Lurkers
Page 28
Mary-Sue glanced at the dining table. Kate had taken Mrs. Park’s letter but the English translation was still there, pinned under her water glass. She wedged her sleeping granddaughter between two pillows and made sure there was no way she’d roll off the sofa. Then she pulled on a woolen top and her clogs.
Raymond sat in his armchair sipping a glass of Jurançon and listening to Schönberg’s Verklärte Nacht while the girls did their homework—or so he hoped—upstairs. As the music came to a sensual crescendo, the crazy mother from across the street appeared at his picture window. He jumped. Her glasses were crooked. Her cardigan was puce. She was probably here to ask for that five-cent pie tin back. Smiling widely, she pressed a couple of handwritten pages against the glass pane and indicated that he should meet her at the door. Déjà vu! Oh no, not more short stories!
“Girls!” he bellowed from his chair. “Help! There’s somebody at the door!”
Mira came bounding down the stairs, happy to abandon her books. “I’ll get it,” she cried, “lemme get it!” and lunged to see who might be there and what news they might bring.
Acknowledgments
For decades, I’ve thought of writing a coming-of-age novel about different people finding their groove at different ages, whether 15 or 65. You’ve heard of Method actors; well, lately I’ve discovered I’m a Method filmmaker, and now, a Method author, too. I have to get in character to get the work done.
I thank everybody who has helped me settle into Southern California, though this settling-in has taken over twenty years. A special shoutout to John, who, though we’re no longer married, remains chief recipient of my rants, the price he still has to pay for having dragged me out to this sun-baked state in the first place.
I also need to thank the other recipients of my rants over the last couple of years: Kate Hurwitz, Sue Carls, Linda Lichter, Mollie Glick, and all at Cinetic and CAA who’ve had to put up with me. And at home, too, my two gray guys: Graham (the human) and Chubblington (the wombat-cat).
Thank you, finally and most of all, to Mark Doten, editor and friend (friend and editor?) at Soho Press, Rachel Kowal, Alexa Wejko and everyone at Soho and Penguin Random House (and cover artist Vi-An Nguyen) who believed in this book and worked so hard through this difficult period of isolating house arrest (thanks, Coronavirus 2020!) to get it out into the world and into your hands.
Having lived in Singapore, London, New York, and, at greatest length, Los Angeles county, I used to say (too glibly) that I feel equally alienated everywhere. But with this book, I’ve finally written my way home. I now like my noir sunlit. Make of that what you will.
Martinis for everyone when we can meet again.
S.T.
Los Angeles
10/20/2020