Free The Reporter by Kelly Lange Page A

she’d let him
     work with her every day, just the two of them. After lunch was the best time, he’d said, because union rules dictated that
     the crew had to break for an hour. A golden opportunity, her mother had told her—this brilliant actor had taken a personal
     interest in Meggie’s career. “Let’s change Davidson to Davis,” he’d said to her mother. “Davis is better. Meg Davis,” he’d
     pronounced. And Sally agreed. Jack Nathanson knew best.
    Meg’s almost daily private sessions in the star’s trailer were exciting at first. Mr. Nathanson would crouch in front of her
     and act out the scenes they had coming up. “Now
you
do it.
Scream
at me,” he’d shout. “Spit in my face. Do it. Meg—spit in my face!”
    “I
can’t,
Mr. Nathanson,” the good little girl would say. “I just couldn’t do that….”
    Once he’d swooped her up, carried her to a chair, sat down, set her on his lap, glowered into her eyes, and said,
“Do it, Meg
—
spit in my face!”
    “I
can’t,
Mr. Nathanson—” She was crying now.
    He softened. “Trust me, Meg. Call me ‘Father.’ Do what I tell you—it’ll help us play our scenes.” He shifted her on his lap,
     took hold of her squarely by the shoulders, put his face inches from hers, and said,
“Now
…
spit
…
in
“
my
…
face.”
    She spit, and she cried; he shouted “More!” and she tried. He demanded “Call me ‘Father’!” and she sobbed, “Fa-a-a-ther,”
     and spit, and dribbled, until finally he said, “That’s enough for today,” lifting her off his lap, wiping her face with his
     hand. “Very good, Meg,” he’d praised with that wonderful grin of his, and scooted her off with a pat on the fanny to get into
     makeup and get ready for their next scene.
    He’d repeatedly told her that she must never discuss their exercises—not with her mother, not with anyone. She didn’t. Certainly none of the grown-ups objected to the closed-door sessions. “This
     costume looks perfect, Meg,” the wardrobe mistress would say. “Now run along—Mr. Nathanson is waiting to run lines with you.”
     And her performance reflected Jack Nathanson’s personal coaching—the dailies were powerful, everyone said; young Meg Davis
     was brilliant: in the part.
    Sometimes she even liked it when Mr. Nathanson touched her, or urged her to touch him. But she was confused. Was what they
     were doing dirty? Or was this just what movie people did? A ten-year-old couldn’t know for sure, but she couldn’t help feeling
     that she harbored an awful secret.
    Meg pressed down on the accelerator. She had to get to the child. She knew that ten-year-old Gia was the embodiment of herself
     at that age before the maligning spirits had ensnared her own soul. Gia was still an innocent, but her father lurked with
     the baneful specters now, the living dead, and would corrupt the daughter as he did herself if she wasn’t shielded. Meg had
     to watch over Gia and pray; it was clearly her responsibility.
    She made the turn onto Seashore Drive, where Gia lived with her mother in Malibu. She was always at her mother’s now, since
     her father was taken to hell. Meg pulled up and parked a block away from their house. Tote bag slung over her shoulder, she
     hurried down the public accessway onto the sand, and carefully spread out a lightweight blanket at the foot of a jagged, blackened
     rock formation. There she settled, her back to the ocean, to watch the house. Gia would be getting home from school soon.
    A relentless, white-hot sun moved lower in the sky on its afternoon passage over the ocean. Meg was calm, still, her eyes
     steady on the rambling, three-story weathered gray beach house with the white trim.
    Finally, the back door opened and Gia burst out onto the sundeck, the housekeeper right behind her carrying a tray withdrinks. Setting her bookbag on the table, Gia sat down and sipped her drink. Her mother came out and joined her. Peering from
     under a wide-brimmed