time in our marriage, I did not comply.

"Fuck off and leave me alone!" I raged.

Instead, I went to breakfast and ate lots of bacon. Thinking about my Hollywood figure was not on the agenda that day. I started making some important notes on my phone, before emailing them to my private account and erasing the phone.

There was no sense, in my mind, to get ahead of myself until just one very important thing was proven. That one thing was Matthew's lineage, and that would require a swab test, no, two tests each for him and me. The proof had to be irrefutable either way - meaning, he was my son or not. Just one day after my wake-up call, I was already opening my mind to the fact that Maria could have gotten pregnant by just about anyone.

If I was the father, then at the very least, Maria would have to come clean about her involvement with Dak Bronson. Depending on how bad it was, I'd have to make my own decisions from there. Maybe we'd go to counseling, or maybe something far more permanent.

If I wasn't the father though, I needed to start protecting myself now. My career depended on the Hollywood moguls. Scandal in this business could sometimes be good for one's career, but after the way Desperation Island had ended, I'd be a laughing stock. However, contracts were also a big part of Hollywood. My marriage to Maria was indeed a contract. I made a note to use that word to death, in any of my dealings. That also meant I would need to find a good attorney.

The second and possibly bigger problem was Maria's family; moreover the wealth and power of her father, Charles Wilmington. That guy had always had a hard-on for me. Part of that was, he despised the idea of his daughter becoming an actor or an artist of any kind. He saw the fine arts as completely useless to society. He saw me that way too. In short, he made zero effort to disguise his utter disdain for me, and often tried to control my words and actions. What he got in response was my middle finger and an equal challenge. He had a commanding presence, but I had a quick wit, he simply couldn't match, which irrevocably put us at a constant stalemate.

So, I determined, he would do anything to mitigate any public embarrassment for Maria while using his power to publicly destroy me. But, he too was a consideration for further down the road. I'd start to prepare an anti-smear campaign of my own, and name him specifically if necessary.

My phone rang, and I saw it was Sal. I thought about letting it go to voicemail, but maybe...

"Hey, Sal," I said stoically, "what can I do for you?"

"I think it's more along the lines of what I can do for you, my boy," he said with a deep chuckle. "Stop by the studio, will you? There's a package on my desk for you. Just announce who you are to my administrative assistant, and she'll get it for you. I don't think the contents need any explanation, but you know how to reach me if you have questions or want to talk. Toodles."

That was Sal - so quirky. Still, that was quite an ominous conversation, and my curiosity peaked, so I was off to the studio.

Forty-five minutes later, I had my studio bonus, per my early opt-out clause, in contract. There was an eleven by fourteen poster of the cast and crew from Desperation Island, signed, of course. Then there seemed to be one additional item, which I dumped into my lap.

Two DNA swab tests lay there, as I gasped. Did he have control of my smartphone? I wondered. My quick return call to Sal went straight to voicemail, which was par for the course. I headed to the bank and spent an hour setting up a new account and moving a good deal of our money into it. We weren't hurting, in fact, the opposite, so she'd never notice. Well, she wouldn't notice right away.

Then I headed home to face the shit-storm. Maria's condescending attitude had evaporated, and she was being all-loving during dinner. I spent time with both her and Matthew after dinner, and the conversation was light, with her only trying to broach the subject of my behavior a few times. I just told her I felt better and apologized for being upset. I wasn't sure if she caught that I didn't say 'sorry' for my treatment of her.

I was able to put Matthew to bed, citing that I had only been able to do it once since he was born. I again checked all his features before swiping his cheek with two cotton swabs. I did the same for myself, and put them in the correct vials, sealing them as I finished. I realized I'd be sad if he wasn't mine, even though he was just born.

Maria was watching one of our competing shows on another network, and motioned for me to come and sit by her. She quickly cuddled up into my chest. At a commercial break, Maria looked into my eyes.

"Chase," she said sweetly, "please don't shut me out. I know this has to be hard on you. I'm supposed to be here for you - I'm your wife, remember?"

I did remember, and I also found it odd that her offer, lacked any term of endearment. That made me start thinking back on the immediate past. How long had that been happening, I wondered.

"And you love me," I stated, instead of asking, effectively ending the sentence for her.

"Yes," she replied, quizzically, perplexed perhaps at how I'd responded. "Of course I love you. Are you worried about that - my love for you, I mean? Well, don't be. Don't you dare. Being an employed actor or an unemployed one has nothing to do with my love."

"For me." I did it again.

The questioning look was gone, replaced by a tense, worried one. "What do you mean by that?" she asked, getting defensive. "I just said that - my love for you. Geez, Chase, what's gotten into you? I mean I know what's going on, but I've never seen you like this - these past two days. Talk to me, please!"

I didn't want to overplay my hand. Things had to occur in order. I took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," I said more calmly. "I just never expected any of this. Not the show, or Sal, or that fucker Dak..." her eyebrows raised, even as she tried to conceal it. "That fucking ending was the worst thing ever. My chances at any future Tom Cruise-type roles just went down exponentially, while my opportunities at future Danny DeVito-type roles went way up. In one damned day, they effectively made a fucking wimpy cuckold out of my character, and then I had to act it out. I really think you should call the realtor tomorrow and put a full stop on the house in Malibu."

That also got Maria's attention and gave me a perfect parachute to exit the first part of my tirade.

She considered my suggestion and became sad. "I know," she said dejectedly. "Do you have any lines on something new? Did you call your agent today?"

"No, Maria," I replied coarsely. "I needed a day, okay? Just one day to myself to process. Of course, I'll call him. Probably tomorrow."

The rest of our night was at least civil, but neither made a move for intimacy.

Sal sent me a text the next morning as I was getting out of the shower. I'd need to change the passcode on my phone today. He simply said 'you rang?'

Maria was nursing, so I told her I had to go to the studio, maybe talk to Sal, but pick up a package there. Then I was off to see my agent. I hated lying like that, but I had to.

"Hey, Sal, what's news?" I used one of his semi-famous euphemisms.

"Oh, I think you know already," Sal was chuckling again. "Listen, I'm no Good Samaritan, just so we're clear. I have you pegged for a new role if you're interested. Right now it's on the drawing board. Haven't even hired a full team of writers yet - but the idea is solid. For me to bring you on board, we'll have to shed the skin of this fucking island debacle. Erase your chump status, understand?"

I did. "So, how did you find out?" I asked abruptly. More laughter over the phone.

"I never said I found anything out, my boy," he said jovially. "In fact, I didn't - not directly. What I think you're really asking is 'when.'"

I didn't respond, so he continued, "I found out through the rumor mill. You should already know that. If George fucking Burns rolls over in his grave, I know. My boy, I've been working this town since Sydney Poitier and John Wayne were box office hits. What I can tell you is I didn't hear anything until after Maria was pregnant - two, maybe, three months. I couldn't say if it's Dak not being able to keep his mouth shut, or your wife having the same problem with her legs. Hell, I can't say for sure if they ever did the horizontal mambo. But I need my boy, Chase, back on his game for this new role, so it's up to you to find out and take care of biz. You know what I always say: 'a boid in the fist, is like two in the tree.'"

Sal was really, really good with all those timeless sayings. He was near 'prophet' status in our industry - at least that's what he told everyone and anyone who'd listen.

"So, you heard it was him..." I said, as Sal cut me off.

"Of course it was him," he was getting pompous or angry now. "Who the fuck do you think it was. Look you dumb fuck, that girl loves you. But a prick like Bronson is going to keep working and working on a woman - any woman until he gets what he wants. God, I fucking hate that Danish motherfucker. If I have my way, the only two lines in his future are going to be using that stupid fucking accent to say 'Kitchen? Sorted.' on a booking dot fucking com commercial."

I envisioned the redness seeping in, starting on the sides of Sal's face. The man was a blood pressure nightmare. He just kept on.

"Did you do the test?" he eagerly asked. "How long will it take to get the results?"

I told Sal a week or two. He got pissed again when I told him I used my home address to send the results. He told me to call his admin and give her the name of the lab, and she'd have it changed to the studio.

Then he elaborated on the new show. Family Matters was based on a real-life good-guy family law attorney, who had a history of going the extra mile to ensure justice was served in family court. He did it all out of the kindness of his big heart, and of course for his self-respect. I would play the lead, Dalton Roberts, J.D., Esq. I was already working in my head on how to convince him to tone those letters down for the sake of the audience. Maybe just CLS would be more appropriate.

Sal was right - he usually was, I'd come to learn. I needed to climb out from under that disgusting Desperation shit. I asked if he knew a good divorce lawyer, and of course, he did. I told him I was making the call as soon as we'd hung up - to start researching the role. He wasn't buying it.

Sal must have been on the phone with Stoney Myer, while I was talking to the receptionist. Partway through making an appointment, I was transferred to Mr. Myer and told to come over at two that afternoon.

Stoney was good, despite his ridiculous name. He covered all the bases and asked me what I wanted to do either way the testing turned out.

He mentioned being familiar with Maria's father, Charles Wilmington. He also told me that Charles could cause a lot more problems than I thought. But he would bury Dak Bronson, making him out to be a slimy Hollywood misogynist and predatory womanizer. The bigger question was Maria herself.

"I don't have any desire to destroy her," I stated with surprisingly little emotion. "If she had a one-off thing with him, resulting in getting pregnant, then she can just move on, with Dak, if that's what she wants. If she's been seeing him all along, or she wants to fight this, then you can go for the jugular."

"Okay, we got this," he said, smiling. The wheels were spinning in his head. "A celebrity divorce gets three-and-a-half minutes - once - on TMZ. If they want to fuck with us, then we spoon-feed them a celebrity affair, then who it was, on the same set, and a baby out of wedlock. That's a fucking gift that keeps on giving."

He was reticent then. "What I truly hope is that the boy is yours, and the rumors are just that. In any event, leave a retainer check for sixteen-hundred and fifty dollars with my receptionist on the way out."

Maria and I settled into an uncomfortable relationship over the next week. She was quiet - no, guarded - and that made me uneasy. We were still doing the things that always made us strong as a couple, but it was superficial at best. We played with the baby. We discussed our day. I talked about my agent and a few leads, but never discussed the role Sal wanted for me.

We also had sex, three times that week, to be precise. It was as forced and uptight as everything else we were doing. We both got off, but then again, we are both damned good actors, so...

Eight days later, as I was leaving a strategy meeting with my agent, I got a call from Sal. I could hear his assistant there, nearby.

"Chase," he began quickly, "your results are here." I could hear the woman frantically talking in the background, perhaps on another call. She was very animated.

"Are you alone in your office?" I asked. I heard shuffling and a door close.

"I am." He replied soberly. "Can I open it?"

"I'd prefer..." he cut me off.

"No time," he said urgently. "Fuck, Chase we have a bigger problem here. My assistant, or the lab, fucked up. The written report was mailed here, but another copy was also sent to your home. Maria's called here three times today, looking for you. I think I need to open it before you walk into a pile of shit at home."

"Do it."

There was the sound of paper being ripped - then a long pause. Come on you old bastard, I thought.

A sigh confirmed what I'd dreaded before he ever said a word. "Matthew - he's not your son. I'm sorry, my boy."

I don't remember if I even said thanks. I don't remember getting home. I certainly didn't notice the two extra fancy cars in our big driveway, at least until I was out of my car, walking past them. One of the cars belonged to Dak Bronson. The other was a town car. Seeing it there was unnerving because that probably meant that Maria's parents were also inside.

They were there, all gathered in the living room. Maria's mother wasn't among them. They stood as I entered, looking apprehensive. Maria did not move to engage me. I stopped in the vestibule and took it all in. Then I laughed a half-fake and half-knowing chuckle, as I moved into my own domicile.