For hours, Harry had been writing in legal pads, the outline for his "blind pianist" tale appeared in fits and starts across pages marred by arrows and circled names. Sparky was splayed at his feet, softly snoring, as if he was the only one in the house without a worry.
Finally, Harry shoved the pad away and stood, stretching out some stiffness in his back. He strolled into the study where the fax was plugged in and humming softly. Gregory had promised to send through the weekend roll-up last night. Harry pressed the green button, it whirred to life, and spit out a thin roll of numbers.
He pulled the sheets away and scanned.
Friday: strong. Saturday: stronger. Sunday: bump even higher than projections. The per-screen average was not just holding—it was climbing. He read the summaries—twice—before the numbers sunk in. Providence had cleared $8.3 million in its second weekend, grown out to a little over a thousand shows. Fox had pressed hard during Halloween, and it paid off.
Harry set the paper down slowly, a smile tugging at his face. He had braced himself for modest—five, maybe six million if word of mouth traveled. But this? For a debut indie thriller, it was explosive. He felt the same pulse of relief and pride that he'd felt tossing Sparky his first tennis ball and seeing the dog bring it back. Something he'd created, however imperfect, was working.
_______
The week that followed felt like the planet was shifting. Daniel Hayes flew into New York to appear on The Late Show with David Letterman. He sat nervous on the couch, wearing a suit he clearly used to fill. He laughed when Letterman joked about the library scene giving him nightmares.
Meanwhile Javier Bardem went on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Leno teased him about being cast as priests and gangsters, and Javier, deadpan, said, "Maybe I'll try dentist next." The crowd roared.
Clips of both interviews circulated, aiding in building the suggestion that Providence was not only a darling of the festival circuit, but something people were talking about. People lined up for all late-night shows, Halloween weekend lines wound outside the theaters, and teenagers dared each other to sit through "that creepy priest scene" without looking away.
Fox was riding the wave of the momentum, cutting new trailers with pull-quotes—"Chilling" (Variety), "Disturbingly effective" (The New York Times), "Unnerving and impossible to shake" (Chicago Tribune).
In early November, Fox hosted a small celebration at a rooftop bar in Los Angeles to celebrate. The weather was unseasonably warm for fall, the city shimmering in all directions. Harry entered with Lisa and Gregory, still getting used to the way people turn their heads when he enters a room. Rachel was already there, glowing in black silk, already talking to a group of Fox executives, as if she were raised in that world.
"Mr. Jackson!" one of the senior distribution executives called, raising a glass. "Congratulations. We knew that Toronto would help, but the Halloween bump—perfect timing."
Harry smiled, shaking hands with all of the warm, approving grips. Daniel Hayes and Javier Bardem found him a few minutes later; Daniel hugged him outright. "Harry! I can't walk down the street without people quoting lines back to me. It's spooky."
Javier grinned, lighting a cigarette even though they were indoors. "My mom called from Madrid. She said she doesn't like priests anymore. I asked her, what do you mean? Why not? Then I told her, good, neither do I."
The MASH crew clustered too—camera operators, set designers, the small army of people who had willingly spent long nights together in Rhode Island warehouses and church basements.
It wasn't all rosy. Partway through the night, Harry found himself trapped against the balcony by two men in fashionable suits, executives from two rival studios. One introduced himself as Stephen Rivkin from Paramount; the other was Don Steele, a Warner Bros. acquisitions executive.
"Hell of a debut," Rivkin said, swirling his scotch. "Too bad you went with Fox. A film like Providence - you would have shaped it differently with us - broader shoulders."
Steele grinned but his words were chill. "Success is terribly fickle in this town. Enjoy it while you can. Second films tend to make people feel humble."
Harry stifled his anger and kept his tone neutral. "I'll try to stay humble in my success."
Rivkin chuckled. "Fair enough. Let's put it this way, if you ever want to consider a different collaboration with another partner, doors are open."
They sat their glasses down with a clink and melted away into the party, leaving Harry with an uneasy echo of their cryptic words, part olive branch, part warning. He understood their words as well as anyone could. It wasn't that Hollywood was opening up, or welcoming him in as family. They were all circling him, measuring.
Rachel found him a short time later, linking her arm through his. "They're all wolves," she murmured just for him. "I know that look. They're weighing you, darling. They're deciding if you'll last."
"You think I'm going to?" Harry asked in half-jest.
Her eyes softened, and for a moment she didn't answer immediately. "You've lasted longer than some thought you would have. But just remember--your uncle would leap at the chance to pull you back into Jackson Multimedia again if he could. That's why I told him not to come tonight."
Harry blinked. "You kept him away?"
Rachel's smile faded away."Mason has good intentions, but he would only create a scene. This is your night; let it be yours."
Harry squeezed her hand with gratitude for the small, fierce loyalty.
She was his mother after all.