“Kathy won’t be having lunch,” he said.
“She never does on Sundays, idiot,” Sissy said.
The three were left in uncomfortable silence. Lorraine knew the dolls were a mistake—certainly for Julia, who seemed sophisticated and grown-up. Sally sat with her head bowed.
“I’m sorry not to have kept in touch with you both …” Lorraine said haltingly.
Julia gave her a strange, furtive look. “That’s okay. This is me winning a swimming prize at school.” Lorraine leaned forward to look at the photograph, and the tension eased slightly.
Lunch was served inside because it was cooler, and Julia showed Lorraine where the bathroom was so she could wash her hands. Lorraine crept from room to room, peeking in at each door, until she found her daughters’ bedroom. It was full of posters and rugs, old teddy bears and a closet bulging with clothes. Untidy comforters lay on their unmade beds, but it was a room any girl would covet. The last door she opened revealed Mike’s study, the walls covered with pictures of the family, and some of himself on fishing trips. There was a large modern desk with stacks of files and papers, and Lorraine was just closing the door when she caught sight of a picture of herself, with the girls. It surprised her that he would have it, and she edged into the room, afraid someone would hear her creeping around.
She leaned across the desk to get a better view of the photograph and then froze as she inadvertently knocked some papers onto the floor. They were business letters, and as she picked them up, one of the letterheads caught her eye. It belonged to a vintage automobile reconditioning firm, specializing in imported cars. The letter confirmed that leather upholstery had been installed in a Mercedes 1966 classic sports car, and the client had refused to accept the costs. It was not, however, the contents of the letter that caught Lorraine’s attention, it was the small black and green oval raised letters of the company logo: S & A. She was almost certain she had seen it before … and not on a letter.… It was on a pair of cuff links.
“Lorraine? Lorraine?” Mike was calling her, and she quickly slipped the letter back into the pile and hurried out.
At lunch, the conversation—strained at best—turned to the subject of cars.
“What do you drive now?” Lorraine asked.
Mike grunted and prodded one of the boys. “I have to have a bus for this crowd, it’s an old station wagon. But Sissy has an MG—it’s an English sports car.”
“I do know what an MG is,” Lorraine said.
Sissy flicked a look at Mike and then smiled. “That was more for my benefit—it’s always in the garage, not because I’ve done anything to it, but because of the spares.”
“Is there a good garage near you?” Lorraine asked innocently.
Mike nodded. “Yeah, there is. It specializes in vintage and foreign cars, big money in it. They’ve got Rolls-Royces and Bentleys and Mercedes-Benzes—”
Lorraine interrupted, “Is it a big company?”
“Pretty substantial, well, their cars are. I don’t really know how big a business it is.”
“How many people does it employ?”
Mike looked a little puzzled, but said, “Maybe twenty or thirty, I don’t know. Why?”
Lorraine smiled. “I’m sure a friend of mine bought a car from a garage around here—maybe S and A?”
Mike nodded. “Well, that’s the company’s logo all right—in fact, I’m doing some business with them. Got your license back, have you?”
Lorraine blushed. “No, but I can’t afford a car anyway.”
“Not from S and A.” Mike laughed, then gave Sissy a side look, wondering if Lorraine was going to hit him for money and he blushed slightly.
“Does your friend live around here?” Sissy asked.
“No, I just heard the garage mentioned. And I don’t need any money, Mike, I didn’t come for that, okay?”
Julia got up, cupping her hands to whisper in Sissy’s ear. She frowned and shook her head. “No, you can’t, now sit down.”
Julia pouted and slumped back at the table. The room grew silent. Sissy shrugged her perfect shoulders. “She wants to go play tennis.”
Julia snapped, “I always play tennis on Sunday afternoons.”
Mike wagged his finger. “Not this Sunday. Now, help your mother clear the table and—”
Lorraine stood up. “No, that’s okay—you go play tennis, Julia. I don’t mind, I have to go in a few minutes anyway.”
Mike stacked the dishes, anything to cover his embarrassment. “Well, it’s up to you, but since you’ve come all this way—”
“I can come again—if you don’t mind …”
“Where’s Rufus?” Sally demanded, and suddenly they were all calling the dog. It seemed they all wanted to find an excuse to leave the room. Lorraine went over to the bag she’d brought, and took out the box with the doll. “Sally?” She went out to the veranda. “I brought you this—maybe it’s a bit childish for you, I just thought you’d kind of like it.”
Sally opened the box and looked at the doll. “Does it talk? My friend Angela’s got one that talks and sleeps and cries, and you feed it with a bottle and it wets itself.”
Lorraine looked at the moody-faced child. “This one drinks and then if you press its stomach, it spits in your face.”
The little girl’s mouth trembled.
“Sally, it was just a joke!”
The child ran into the house, past Mike. Lorraine laughed at his worried expression. “S’okay, Mike, I was never very good with them anyway. I got to go.”
Mike sat on the edge of the bench seat. “I’m sorry. It’ll take them a while to get used to you—that is, if you’re planning to make this a regular—”
“Would you mind?”
“No, well, maybe … I don’t know, it’s kind of taken us all by surprise. I think they’re scared you’ve come to take them away.” He stared at her. “You haven’t, though, have you?”
Lorraine hugged her arms around herself tightly. “I wouldn’t want to do anything that’d upset them. Besides, I kind of don’t know them anymore—and you’ve changed. She’s got you domesticated, carrying dishes back and forth.”
Sissy came out, overhearing the last remark.
She put down the coffeepot, and went back into the house.
“Can you call me a taxi?”
Lorraine was relieved when the cab arrived. She kept the doll she had bought for Julia, because she didn’t want Julia to know that she had still thought of her as a little girl; she noticed that Sally hadn’t even taken hers out of its box. Sally wouldn’t kiss Lorraine goodbye, but hung on to Sissy. Mike kissed her cheek, and Sissy shook her hand—she had a strong, firm grip. She stared coldly at Lorraine as she said, without any warmth, “Do come again.” Seeing them grouped together, waving, Lorraine knew she would never come back.
She asked the cabdriver to take her past the S & A garage. Two large showrooms were filled with vintage cars, but it was closed. Lorraine got out and walked along the showroom window, peering inside, and shaded her eyes to look at the counter. Dinky toy cars and memorabilia were displayed, but she couldn’t see any cuff links. By the time she returned to the cab, she was sweating again. It was three o’clock, the sun was blistering, so she asked the driver to stop at the next grocery store so she could buy a can of Coke.
At ten o’clock Rosie called Jake to say that Lorraine still hadn’t come home, and she was worried. Maybe she was staying over, he suggested. If she was really worried, why not call? She had the number. Jake was exhausted: they had finished painting the kitchen and the bedroom, and put all the furniture back in place. Rosie waited until eleven before she called Mike Page, and was told that Lorraine had left around three. She called Jake. Already in bed, he was annoyed at being disturbed again. “Rosie, what do you expect me to do? I’m not her keeper. I’m not responsible for what she does or does not do. Now let me get some sleep, okay?”
At midnight, Rosie went to bed. The smell of fresh paint made her feel sick, an
d she couldn’t get to sleep, so she got up, made herself some iced tea, and sat by the window. Then she watched some late-night television and eventually, at two-thirty, went back to bed.
Monday morning and Lorraine had still not returned, so Rosie called Jake again, but he had left for work, and she didn’t want to pester him there. She told herself she was overreacting, but when Lorraine had still not appeared at four in the afternoon, she took a bus to the gallery. It was shut so she squinted through the window and saw that all the canvases had been removed. The place looked deserted, so she went home.
For want of something better to do, and to take her mind off Lorraine, Rosie began to clear out her bedroom cupboards and drawers, tossing out junk she had hoarded. A new portable wardrobe had been assembled in a corner of the newly painted bedroom. Rosie pushed it into position and began to fill it with Lorraine’s few possessions. Last of all she put in the shoes—and that was when she found the roll of money. She was amazed at the amount, then felt guilty because it would look as if she had been searching through Lorraine’s personal belongings. She had, of course, but not with any ulterior motive.
Jake dropped by at seven o’clock that evening. There was still no word from Lorraine. Rosie was upset. Jake took her to a meeting; he had a good idea that Lorraine would eventually come home, and he refused to borrow his friend’s car to go on a street-by-street search. If she had started out in Santa Monica, God alone knew where she was by now.
They came back to Rosie’s just after ten, and ate some takeout food. Midway through the meal they heard a screaming, hoarse voice. Jake gestured for Rosie to stay at the table and crossed to the window, peered out, and sighed. “She’s home. I’d better go and give her a hand.”
Rosie could hear the sound of breaking glass, and went to the window.
Lorraine was standing in the middle of the road, swinging a doll by its arm. Her blouse was torn, her skirt hanging off, and she was filthy. She swiped at Jake.
“Fuck off! Fucking leave me alone, you shit!”
Jake backed off, arms raised, and Lorraine kicked out at him, swearing. A woman with a shopping cart was passing by and Lorraine caught her stare. “What you fucking looking at, you cunt? Fuck off—go on!”
Jake had to coax and cajole her to come to the stairs leading up to Rosie’s apartment. It took him fifteen minutes to get her up them. She took two steps up and fell down three. She screeched with laughter, then slowly crawled up, only to insist on going down again to pick up her doll.
At last Jake got her into the apartment. She stood by the door.
“Hi, Rosie. He fucked you yet?”
Rosie went into the kitchen as Jake tried to get Lorraine onto the sofa. Halfway there she yanked off her shirt, stripping it away from her skinny body: she fumbled with Jake’s pants. He swiped her hand aside and dragged her to the sofa, she fell, and slithered onto the floor.
“Run the shower, Rosie,” Jake said.
Lorraine stank of booze, vomit, and urine. She was dirty, her face looked as if she had been facedown in some dirt track, and her eyes seemed even bluer than usual because they were red-rimmed. She had obviously not slept during the missing day. She refused to release the doll even when they half carried her into the shower, ran the cold water over her, and between them stripped off her clothes, Jake paying no attention to her naked body, apart from glancing at Rosie when he saw the fresh red bruises, and then again when he saw how badly scarred her body was—old scars, deep marks, crude stitches.
Rosie wanted to weep at seeing her friend like this, but instead she determinedly gathered towels and soaped Lorraine clean. Lorraine became subdued and listless, but she would not let go of the doll. Washed, with a clean nightgown on, she lay down on Rosie’s bed.
“Best to let her sleep it off,” Jake said, and ushered Rosie out of the bedroom. They picked up the filthy clothes and tossed them into the trash can. Lorraine fell into a deep, comalike sleep. Rosie checked on her throughout the night, in case she vomited and choked to death. Jake left, depressed, though it was hardly unexpected. He’d seen it all before with Rosie—but at least Lorraine had been easier to get up the stairs.
Rosie slept on the sofa. She was woken by Lorraine stumbling out of the bedroom. Her face looked pale green, and there were deep, dark rings beneath her eyes.
“Coffee” was about the only word she could squeeze out. Her head felt like someone had attached a chunk of concrete to it, with a bolt hammered into her skull to keep it steady. She needed Rosie to help her back to bed, and she moaned in agony as she lay down. Ice packs were prepared, and gently Rosie rested them on her forehead. Lorraine slept for the remainder of the day, waking again in the early evening. By then she was able to move around more easily. “What day is it?”
“Tuesday evening.”
“Wake me up on Friday.” Lorraine gave a wan smile and lay down on the sofa.
Rosie shopped, using Lorraine’s hidden savings: she would tell her when the time was right, but she couldn’t talk to Lorraine the way she was, and the rent was due. So Rosie kept dipping in.
It was Friday before Lorraine’s hangover lifted. She was quiet, staring into space, unable to hold a conversation. Every time she attempted to explain herself, her voice trailed off in midsentence.
Rosie stroked her head. “Honey, you don’t have to explain. I’ve been there. Just get better, then we can talk.”
Lorraine clasped her hand. “Thanks.”
Rosie smiled, dipped into the savings again, and went out to buy some steak: Lorraine needed her strength built up. She also paid the telephone bill, the electric bill—dip, dip, dip—but she’d admit it when Lorraine was better. It wasn’t stealing, she told herself—what was hers was Lorraine’s, after all—it was just that, right now, she was short of cash.
On the weekend when Jake came by Lorraine greeted him warmly.
He cocked his head to one side. “Back in the land of the living now, are we?”
Lorraine blushed. “Oh. Were you here?”
“Who do you think carried you up the fuckin’ stairs? You really went for it, didn’t you?”
Lorraine gave him that odd, lopsided, squint-eyed look. “Christ only knows who I went with. I don’t remember anyone’s dick making a great impression.”
Jake turned away: he was never sure about her, she had a filthy mouth one minute, the next she came on like a real lady. “If I was you, I’d get down to a clinic and get checked out. You smelled like a sewer.”
She was unable to meet his steady gaze. At least she could still be ashamed, he thought, that was something in her favor. “Rosie’s been taking good care of you, so you make sure you say thank you.”
“I don’t need you to tell me to do that, Jake.” Her voice was so husky he had to strain to hear what she said.
“What?”
“I said I’d go and have a checkup, okay?”
“Good. I suggest you come to a meeting, and keep on coming for a few days, unless you got to go to work. You still think you got work at the gallery? I passed it two days ago and it looked all shut up.”
She walked into the bedroom. “Soon as I feel fit enough I’ll be out looking for another job.”
Rosie banged open the screen door, her arms bulging with groceries. Jake took the loaded bags from her. “You’ve been spending a lot lately, haven’t you?”
“Let’s just say I’ve had kind of a windfall. Now, will you stay for dinner? I got some steaks and salad and I’ll make baked potatoes.”
Jake put the bags on the kitchen table. “Sounds good!” He continued, whispering, “She should have herself checked out at a clinic.”
“She’s only got a hangover, Jake.”
“She could also have HIV, venereal disease, and Christ only knows what else, so get her down to a clinic.”
Rosie looked toward the bedroom wondering if Lorraine had heard, then started unpacking the groceries.
Lorraine had heard, and rested back on Rosie’s bed. She was sobe
r. She had little or no recollection of what she had done or where she had been. She dimly remembered stopping off in the cab, going to buy a can of Coke, and coming out with two liters of vodka. She had a vague impression of having been thrown out of the same taxi, thumbing a lift from a trucker, and then—blank.
She sighed. Maybe it was better this way. She didn’t know why she was getting herself straightened out again. Now she knew she didn’t have anyone to do it for. She closed her eyes, making a silent decision that as soon as Rosie and Jake left the apartment, she’d pack up what she had, get her stash of money, and go. Go and get so drunk she would never get sober again. Her resolution to blow it all—blow herself—made her feel lighthearted, and she sat up, wrapped her robe around her, and went into the kitchen.
“This smells so good. We having a party?”
Rooney looked around the tastefully furnished room, and at the pictures arrayed on a bookcase. Norman Hastings with his wife, Norman Hastings with his daughters, his dog, his car, Norman Hastings smiling. Norman Hastings the nice, ordinary husband and father. Rooney could smell baking, mixed with furniture polish, or maybe it was some kind of room spray. He could hear Hastings’s dog out in the backyard with the kids, barking as the creaking swing swung back and forth. The little girls were calling to the dog, to each other, and the sound of their voices added to the air of normality. The only thing missing was their father.
Mrs. Hastings came in with homemade cookies and a pot of coffee. She was a pretty woman, with nice, honey-colored hair and a sweet-faced smile. She perched rather than sat on the chair opposite Rooney. She had good hands, square-cut nails without any polish.
“I’m sorry not to have any news,” Rooney said. She bit her lip, trying not to cry. Rooney hated having to do it, but he couldn’t put off what he was there for, and she seemed to sense he wanted something.
“Mrs. Hastings, I’m sorry if this seems like going over old ground, but I just want to ask a few more questions.”
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