The Third Angel

by Alice Hoffman

  Frieda smiled. She knew those girls were looking for John Lennon, but willing to settle for anyone. Well, she was somebody, wasn't she? She was happy to be where she was, away from the winding roads that led to her father's patients. Away from home. She had gotten a letter from her mother that day. It was not a normal letter. It was more of a list. It even had a title: When He Leaves You. It was all about practical matters, how to tie up loose ends, going to the bank, for instance, dividing possessions into boxes and cartons, returning gifts he gave you or selling them at auction for the best price. Things had not been going well for Frieda's mum. She couldn't give up on the doctor, even though he was living in a cottage in that little town with the toll bridge and the willow trees. He'd told Frieda that life was complicated. She of all people would understand that a person had to live it to the fullest. She had seen what he'd had to deal with over the years. The Angel of Death who'd come to sit in the backseat of his car. The dark country roads at night. He needed some time alone to reassess his life. It took Frieda a while to realize that her father wasn't alone, he was with that woman, the one who'd cried. Well, maybe Frieda needed to be selfish as well. Maybe she needed to reassess, too. She hoped her father remembered that when he was unhappy with her. This, after all, was her one and only life.

  At the club the Ridge sisters belonged to, customers and their guests had to have their names on a list, and Jamie did. “There are my friends,” he said. He pulled Frieda through the crowd and no one questioned her right to be there. Jamie's hand was big and callused and Frieda's hand fit inside his perfectly. She felt that she was burning, that she'd wind up like the carpet in his room, scorched by his touch.

  There were so many people at the Egyptian Club, Frieda didn't have time to feel awkward. She wasn't beautiful like most of the other women, or rich; she wasn't anything much, she supposed. But she'd ridden with the Angel of Death, maybe that was where she'd gained her courage. She didn't feel intimidated, even here where she didn't belong. When they got to the table of Jamie's friends, Jamie shook hands with Nick, then went to kiss Stella hello. Stella let herself be kissed, but she was staring at Frieda. Her lips were pursed. She took a drag of a cigarette.

  “That's your jacket,” Stella said.

  “I lost it in a bet. Sit down,” Jamie told Frieda. Frieda dropped into the closest chair. Her black dress really was short. “This is Frieda. She's my muse,” Jamie explained to Stella.

  “Are you kidding?” Stella said. “I'm supposed to be your fucking muse, Jamie, not some stranger.” Stella's hair was almost white and she was wearing a filmy blue dress. Crushed into a corner was a coat made of python. She had a hurt look on her face.

  “A muse isn't something you choose. It just happens, Stella. It's called art,” Jamie said.

  Frieda felt herself flush; she felt like the other angel her father had always spoken of, not the ones who rode with them, but the one who walked among men and women. She felt as though she had a duty in this world, to be there for Jamie, to inspire him.

  “This is Stella and Marianne and Nick,” Jamie told Frieda. He signaled a waiter over and ordered champagne. Möet. It was going on Stella's account. He ordered two bottles. Stella never minded; she liked him to spend money. It was her father's, after all. Somebody had to get rid of it. She wasn't so pleased tonight, however. “You'd better make certain she's not a muse you're fucking,” she said.

  Stella had a strand of what looked like sapphires and diamonds around her throat. The stones were huge; the chain was twenty-two-karat gold. She reached out to take Frieda's hand. Her skin felt extremely cold. Frieda noted that her pupils were dilated. Her nails were long and painted ice white. “So what is it you do other than steal people's jackets and amuse them?”She pressed Frieda's hand so hard that Frieda's bones hurt. Stella seemed dangerous, the way the wounded often are.

  “I work in a hotel.” Frieda withdrew her hand. She felt as though she'd been bitten by a snake. She felt violated. She thought of saying, I wash toilets and pick up trash and take people's dirty linens off their beds. Instead she smiled. She should have known Jamie would have a girlfriend. There was no reason to be shocked or stunned or disappointed. But a girlfriend wasn't necessarily permanent. That had been on her mother's list of things to know about love and marriage: Nothing lasts forever.

  Marianne was leaning against Nick's shoulder and nodding out. She had long black hair down to her waist and ten gold bangle bracelets on each arm. Her bangs were nearly over her eyes, which were a surprising green, whenever she bothered to open them. Her skin was as white as Stella's; Frieda could see the veins running up and down her arms. She had abscesses, too, red and black against the white. She had enough energy to say to Frieda, “Don't think you can win against Stella. She's much smarter than you'd guess. She's definitely smarter than me. She certainly was last night.”

  Stella and Marianne laughed. They had a hundred private jokes.

  “What about you?” Frieda asked Stella. “What do you do?”

  “Whatever Jamie wants me to,” Stella said. “When he's not being a total ass.”

  When the champagne arrived Frieda ordered a beer—she was already tipsy from the whisky and she knew champagne was dangerous. It tasted too good; she might go on drinking and wind up doing something she would regret. Beer was simple.

  People were dancing; the music was so loud it got inside your head. A friend of Jamie's, some record executive, asked Frieda to dance. Her first impulse was to say no; the man was much older and Frieda didn't like crowded dance floors. She preferred to observe. Then, of course, there was Jamie. She didn't really want to leave him in Stella's clutches.

  “Go ahead,” Stella urged Frieda. Her sister hadn't been kidding. She looked like a featherweight, but she was smart and strategic. “We wouldn't want you to be lonely,” she purred. “There's nothing worse than being a fifth wheel.”

  Stella and Frieda assessed each other.

  “I know what you're trying to do,” Frieda said.

  “So glad to hear that. I love a fair fight, if that's what you think this is.” Stella looked right at her; her eyes were cloudy and blue. “Just so you know—we're not even in the same universe.”

  All at once, Frieda had the sense that Stella was right, that she wasn't quite human and that Frieda would never win a battle against her.

  Jamie had been talking to the older man. Now he leaned over to whisper to Frieda. “He's the guy who's recording me.”

  “Don't worry,” she whispered back. “I'll tell him how wonderful you are.”

  While she was out on the dance floor, Frieda felt lost; her head was pounding. There were so many people and the lights kept changing color and the fellow she was with was a terrible dancer. He was embarrassing really. He was almost as old as her father. Before the song was over, Frieda saw Stella and Jamie get up from the table. Jamie helped Stella out from the booth. Frieda thought she should probably leave the club, go find Lennie, and head out for a drink with someone who really knew her at a pub where they could have fun. She didn't belong here, and what was more she didn't want to. But she stayed; she had a drink at the bar with her dance partner, the A&R man who worked for Capitol Records in the States and told a long story about his divorce. He must have thought Frieda was interested in how his wife had never been there for him when he needed her and how she gave their kids all of her attention. He must have thought she gave a damn. But at last, he spoke about something that did interest her: Jamie. He told Frieda that Jamie's recording date had been moved up to the following week. They were very excited about him. They had been looking for a singer-songwriter, someone like Dylan. All he needed was a band to back him. Yes, the concerts hadn't gone very well, but that was because he wasn't playing his own material. Once there was a record of original songs, that would change. All in all, they thought Jamie had something special.

  “Oh, he does,” Frieda was quick to agree. “He could probably use an advance like all creative artists, though. You wouldn't w
ant to lose somebody as talented as Jamie because you didn't pay him enough.”

  The A&R man gave her a look. This girl was smarter than he'd expected, despite those Cleopatra eyes. She reminded him of some agents he'd worked with; you thought you were out having a good time with someone, then it turned out they'd had an agenda all along.

  “Don't worry about Jamie on that score. He's got a girl-friend with a pile of money. I guess it doesn't matter if she's got a famous heroin habit.”

  “I've got to work in the morning,” Frieda said. “Nice to meet you.”

  The record rep slipped her his card, which she dropped on the floor on her way to search for a ladies' room. She had to ask three people before she found the ladies' lounge, and when she got there, there was a long line out the door.

  “Why can't people get high before they get here so a person can piss in peace?” the girl in front of her said crossly. There were perhaps twenty women on line. At last the door opened and Jamie and Stella tumbled out. Jamie had his arm wrapped around Stella and she looked limp, very rag doll, very beautiful and incapacitated, light as air.

  Frieda felt herself hating Stella, something she rarely felt. Then she hated herself for feeling jealous. She had become sour and small, a nobody. From her place in line she could see them make their way back to the table. They slid into their booth, so close together you could hardly tell where one ended and one began. Stella curled up against Jamie. They looked perfect, really; they fit together.

  “I'm not going to wait here all night,” Frieda told the girl in front of her in line.

  “Good for you,” the girl said. “Piss somewhere where you can piss in peace.”

  Frieda left the club and started walking. She didn't have enough money for a taxi. She felt hot and stupid. She thought about her mother's letter. Always know what's yours and what's his. Don't become dependent. Have your own bank account. Once he's left, clean out all the closets. A mess never helped anyone.

  It was always the doctor who was the center of everything, whom Frieda admired. Her mother nagged and worried, but now Frieda wondered if she shouldn't have listened when her mother spoke, at least occasionally; she might have learned something.

  Frieda cut through the park and hurried through the dark. She was glad she hadn't had any champagne. At least she wasn't drunk. She didn't care if the park was dangerous at this hour; she wasn't in a caring mood. She started running. She'd been a runner in high school and it felt good to let go. There was cigarette smoke in her hair and it drifted off into the night air while she ran. Little gatherings were taking place all through the park and Frieda could smell hashish. She felt as though she was the only person alive. She felt as though Jamie had been carried off and was so far away she would never be able to get to where he was.

  She crossed lawns and trotted across the grass, then ran along the bridle path. She would have done better to have been a horse, a white horse standing in the countryside in the dark, beneath a twisted, black apple tree. She'd spent too much time with the Angel of Death. She knew things she shouldn't, but she still didn't understand human beings. They lied and cheated and stole and loved the wrong people. There was no way to fix that, was there? No little pill that could make someone want you the way you wanted him.

  When Frieda got to the hotel, she leaned down to catch her breath. She hadn't run this far in quite some time. She heard a man coughing. There was Teddy Healy, the drunk from the hotel, sitting on the sidewalk, his back against the wall.

  “You again,” Frieda said.

  Teddy Healy stared at her. Then he turned his head and coughed terribly. Could it be the first stages of emphysema? Frieda wondered. Of course he didn't recognize her.

  “You were thrown out drunk and I helped put you in a taxi.” Frieda tried to refresh his memory. “Remember?”

  “Sorry,” Teddy said. “At least tonight I could walk out of my own volition before I collapsed.”

  “What does being drunk do for you?”

  “You are young, aren't you? It allows me to be as close to dead as possible while still being alive. It's a lack of courage. Isn't that obvious? I lost something and I can't get it back.”

  “Maybe you should stop thinking about yourself and start doing something for other people. Maybe that would snap you out of it.”

  Teddy Healy actually laughed. “Are you telling me how to repair my life?”

  “No. I'm saying save someone else's.”

  Frieda thought about her own advice as she went inside. It was exactly the sort of thing her father would have said. Well, he'd be right on this account. The more you gave, the more you got back. Frieda was convinced of it. She would think of this night as a bad dream, one she had escaped from. If she ever had sapphires she wouldn't need them to be so gaudy. If she ever had Jamie, she wouldn't treat him so carelessly.

  She changed out of her black dress into jeans and an old shirt. Lennie wasn't in bed. After thinking it over, Frieda took her keys and went up to the seventh floor. It was quiet and no one was around. Frieda went into the maid's closet and got her basket and some linens. She walked down the long, cold hall. She simply wasn't the type to give up. She let herself into Jamie's room and locked the door behind her. It was dark and for a moment she stood there unable to make out anything. She remembered that her mother had written something about cleaning up messes in order to see what was right in front of you.

  Frieda switched on the lights and surveyed Jamie's disaster, then she got to work. She stripped the bed and gathered all the dirty laundry and towels, which she put into the wash down in the third-floor laundry room to run while she was cleaning. She did a fabulous job; she even scrubbed the bathtub and polished the furniture with lemon oil. She thought she heard a man yelling while she was vacuuming and maybe she was making too much noise, but then she realized it must be the ghost across the hall. It was ten-thirty. She quickly opened the door, but no one was there. The door of 707 was closed and the Do Not Disturb sign was hanging from the knob, so maybe someone was staying there. Maybe it really was John Lennon or some other musician who wasn't afraid of spirits. Anyway, if anyone would have ever seen a ghost, it would have been Frieda's father, he'd spent so much time with the dying and the dead. But Dr. Lewis had never said a word about ghosts. Once a person had passed, what was left was the body, nothing mystical there. Except for that one night when they'd gone over the toll bridge into the village with the willow trees. When he'd called that woman's dead husband by name.

  Frieda went back to her cleaning. She was actually enjoying it. She thought of her mother, packing up all of her father's clothes into cardboard boxes and driving them out to the cottage and leaving them on the lawn. If she and Jamie were over before they'd even begun, well at least the end would be orderly. When Frieda had finished and was waiting for Jamie's clothes to dry, she sat by the desk and opened the drawer. There were vials of pills, a container of marijuana, a small pipe, and several waxy envelopes. She opened one of the envelopes and stuck her finger inside. White powder. She tasted it and it made her mouth go numb. She understood that people tried to ease their pain and that sometimes they destroyed themselves without even trying. She thought about riding in the car with her father; he never judged his patients. That wasn't in his nature, and it wasn't in hers. The only people they judged were each other.

  Frieda put everything away and closed the desk drawer. Then she opened it again and took out the sheaf of Lion Park writing paper and a pen and started another poem or song or whatever it was. She wrote down stray words. She poured herself a glass of whisky—she knew the glass was clean now, for she'd washed it.

  White powder. The way I love you. The way I shouldn't. Riding late at night. Who is behind me? Who is in front of me? Who is waiting for me? No one's on the road. No one's going where I am. How will I know who the angel is? How will I recognize his face?

  Frieda was writing so fast she wasn't even thinking. She was so hot she had started to sweat; there was a line of perspiratio
n down her back and her chest. She felt the way she had when she was writing the other lyrics, transported somehow, out of time and space.

  He's not the angel in the backseat of the car. He's not the one who's driving with me. But he knows my name. He knows my game.

  At the top of the page Frieda wrote THE THIRD ANGEL.

  She sat there and finished her drink; she still felt hot, but it was a good feeling. It was not unlike the way she felt when she'd been running and then had reached her destination and could finally stop and take a deep breath.

  Frieda went to fetch Jamie's laundry from the third floor. As she was going up the stairs she ran smack into Lennie.

  “Jesus, Frieda, what the hell are you doing here?”

  Lennie looked a little drunk herself. She was wearing her best dress, a silvery mini she had gotten in a sale on the King's Road, and heels so high she wobbled. Her hair was uncombed. She had on a lot of makeup. She looked guilty, as though she'd been caught pilfering.

  “I'm doing laundry,” Frieda said.

  Lennie shook her head as if she didn't believe it. “Right. Now tell me you're from Mars.”

  “All right, it's Jamie's laundry. I'm overly involved, I agree. I know I shouldn't be washing his clothes, so shut up.”

  “I won't tell anyone,” Lennie said. “I won't even tell you what an idiot you are. That's what friends are for. We'll ask no questions and give no false answers. Not either one of us.”

  They stared at each other. Frieda had a strange feeling, as though she had run into an alternate Lennie, not the girl who had become her best friend. Lennie looked tired; her eyes were small. She smelled like drink and her lipstick was smeared.

  “I'm going to bed,” Lennie said. “Forget you ever saw me here, Frieda.”