He presses the door shut and turns the lock. "How did you hear?" he asks, monotone, his back toward her and his hand still on the door.
"Gesine had the news on."
"Of course, damned vultures," he mutters, turning around to find her pacing on the worn, hotel room carpet, talking to herself.
"It has to be a mistake, right? It has to be," she insists, gesturing wildly with her arms, still pacing. "You know how stupid paparazzi can be, that has to be it!" she stops, suddenly, begging him to agree with her. "When did you talk to him last, Keanu? How do we even know?"
"I was supposed to meet him for breakfast this morning," he starts before noting the hopeful look in her eyes, "but Sandy, he didn't show up."
She stands tall, hands on her hips. "So what? That doesn't mean anything. I forget to keep my plans all the time, so do you!"
"No. I don't. And neither do you."
With an audible gulp, she glares at him, "You don't fucking know! You don't know." She slumps onto the floor with her back against the side of his bed, her face buried in her hands on her knees.
He chews on his lower lip, just watching her. Finally, he stood, walking into his bathroom to grab a roll of toilet paper, over to his mini-fridge to pull out a bottle of water, then returning to her side.
"Do you want some water?"
She shakes her head in defiance, bangs wiggling over her puffy eyes.
He sat down on the red-patterned floor next to her, legs outstretched and shoulders slouched, with a vacant look on his face. Unsure what to do next, he sits there, just holding the cold, plastic bottle in his hands.
"I'm sorry you found out that way," he said quietly.
Sandra's body quakes again with a flood of tears.
He wraps his arm around her shoulders, drawing her in as she buried her grief into his chest. He strokes her hair as she cries, softly shushing.
Her sobs slowly turn to whimpers, followed by heavy breathing and sniffling.
He reaches for the toilet paper on the carpet next to him. "I don't really have Kleenex, but, I have this," he offers, thrusting a wad under her chin.
"Class act," she laughs, taking the toilet paper out of his hand, dabbing at her eyes and nose.
His kind eyes upon her, he holds her closer, which causes tears to well up again.
"Dammit," she whispers under her breath. "It's just wrong. It's wrong."
"We all die, Sandy. All of us. The goal is to make something of your life while you're here. And if anyone did that, it was Jude."
This puts her over the edge again, weeping on his shoulder.
"No. No, don't cry, Sandy. Please, don't cry," he implores her. "He really loved you, did you know that?"
"Jude loved everybody." she says with a hollow laugh, her head spinning. "He was the epitome of goodness and love."
"Yes. But Sandy," he places a hand under her chin, lifting so her chocolate eyes meet his, "Sandy, he really loved you."
She closes her eyes, a strip of salt water falling from her lashes.
"He's a good judge of character, you know." With his thumb, he wipes a thick drop off of her cheek. "Was, I guess." He scans her face from top to bottom, brushing the hair behind her ears. "You have no idea how much he talked about you. It was kinda irritating, actually," he shares, forcing a smile when she raises her eyes to his.
Without warning, she lowers her lids again, leaning ever so subtly towards him, slowly, willing him to take it all away.
He returns the same sense of longing, and for a moment, he almost tossed caution to the wind, until a flash of light behind his own closed eyes brings attention to his imagination and, more importantly, the present tense. Taking another look, he sees her eyes squeezed tightly shut, her mouth in the shape of a horseshoe.
Did I imagine that? It doesn't really matter.
His lips meet her forehead instead, and her sadness rushes forth again.
Later he'd replay this moment in his mind's eye, second guessing what was real and what was in his head. Right now he knows the only stand-up choice to make is to not twist grief into something she might regret, that they both might regret.
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November 1....
It is eerily quiet when Sandra walks across the lot the next morning. She'd barely had the energy to climb out of bed, leaving herself only enough time to throw on a college sweatshirt and black yoga pants, hiding behind her dark sunglasses, despite the sun having barely breeched the horizon. The usual busy chatter on set is replaced with quiet whispers and covert glances as she walks past. Her eyes are still a bit puffy after spending most of the previous day lying in the arms of the only other person she knew that understood what she was going through.
He was calm, serene for most of the time she was there in his room, leaving her feeling almost foolish at her emotional display. While she felt great affection for Jude, and had worked with him more recently than anyone else, she knew that this was nothing compared to the brotherhood he shared with Keanu. What right did she have to even express this degree of despair in his presence? Every time she'd toss out a self-deprecating remark, though, trying to lighten the mood, he would allow none of it.
"Grief is healthy and personal. Sadness is proof of love and a life well-lived. We can't know love of another without also accepting eventual grief."
Why did he always talk in riddles? She wondered as he spoke. It was all too much for her.
"What are you, the celebrity mourning guru or something?" Old habits flow strong, and Sandra felt most at ease on a steady diet of wit, sarcasm and humor. "Is this part of my SAG benefits?"
She elbows him in the side, but he was unflinching: remaining patient with her satire, never allowing her to push him entirely away but always providing her "enough" space. She was taken aback by how even-keeled he appeared given the circumstances. He was aloof, but somehow also present. As the day turned into early evening, she could feel herself absorbing his calm, moving in the direction of accepting what was unacceptable—he is gone.
"Jude was such a unique human being, I mean, no one I've ever met before has been so kind, so calm, so spiritual, so, so...so connected to everyone he met. He couldn't ignore the plight of anyone, he had to repair them, help them reach their apex," she shared with Gesine last night, after returning from the Chateau Marmont. "I've never known anyone like that before, until I met Keanu. They're like twin spirits or something, I don't know. It's weird."
The only sounds she hears, now, as she walks across the lot are the chirps of morning birds, papers rustling, errant loose rocks under her shoes and the occasional hum of a golf cart. She mostly kept her glances to the ground. Even Bob is quiet as she walks past, standing unnaturally still, looking straight ahead.
She heads toward her trailer but her feet take her to his trailer instead. It is dark, still, seemingly undisturbed. She looks at her watch, it is six o'clock. She isn't late but she's also not early. Jiggling the doorknob, she sees it is still locked. Rather than ask Bob for assistance to get in, she turns and sits on the step, her posture loose and her hands folded in her lap.
Without realizing, she slips down a spiral of deep thought before she finally hears the familiar shuffling of his feet on the pavement.
He has a navy beanie pulled down low and a black pea coat over a grunge rock t-shirt and weathered dress pants.
She looks at her watch, shocked to see he is over an hour late. Sandra rises to greet him, unsure what to expect.
He offers a low wave and half of a meek smile before walking past her, into his trailer, shutting the door behind him without a word.
She stands there in silence for a few minutes, twisting her hair between her fingers, watching for signs he'd re-emerge.
He never did.
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When Keanu finally exits his trailer, he has deep shadows under his dark eyes. They spend the first part of the morning marking scenes, refreshing with script read-throughs, discussing final details. If he wasn't required to be somewhere, he retreated to his trailer. The discomfort is thick amongst the bus cast and the police department cast. Even Jeff and Dennis stay far away from the topic. For a subject that so many took great pains to avoid, it is stunning how present Jude is on the set, hanging over the heads of all who'd ever encountered him, scattered around like eggshells everywhere Keanu stands.
He is professional, respectful, and other than the bags under his eyes it'd have been easy for the unaware to feel unblemished by the existence of any great loss. Still he is absent behind his eyes, a shell of his usual self.
Sandra had started and stopped in his direction more times than she could count but her body felt heavy and unsure. Jan is missing for the better part of an hour, huddling with writers and other top brass near the director's tent, before disappearing, solo, into Keanu's trailer. When he exits, Sandra sees Keanu with a bag slung across his shoulders, carrying his helmet as he walks toward the parking lot. Jan approaches the main cast, who are gathered around the craft services table refilling their coffees, some nibbling on some snacks.
"Okay, people, if you could come here, please?" He announces. "I'm sure we all know about the tragic loss this weekend. Jude Molinari was an exceptional person and an exceptional actor, as any who had the honor of working with him know. It's a devastating loss to our community. As such, we're going to rearrange a few things with the schedule to give some cast the space needed to process. Thank you all for your patience and understanding as we try to iron things out in the next few days. If anyone needs anything more to get through these times, please do not hesitate to talk to myself or Dallas or Tad. We're here for you all, okay?"
At this point, his assistant starts handing out copies of the new rehearsal and filming schedule. Everyone pauses to look at the new timeline, chattering about the changes, relieved to have something to do or to work on. Sandra stands there, holding the sheet with both hands, staring in the direction of the parking lot.
Jan walks over to her and put an arm around her back, causing her to jump with a startle reflex. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you there. I just wondered how you're doing? I know he was a friend of yours."
Sandra steps just outside of his reach. "I'm okay, I'm fine," she tries to convince him. "I'm okay."
"You said that already," he is gentle, concerned, but not pushy.
"Yeah, I know. I'm fine." She repeats, hoping he'll believe it and leave her alone.
Jan tells her he thinks she'd do well to take the rest of the day off, rest, decompress if possible. With no fight left inside, she obediently turns on her heel to collect her things before leaving the lot, relieved to be able to extricate herself for the day at least, knowing she'd need to be back in her usual spirits by the following day.
It was several days before Keanu would return, still carrying some darkness, still more aloof and isolated than usual, but slowly returning to his professional self.
No one dared to bring the subject up. A few weeks later, in another promotional interview, Dennis was asked about the topic and specifically about Keanu's relationship with Jude.
*"It happened one day and the next day we were working and he never brought it up, and I never brought it up either. I thought it was admirable on both of our parts. Hollywood's a very glib kind of town, and it's easy to have dialogue, and it's easy to make serious things light. I felt that not talking about his death didn't put it in a common place." He firmly ended the discussion at that point, making it clear this topic was a non-starter and that it would be unwise for this journalist to push it further. Dennis carried the clout and the star power in Hollywood to set the tone, and though Keanu would never discuss it, he was grateful.
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*Quoted, paraphrased, inspired by actual interviews