Good Riddance(10)

With a cock of his head, actor Jeremy materialized. “Oh, darn. I was hoping you needed a gopher or an assistant to an assistant.”

I said, “He’s joking. He’s on a TV show.”

“Which one?” Geneva asked.

“I’m sure you’ve never heard of it: Riverdale,” he said.

Never heard of it? I could see the internal debate she was moderating: Would admitting devotion throw her intellectual bona fides into question?

I added, “He plays Timmy. It’s a speaking role.”

“Can we come in?” Jeremy asked. “I’d love to hear more about Daphne’s project.”

Geneva hadn’t budged yet. “Daphne’s project?”

“Based on her mother, I understand.”

“Who apparently was everyone’s favorite teacher for reasons that aren’t very clear,” said Geneva.

“Yearbook advisor,” I amended. “It was dedicated to her.”

“I’d love to hear more about it,” said Jeremy. “And to hear what else you’ve done.”

Geneva lifted her right foot a few inches off the floor. “You might’ve noticed that I’m getting ready to go out.” But before we could apologize for the cold call, she said, “Oh, what the hell. I can finish later. Anyway, it’s better letting the first coat dry before you apply the second.”

Her apartment was a shrine. The foyer walls were a deep red, covered with framed posters of documentaries she’d never told me about. “Yours?” I asked of the first one, then the next one, until I caught on: She had nothing to do with these.

I went into my own acting mode, pretending that she’d brought Spellbound and Is Paris Burning? and Capturing the Friedmans and Born into Brothels to the big screen. “Wow. And the only thing you bragged about was the matzo-factory movie. I assume you had a hand in all of these?”

Geneva said, “Ha! I’d be a household name if these were mine. I guess you didn’t realize how iconic these titles are.”

“I totally realize how iconic these are.”

Jeremy asked, “Do you work out of your apartment?”

“Who are you again?” Geneva asked. “In relation to Daphne.”

“Across-the-hall neighbor,” I said.

“At the very least,” said Jeremy, tossing me a look that said, Play along.

Geneva plopped onto a nubby upholstered chair and put her feet on its matching ottoman. That left us a sofa that looked like giant upholstered red lips. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

“I understand you found the yearbook in the trash,” Jeremy said.

“Not the trash,” Geneva said. “The recycling bin. It’s found art.”

“Lucky find,” he said.

I could see that Geneva wasn’t sure if she was being teased. “It happened to be sitting on top of a pile of magazines. Anyone would’ve picked it up.”

“And then left it there,” I said.

Geneva said, “We’ve discussed this. I do research. I’m intellectually curious. I’m interested in Americana. I can’t imagine who wouldn’t pick it up.”

Jeremy said, “So how’s it going?”

“I’m in the note-taking stage. I have a thousand things to absorb.”

“I’d love to see it,” said Jeremy.

“If there are screenings, sure.”

“I meant the yearbook itself.”

“I don’t keep it here. It’s at the bank.”

“What’s it doing at the bank?” I asked.

“All my important papers are in a safe-deposit box. I have to think of fire or flood. Last year, or maybe it was two years ago, the upstairs neighbor died in the bathtub with the water still running. Drip, drip, drip till he was found. My bedroom ceiling had to be replaced.”

Jeremy said, “I remember. I think the building held a memorial service for him.”

Geneva said, “I didn’t go. It would’ve been in poor taste because I was suing his estate for the difference between the building’s insurance and what the repairs cost.”

“Speaking of that, how are you financing the documentary?” Jeremy asked.

Wasn’t that a personal question? Apparently not; apparently funding was open for discussion, if not the first question filmmakers and actors asked early in an acquaintance. I made my facial expression match Jeremy’s: Yes, do tell. Where does your money come from and how do you support yourself?

“Grants. And a family foundation.”

“Your family?” Jeremy asked.

“Nothing official. It sounds better than ‘I have a rich, guilty father.’”

“Guilty?” I repeated.

“Divorced. He left my mother for a series of men. He finally married one. I filmed their ceremony in Southampton last summer as my wedding gift to them. It turned out to be the launch of my business.”

“I thought documentaries were your business,” I said. “At least that’s what I found online.”

“My secondary business, wedding videography, doesn’t show up on IMDb. But I can send you a highlight reel.”

Why did I not welcome that news as proof that she knew how to hold a camera?