She could do it every time. Suddenly I was fifteen years old again. All arms and legs and no tongue.
She didn’t wait for me to answer. “Don’t you think he looks thin, John?”
A faint smile curved his lips. “I wouldn’t worry about him if I were you,” he said dryly. “He seems quite capable of taking care of himself.”
“He knows nothing about proper diet. I’ll bet he hasn’t eaten a green salad in months. Have you?”
“I didn’t know green salads were fattening.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Gareth. You know perfectly well what I mean.”
“Mother,” I said sharply.
A sudden nervous tremor came into her voice. “What?”
I swallowed my irritation, realizing that it was as difficult for her to communicate with me as it was for me to reach her. There was no mutual ground on which we could walk. Sad. Down deep sad. I kept my voice light. “You look beautiful, Mother.”
She smiled. “Do you mean that?”
“You know I do.”
This was safe ground. Her ground. Her voice relaxed. “I have to. Youth is such a cult these days.”
Not with the young, I thought to myself. “Let me fix you a drink,” I said.
“I’ll have a glass of white wine. Less calories.”
I went around behind the bar and was taking the wine from the refrigerator when the doorbell chimed. I opened the bottle and looked quizzically at my mother. I had thought there were just going to be the three of us.
My mother read the question in my eyes. “I thought it would be nice if we had just one more person. To balance the table. A girl,” she said, taking the glass I offered her. “You remember her. Eileen Sheridan. She was really quite fond of your father.”
This was no time to argue, but I remembered that Eileen had still had braces on her teeth when my father died. Mother greeted her at the door of the library. Eileen had changed since I’d seen her last. A lot.
She held out her hand to me across the bar and smiled. Her teeth were California white and even. “Hello, Gareth. Nice to see you again.”
“Eileen,” I said. Her hand had the Bel Air touch—a cross between the effusiveness of the Beverly Hills girls and the limp politeness of the girls from Holmby Hills. Sincere, polite, cool warmth, I thought. “What are you drinking?”
“What are you drinking?” she asked. Right on. Find out what’s going in the establishment. Don’t make waves. Then I reminded myself that I’d done the same thing a few minutes before.
“I’m on scotch; Uncle John’s into dry martinis; Mother’s having low-cal white wine.”
“I’ll go along with the low-cal.”
There was a pause. “That’s a beautiful Rolls you have out there,” she continued, making conversation.
“Rolls? What Rolls?” Mother was annoyed. “You didn’t tell me you had a Rolls.”
“You asked me to wear a tie, Mother,” I said. “How would it look if I thumb-tripped my way up here?”
“If it’s not your car, whose is it?” My mother was not to be put off. Rich friends were okay.
“A friend’s.”
“That Mexican girl that answered your phone this morning?” she asked suspiciously.
“No, Mother.” I laughed. “She’s got a beat-up old Valiant that would never get past the guards at the main gate.”
“You don’t want to tell me,” she accused.
“Okay, Mother. If you really want to know, it belongs to a boy who’s living with me. He wants to be my slave.”
She didn’t have a clue to what I was talking about. “Slave?”
“Yes. You know, cook, clean, everything.”
“And he has a Rolls-Royce? Where did he get it?”
“He also has a rich father.”
The light suddenly dawned. “Is he—uh?”
I supplied the word for her. “Homosexual? Yes, Mother, he’s gay.”
She stared at me, her glass of wine frozen halfway to her lips.
“Dinner is served,” the butler announced from the doorway.
I smiled at my mother. “Shall we dine?”
Silently we went into the dining room. Mother had pulled out all the stops—the gold flatware, the Coalport china and the Baccarat crystal. The candles were glowing in the tall candelabra, the bases of which were covered with flowers.
“The table is just beautiful, Mrs. Brendan,” Eileen said.
“Thank you,” Mother answered absently. We didn’t exchange another word until the butler had placed the salad in front of us and left the room. Then Mother broke the silence. “I don’t understand you, Gareth. How can you do such a thing?”
“I’m not doing anything, Mother. All I said was that he is living with me.”
Mother stood up suddenly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Margaret!” My uncle’s voice was sharp. “Sit down.”
She stared at him for a moment, then sank back into her chair.
“You invited him for a quiet family dinner,” Uncle John said mildly. “And you’ve been on his back from the moment he came in the door.”
“But—but, John.”
Uncle John didn’t let her continue. “Now we’re going to have a nice quiet dinner just as you said. And if you need any testimonials to your son’s manhood, let me tell you that he is more of a man than his father ever was.”
“May his soul rest in peace,” I said, putting on a slight brogue. I turned to Eileen. “It’s really been nice seeing you again.” Then I got to my feet. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Uncle John, but it doesn’t help. I don’t belong here and I haven’t for a long time. I’m sorry, Mother.”
Uncle John caught up with me at the front door. “Gareth, don’t be a child.”
My voice was bitter. “I’m not being a child. A child would sit there and take that shit.”
His voice was patient. “She’s upset. You know how important this dinner is to her. Please come back to the table.”
I stared at him. I don’t think I had ever heard him say “please” before.
“Let it slide,” he said. “Being angry with her won’t make things better. For either of you.”
I nodded my head. He was right. I was acting like a child. Exactly the way I had always acted toward her. When it would get to be too much, I would go off and sulk. I went back to the table.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” I said again and sat down.
We had the rest of the meal without further bloodshed.
12
After dinner we went back into the library for coffee. The coffee was served in demitasse cups, and the cognac in preheated giant brandy snifters.
“Your father loved to have coffee in here,” Mother said. “He liked to sit on this couch and look out at the fountain and the lights in the pool.” Suddenly she began to cry.
Eileen put her arm around her shoulders. “You mustn’t cry, Mrs. Brendan,” she said. “It’s all in the past.”
“Not for me,” Mother said in a tight, almost angry voice. “Not until I know why he did this to me.”
“He didn’t do it to you, Mother,” I said. “He did it to himself.”
“I still don’t understand why he did it. All they wanted him to do was to answer some questions. The investigation afterward proved he had done nothing wrong.”
That was her opinion. But the facts were that the government recognized that they couldn’t put a corpse in jail. So they wrapped up the case and put it away. I looked at my uncle. His face was impassive.
“Maybe you could explain it to her, Uncle John,” I said.
“I already have. I told your mother that he was a fool. There was nothing they could do to him.”
I didn’t believe that and neither did he. He had one story for me and another for my mother. “Then what was he afraid of?” I asked. “He couldn’t be held responsible for the collapse of that school building.”
My uncle’s voice was expressionless. “Perhaps he was afraid
that the politicians would lay the blame on him for their negligence in not placing stricter quality controls in their contracts.”
“Could it be that someone got to the politicians and made them ease up?” I asked.
His eyes were unblinking. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Uncle John is right,” I said. “Father lived up to the contract. If the contract wasn’t good, he was not to blame. But unfortunately, Father couldn’t convince himself of that. He knew the specs were substandard. So he did what he did and the only thing you can do is accept it. Once you do that, you can put it away and go back to living a normal life.”
“There’s no such thing as a normal life for me,” she said.
“Don’t give me that crap, Mother,” I said. “You haven’t stopped playing tennis, have you?”
Her eyes dropped. She knew what I meant. She had a thing for tennis pros and I knew that several of them had serviced her with more than just tennis balls.
“Have you ever thought about getting married again, Mother?” I asked.
“Who would want to marry an old woman like me?”
I laughed. “You’re not old and you know it. Besides, you’re a beautiful lady and you’ve got a few million in the bank. It’s an unbeatable combination. All you have to do is loosen up a little and stop dropping ice cubes if some guy wants to make it with you.”
She was torn, liking the flattery but wanting to assume the proper attitude. “Gareth, try to remember that you’re talking to your mother.”
“I remember, Mother.” I laughed. “And since I’m not the product of an immaculate conception, I want to remind you that it’s still fun.”
She shook her head. “There’s no talking to you, is there? Isn’t there anything you respect, Gareth?”
“No, Mother. Not anymore. There was a time I used to believe in a lot of things. Honesty, decency, goodness. But if you get dumped on enough, you get cured. I’ve been dumped on enough.”
“Then what is it you’re looking for?”
“I want to be rich. Not just simple rich like Father was, not even rich rich like Uncle John, but superrich. When you’re superrich, you’ve got the world by the balls. Money buys everything—society, politicians, property, power. All you have to do is have the money to pay for it. And the irony is when you have the money, you don’t have to pay for anything. People tumble all over themselves to give it to you for free.”
“And you think this paper will do it for you?” Uncle John asked, with mild curiosity in his voice.
“No, Uncle John. But it’s a beginning.” I got to my feet. “It’s after ten, Mother,” I said. “I’ve got some work to do.”
“What kind of work?”
“The paper has been on the stands in Hollywood since this morning. I’d like to check and see how they’re doing.”
“I haven’t seen a copy of the paper. Would you send me one?”
“Of course.”
Uncle John cleared his throat. “I really don’t think you’d be interested in that sort of paper, Margaret.”
“Why not?”
“Well—it’s sort of, uh, pornographic.”
Mother turned to me. “Is it?”
“That’s Uncle John’s opinion. I don’t think it is. You read it for yourself and make up your own mind.”
“I will,” she said firmly. “You send it to me.”
“I’ll be leaving, too,” Eileen said, getting up. “I have some early classes tomorrow.”
We exchanged goodnights. I kissed Mother on the cheek and left her there with Uncle John. Eileen and I went out together. The Rolls and the big Caddy were the only cars in the driveway. “Where’s your car?” I asked.
“I walked over. It’s only two houses down the road, remember?”
I remembered. “Hop in,” I said. “I’ll drop you off.”
We got into the car and she opened her purse. “Want a smoke?”
“You got one?”
“I’m always prepared. I didn’t know what kind of night it would be.” She lit the joint as I pulled the car out of the driveway. She took a deep toke and passed it to me.
When we arrived at her driveway, she touched my arm to keep me from turning in. “Can I go downtown with you?”
I gave the joint back to her and kept on going. “Sure.” I glanced at her face in the glow of the dashboard lights. “What made you come tonight?”
“I was curious about you. I heard so many stories.” She turned to me. “You’re not really gay, are you?”
I met her glance. “Sometimes.”
“Most guys who say they’re bi are really only one way.”
“Want proof?” I asked. I took her hand and put it down on my hard-on. All it took to get me there was good grass and the right company.
She pulled her hand away. “I believe you.”
“Want me to take you home now?”
“No. Besides, I want to get a copy of your paper to see for myself what it’s like.”
I pulled the Rolls into a parking-meter space across the street from the newsstand in front of the Ranch Market on La Brea. We sat in the car and watched the action. The usual night crawlers were hanging out. They wore a look of bored patience. It was still early for them. The crunch would come about midnight. If they didn’t score by 1 A.M. the ball game would be called for the night.
We got out of the car, locked it and crossed the street. I started at the corner and walked down past the rows of paperback books and magazines, looking for the paper. I found it near the cash register.
While Eileen hung in back of me, I pretended to be a customer and picked up a copy. I started to open it, but there was a small piece of Scotch tape that bound the edges closed.
The man at the register scarcely looked at me as he spoke. His eyes kept darting up and down the newsstand. “Costs you fifty cents to look at the pussy.”
“It looks like a throwaway. How do I know it’s not a rip-off?”
He gestured with his thumb. I looked at the back of the stand. The paper’s centerfold was tacked along the backboard. “Fifty cents,” he said in a rasping voice.
“I never saw this paper before,” I said, handing him the change.
“Just out today.”
“How’s it going?”
“I started out this afternoon with fifty. I got maybe five left.” For the first time his eyes focused on me. “You the law?”
“No, the publisher.”
His weather-beaten face cracked in a smile. “You got a hot number there, sonny. You gotta make a lotta money if they don’t hassle you.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe you can help me out. I called Ronzi and asked him for a hundred more. I got a big weekend coming up.”
“What’d he say?”
“No dice. He says there ain’t no more. Now I’m sorry I didn’t take the hundred he tried to lay on me.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
It was the same everywhere we went—Hollywood Boulevard, Sunset, Western Avenue. On the way back to Eileen’s house we stopped in at M.F.K.’s drugstore in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. The paper wasn’t on the small stand there. It was in a vending machine, with a sticker price of fifty cents. While we watched, a man threw two quarters in the slot and took the last copy.
At the counter I ordered a coffee for her and an all-black soda with an extra seltzer for me. As I sucked up the bitter sweetness, I watched her go through the paper. Finally, she looked at me. “Not bad.”
I lit a cigarette. “Thanks.”
“I can make a few suggestions if they won’t trip over your ego.”
“Suggest away.”
“The paper’s got a lot of guts and vitality,” she said, taking the cigarette from my hand. “But there’s a lot you don’t know.”
I nodded for her to go on and lit another cigarette.
“First, the writing is all the same style. It looks as if one man did it all.”
“One man did,” I said. “Me.”
“Not bad,” she said. “But you could use a change-up pitcher. Another thing, you have the lead article on page seven. The lead article should always be on page three, so that the reader catches it the minute he opens the paper.”
I said nothing.
“Want me to continue?”
I nodded.
“The typography should be cleaned up. Whoever sets it hasn’t the faintest idea of the content of the story. It’ll make the paper look crisper. Who’s in charge of typesetting?”
“The printer takes care of that.”
“He must charge you plenty for it. You ought to be able to get your own machine for about three thousand. You’ll get a better job and the machine should pay for itself in a couple of months.”
“You sound like an expert.”
“Journalism major for four years. I’ve got my BA and I’m working on my master’s. For the past two years I’ve been editor-in-chief of the Trojan.”
“You are an expert. I appreciate your comments. They make a lot of sense.”
“If you like, I’ll come down to the paper and see if I can help out.”
“That would be nice, but why the interest?”
“I guess maybe it’s because you’ve got something new. I don’t quite understand it yet, but I have the feeling that you’ve come up with a new kind of communication. An interpersonal thing. The paper seems to be talking to people, saying things that maybe they thought about but never put into words.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
Her eyes were level. “That’s the way I meant it.”
I reached for the check. “Thank you. I’ll take you home now. You give me a call when you’re ready to come down.”
She smiled. “Tomorrow afternoon okay?”
13
The lights were on in the office when I pulled up. The door was unlocked. Persky was at his desk. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
“What’s up?”
“Ronzi’s been on my back since seven o’clock tonight. He wants another five thousand copies in the morning. He’s getting calls from dealers all over town.”
“Good. Tell him no.”
“He said he’ll pay cash.”
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