37
They shot their movies in a rented McMansion in Chatsworth. Their film crew was comprised of film school graduates who couldn’t get work in L.A. They used contract actors and usually things went pretty smoothly. Over breakfast in his brother’s office, he told Harold he wanted out. “What the fuck for?” Harold said.
“I’ve had enough.”
“Who is it?” Harold asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s a woman in this equation somewhere because all of a sudden A plus B does not equal C, am I right? I’m right, aren’t I? She obviously gave you a good dose of conscience. I’m sure you feel a whole lot better for it.” He lit a cigar. “Next time you want to come clean, get yourself a high colonic.”
“Harold, I’m done.”
“Don’t be an idiot, business is better than ever.”
“It’s different for me.”
“What’s so different?”
“I have a daughter.”
“Let me tell you something, choirboy, daughters cost money. Women are very expensive.”
“I want you to buy me out. It doesn’t have to happen right now. Over the next five years or so.”
Harold shook his head. “You’re serious about this?”
Joe nodded. “I’ve got a call in to the accountant. I’ll have him call you with the numbers.”
Harold shook his head. “It’s been a good life for you. You have everything you want.”
“I know. I know that. But I want out.”
“Yeah, sure. Do me a favor. Call me when you’re over your midlife crisis, because that’s obviously what this is. I’ll send you some Neil Young CDs in the meantime.”
Joe ceremoniously kissed his brother’s cheek. “Thank you for your blessing.”
“It’s like a gallstone. You’ll pass it. It’s painful, I know, but you’ll get over it.”
The phone rang. “Take it, Harold. I’ll talk to you later.”
Harold waved to him as he stepped out into the hall. They were shooting a scene in the living room and there were people standing in the hall, gesturing for him to be quiet. He didn’t give a shit. As he passed the doorway, he glimpsed the actors in the scene. The woman was on her knees, blowing a guy while another guy fucked her from behind. He walked out of there for the last time, the exultations of counterfeit love filling his ears.
Back in the Berkshires, when he told his wife that he was leaving the business, her reaction surprised him. “What are you going to do with yourself?”
“I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
“You’re not that young,” she said. “It’s not so easy to switch careers. ”
But he could see that wasn’t the issue. When you grew up poor, you never stopped worrying about money. “If you’re worried about money, there’s no need. We’ll be fine. We’ll make it work.” He took her in his arms. “I’m getting out for Willa, for us.”
“What about for Claire?”
The question hung in the air. He could see in her face that she knew.
“I can’t help thinking she’s had an influence on you.”
“Is that such a terrible thing?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know anymore.”
“It shouldn’t have happened,” he said.
“But it did. Like all the other times. They shouldn’t have happened either.”
“I know. You’re right. I don’t know what to say.” He looked at her. “I’m sorry, Candace.”
“What did you think? Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No, of course not.”
“Because I’m not. All your little tricks. I saw right through them.”
He nodded. “I’m sure you did.”
“I should hate you for it, but I don’t.”
“I want you to. I’m awful. I don’t know why I do these things.”
“It’s my fault too. It’s both of us. I know I’ve been distant. It’s been a hard time for me. I’ve had physical issues. I’ve been somewhere else.” She looked at him, hard. “But I’m back now.”
He kissed her neck, her face. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.” He took her hand and put it against his heart. “You’re the only one right here.”
He did love her; he did. He loved his wife. He couldn’t imagine living with another woman. Yet he wasn’t certain he could fully commit himself to her. Even after all this time, especially after all this time. He couldn’t be sure he could be faithful. The truth was he doubted that he could.
Later that afternoon he went for a run. He wanted to sweat out his jet lag. He wanted to breathe in the clean air of the Berkshires. The road was empty and black. The clouds were gray. On an impulse, he ran to Claire’s house. Like a schoolboy he wanted to tell her about his decision to leave the porn business. As childish as it was to admit, on some level he wanted her approval. But when he ran up her driveway he saw an old Ford pickup parked near the house. He knew he should turn around, leave her alone, but something made him continue, a part of him that felt like he had the right. It was absurd of course, he had no claim on her. He glanced into the barn. At first, he thought she was one of her sculptures, naked and pale, sitting astride her new lover’s hips. She looked up and caught his eye and his throat went tight. He had no right to be jealous—and he’d just sworn his loyalty to his wife—but he couldn’t help it, he still had feelings for her. Embarrassed, he jogged back down the driveway. He could hear her calling his name. She had thrown on a big wool coat and her silly Turkish hat, oversized boots, her father’s probably, untied. He wished he was in a position to love her properly. If he’d met her years ago, perhaps, he would have tried to. Everything came down to chance in life. She was out of breath. “Stop, for God’s sake!” Her eyes were a vivid blue, her lips chapped. He could remember the lazy grin she’d get when he’d kiss her.
“I see you’re busy,” he said. “You’re a sucker for distraction.”
“I’m sorry.” She touched his cheek in her pauper’s gloves, her fingertips warm and flat.
“What for?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. For this. For right now.”
“No hard feelings,” he said. “I’m the one who’s married, remember? ” By now, Nate Gallagher had gotten dressed and was leaning in the doorway of the barn.
“I’m told he’s a good man,” Golding said.
She smiled like a woman in love.
He kissed her anyway. “Still friends?”
“Always.”
His hand on her cheek. “Be happy, Claire. You deserve it.”
38
On the morning of her seventeenth birthday, Willa’s father made waffles with fresh raspberries and whipped cream. Her mother gave her a necklace from Tiffany’s. She put it on, thrilled, and admired herself in the mirror. Her father gave her a new saddle.
“Sit down for a second,” her dad said. “We want to talk to you about something.”
She sat down, terrified that her parents had somehow found out about Mr. Heath, about the despicable thing he’d done to her. Her mother was holding an envelope. Perhaps the school had written them a letter.
But her mother said, “This is for you.”
Willa took the envelope and opened it and pulled out a letter. It was about twelve pages, handwritten on lined notebook paper, and it was addressed to her. There were smears of ink, little blue blossoms, from where the paper had gotten wet. “What is this?”
“It’s a letter from your birth father,” her father told her. “He wrote it when you were a baby. He gave it to us on the day we got you.”
“We think it’s time you had it.”
Willa read the first sentence. We left San Francisco that morning, even though your mother was sick. Her stomach went tight. She looked at her parents. “Have you read it?”
“No,” her mother said. “Never.”
“It’s yours,” her father said. “It’s been in the safe all this time.”
&nbs
p; Her hands began to tremble. Her whole body felt jittery. She felt a mixture of feelings, both happiness and dread. Here in her hands was the truth, she thought, here in her hands was her identity. It was proof, she guessed, of her existence, of where she’d come from, her genetic link to the human race. But not really. Her parents were right here, in the flesh. Her mother and her father. They’d taught her to walk, to read, to ride a bike. They’d been the ones to take care of her when she was sick. They were the proof. They’d been here all along.
“I want to read it out loud,” she said.
Her parents looked surprised. Her mother looked up at her father. “Should we go into the living room?” he asked.
They went into the living room and sat down on the couches. Her father stoked the fire. She thought he might have tears in his eyes and didn’t want her to see. She waited until he sat down.
The first thing she said was, “I love you both.”
“We know you do, honey,” her dad said.
“We love you very much,” her mother said, her eyes brimming.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Willa said. “I’m okay.”
“I know, sweetie.” She wept softly.
Willa went over to her and hugged her. “You’re my mommy.”
In a wavering voice, she read the letter out loud. It was harder than she thought it would be; the hardest thing she’d ever done. Her parents listened. The chairs and the crackling fire listened. The beautiful heavy drapes listened. And the horses outside, standing at the fence, they were listening too. Even God was listening, wherever He was.
When she had finished, the three of them sat there for several minutes staring into the fire. It felt like the end of something. It felt like the beginning.
“I didn’t know it was AIDS,” she said finally.
Her mother nodded. “You’re very lucky. We didn’t want to tell you because we thought it might upset you.”
She looked at the letter, the handwriting—it seemed familiar to her. “Whatever happened to him?”
“We don’t know,” her father said. “We’ll be happy to help you find him, if that’s what you want.”
She looked at her father and at her mother. How could she possibly tell them how much she loved them? She held the letter in her hands. She looked at it, the anonymous handwriting of a person she would never know.
Then she put it in the fire and burned it.
On Tuesday afternoon, when Mr. Gallagher dropped her off at Sunrise House, the Polish girl was sitting on the front steps, smoking. “What are you doing?” Willa asked her. “Aren’t you going in?”
“Waiting for you,” she said.
Mr. Gallagher called from the van, “You okay, Willa?”
“Yeah.” She smiled and waved and stepped onto the porch. “I’m going in,” she said.
“No, you’re not,” the girl said.
“What?” Willa smiled, strangely flattered by her attention.
“See you later!” Gallagher called, and drove away.
“Do you have any money?”
Willa nodded. “So you can go home. Back to Poland.”
The girl snorted, shaking her head. “Look, do you want to get high with me?”
“I have to go in,” Willa said.
“Why?” The girl coldly appraised her. “Aren’t you tired of doing what everybody else wants?”
Now that she thought about it, she was. “Maybe.”
It occurred to Willa that there was a phone number on the girl’s hand, a number she herself knew by heart: Teddy’s. “Do you know him?” she asked.
“Why, do you?”
“He goes to my school.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“No,” she muttered.
“He’s nice boy. He comes to see me. He’s my Teddy Bear.”
Willa swallowed hard. “What?”
“It’s no big deal.”
It occurred to her that she was on the brink of doing something stupid. She could feel it lurking around her shoulders. She could feel it blowing her up, like a balloon, bigger and bigger until she went pop! She would make a very big mistake, yet she could not stop herself from making it. The letter had upset her more than she thought. The journey her poor mother had made. Sick, dying. The awful car. The rain. She had died in their driveway. It was a world Willa could barely imagine, one that she’d found on the pages of books— my poor mother, she kept thinking. And poor her too. She pictured herself as an infant, riding in the backseat of that car with the rain beating down. Her hands brittle with rage. Had she known in her baby mind that, in a matter of minutes, her entire link to the universe would be gone? Thinking about it made her sad.
Her mother, Catherine, had been beautiful, yet she’d known it all along in her heart, where all adopted children know things. But it was her mother Candace that she loved. It was Candace whom she cried for when she was sick, Candace whom she longed for those long summer nights away at camp, Candace whom she relied upon for advice, Candace who was her emotional barometer, her touch-stone, her life. She could not imagine a day without her.
But still, she owed Catherine something.
She wanted to pay homage to her. Her mother the drug addict.
So she went with the girl. They walked down the street, away from the shelter. She felt like a person leaving the scene of a crime, as if any minute Regina would run out and shout, “You! Stop!”
Pearl knew where to go to get the meth. It was a narrow house, shoved between two others. Willa gave Pearl some money. “You splendid girl,” she said, and kissed her on the cheek. “You will not be disappointed.” There was a man on the porch in a broken chair, counting cars. He had on a dirty T-shirt and trousers and his feet were bare, even though it was cold. He muttered numbers as they climbed the steps and she could still hear him inside, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, like a metronome. It was dark inside and stunk of cats. There were cats wherever she looked, scrawny whining cats. Empty cans littered the floor. A TV was on somewhere, coming from a back room. “Wait for me,” Pearl told her, and walked off down the hall. She stood there alone with the cats. The cats watched her with their creepy yellow eyes. One came and rubbed up against her ankles. When Pearl came back she was smiling. They went into the park. There was a huge cement whale and they walked through its mouth and sat in its belly. “You shouldn’t do it,” the girl warned. “You don’t have to.” She touched her face. “I’ll still love you if you don’t.”
“It’s okay. I want to.”
It was what bliss was—a way of getting there—inside the cottony seclusion of a cloud. Her body sparkled. She was a movie star. She watched the girl chop the powder with a blade. She thought about it; she didn’t know what would happen and she didn’t care anyway. She wanted to put her face in it. She wanted to turn her mouth inside out, her mouth, her teeth, her nose, her throat. To feel it rushing through her. It was cold and warm, it was syrupy, it was the smell of hyacinths. She watched the girl snort it. She shook her hair like it was full of rain. “My real mother was a junkie,” she heard herself say.
The tattoo shop was empty. The man in the leather vest knew Pearl. “I want one just like hers,” Willa told him. “For my dead mother.”
Pearl laughed so hard it sounded like crying and Willa almost peed in her pants.
She had to lie on her stomach. He told her to rest her head, to just relax. It would hurt a little. He was drawing on the back of her calf— her Achilles’ heel, she thought ironically, remembering the poster of Achilles in Mr. Jernigan’s class. He did a heart, in chains.
It got dark and it started to snow and she had missed her ride with Mr. Gallagher, who had probably found out by now from Regina that she had never shown up. He probably would call Mr. Heath, and her parents.
It was a mess. She felt bad.
They walked all the way to Lenox as the snow fell down in big sloppy flakes. At the arcade, they met up with Teddy. He looked at Willa’s face. “What’s up? I’ve been trying to call you for days.�
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“Nothing.”
“What are you doing with her?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Did she give you drugs?”
“Why did you do it? Why did you sleep with her?”
He stood there looking down at his feet. He had no answer for her.
“I hate you now,” she whispered. “You’re disgusting. I loved you before, but not now.”
He tried to grab her. “Willa.”
“You could have had all of me. But now you get nothing.”
“Please, just come over here. Let me talk to you.”
“Leave me alone,” she said.
“What have you done to her?” he said to Pearl. Pearl’s smile smeared across her face and suddenly Willa didn’t trust her. But she felt a tug of need for her, for her little tin of drugs. “What did you give her?” Teddy kept saying, and when she wouldn’t answer he grabbed her and shoved her hard against the wall, much harder than was necessary, and then he made a big mistake. He hit her. She made a grunting sound when she hit the wall, then looked at him and smiled, so he hit her again.
Everyone saw. They were looking at him. He saw that they were looking and ran out.
A little while later, Mr. Heath showed up. “Willa Golding,” he said. You’re under arrest! “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
Pearl started to laugh. She laughed and laughed. “Stop it,” Willa said. “Stop that laughing.”
“Yes ma’am.” Pearl jumped up and did an army salute and moved her hips like a hula dancer. “At your service, Captain.”
“Let’s go, Willa,” Mr. Heath said quietly, tight-lipped, grabbing her arm roughly, opening the door.
He had his car, an old Volvo station wagon. “I’ve notified your parents,” he said like a cop. “I told them I’d be bringing you home.”
“Oh,” she said, almost like breathing.
He pulled out of town onto the main road. “I spoke with Regina,” he told her. “She was worried when you didn’t show up.”
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