The Sun in Your Eyes

by Deborah Shapiro

  We talked about her work. She had pulled back from the business and was considering selling the brand to a French conglomerate. We talked about L.A. “This is where you need to be!” She was excited for me, eager to help. This is how Linda enchanted you. How Lee did, too, in a quieter, steadier way. Their encouragement, their belief in you. It meant that you were unique, as special as they were, and you mattered. Linda had always treated me this way, and it felt generous, never strained. Until now. Now that she knew that I knew what she’d done. And what might I do with that knowledge? Obviously I’d done nothing with it yet. So what could she do for me to keep it that way? She didn’t say this; she didn’t have to. I suppose I could finally read between the lines. And maybe there had been something in it for her all along, an advantage in being kind to me.

  “Have you heard from Lee lately?” Linda asked.

  “No.”

  “Would you tell me if you had?”

  “You’d probably get it out of me.”

  “Yes. I probably would.”

  Six months have passed since then, busy months in which I haven’t taken Linda up on any favors, but not because I’ve declined on principle. I’m keeping her in reserve. I’m sure there will come a time when I’ll need her, sooner rather than later, and more than once I’ve thought about something Flintwick said—how Jesse would never get his hands dirty. How that was the difference between him and Jesse, between Jesse and Linda. It was the difference between Lee and me. I had thought, hoped really, when we first became friends, that Lee might corrupt me. But I’d been wrong about who she was, and probably about who I was. Within her there was always something that wouldn’t be compromised, that wasn’t corrupt and wasn’t corrupting. I’m sure she didn’t think so, but it was true. As soon as Andy left with Leo, I sat down and read her note.

  Dear Viv,

  I’ve forgotten how to write a letter. You were right, as usual, about not hearing from me. I’m sorry it’s been so long. I can’t believe I haven’t met Leo. I like that name. I like thinking of your son as a lionhearted boy. I hope you’re doing well and I hope you’re very happy in L.A.

  So, guess what turned up? I stopped looking after all of that with Linda. But the short story is that a middle-aged divorcée in Minneapolis moved into a new house, a house where Chris Valenti used to live, and found the tapes in a box up in the attic. She had a yard sale and this guy, a reel-to-reel recording enthusiast, happens to see them next to a pile of old dishes, takes them home, and actually knows what it is he’s listening to. He gets in touch with Charlie Flintwick, who gets in touch with me. Flintwick wants to remaster and release them. Linda says it’s up to me. Yes, I’ve talked to her. Legally, it’s up to her. But obviously legality never troubled her much. It’s strange, though, because when she put it to me, when she said it was my choice, I thought at first that she was handing me a responsibility, the way she had given me a job. Like it might make me feel I was a part of things, but that ultimately she was merely delegating. Only she wasn’t. She told me this was mine in a way that made it feel like an act of restitution. For so long I’d been telling myself that there couldn’t really be any restitution because nothing was taken from me, nothing I ever really had. But I don’t think that’s true now. Because this does feel like mine. And if it’s mine, it’s yours too. And it’s Andy’s. When I think about it, maybe it really belongs to Andy more than anyone else.

  Some of the songs, you’ll hear it, are kind of ragged. In a good way. I don’t know if Jesse was able to get out exactly what he heard in his head. What I know is I don’t have to try to understand it, it just wraps itself around you, all of that feeling. There’s something familiar about it. Not that they sound just like his other songs. But it’s more like they are a memory I didn’t know I had. If that makes any sense. I’m glad they’re here, these songs. I feel like they’re on my side.

  Linda told me she saw you when we spoke on the phone. I’m not upset. Not really. I’m sure Linda can help you out there. I don’t mean that it was mercenary of you or anything. I know you’re not me and you don’t have to feel about her whatever way I do. I don’t even know how I feel about her these days.

  I should sign off, let you go listen and let my father have the last word. But, fuck it, call me selfish and sentimental, I want the last word. I don’t have trouble meeting people. I meet them all the time and they usually want to know me. Or they think they do. I still have this ebb-and-flow thing with Jack, if you can believe it. (It has dawned on me that he is my Roy). I have friends, people who matter to me, but none of them matter the way that you did. When we were at Marion’s that time, I had this thought that I could just stay there with her and never leave. An implausible scenario—impossible—but it became a feeling that was so real to me. It happens a lot—these feelings that have no form to take, no outlet, not even a name. What do you do with those feelings? Where do they go? I know I shouldn’t dwell on them, and I try not to, but sometimes when I have no particular place to be and the sun is shining, I just drive and drive because I love what it reminds me of.

  Lee

  they could’ve asked

  Lee, 1996

  Viv said, “Let’s do something sort of touristy.” So Lee took what she thought of as the scenic route and drove them up along Mulholland Drive, winding east and down into the flats of Hollywood, along Franklin to Vermont and into Griffith Park. They parked by the Observatory, took in the requisite views of the city below, the ocean to the west, the Hollywood sign, and then they set out to walk along a fire road.

  The trail was full, at first, with groups of hikers, charged with resolutions, to be fit, to be social in the new year. Neither Lee nor Viv minded the crowd. A welcome distraction in a way. It was day five in their seven-day stay here and though they weren’t exactly tired of each other, they’d already grown accustomed to each other, to the sameness of the weather, the unchanging pace. Linda, her house, her pool, were no longer new to Viv. Neither were palm trees, celebrities, the first-rate fast food unique to this place.

  Lee knew about a certain turnoff that led to an emptier stretch. More secluded, wilder. A bit more work for your legs. Too much talk would have left them winded so they stayed quiet as they climbed. Eventually the trees gave way to patches of scrubby chaparral. She’d once seen a coyote here on the way to the summit. This time, she saw a large mutt, with its owner, starting back down just as she and Viv reached the crest. There was no one else in sight. Only the two of them, standing silently in the sun for so long that it was almost a non sequitur when Viv said: “I used to be so scared of dogs.”

  “Why? Did something happen?”

  “We never had pets. My dad was allergic. That was the story anyway. So I was never super comfortable around animals. And when I was in elementary school, at recess once, a black Labrador got onto the field. He was huge, at least he seemed so big to me at the time. I must have been six or seven. I have this memory of being out there with all these kids, no adults, and the dog bounding toward me. I didn’t know that if you run, they think you’re playing, that you want them to chase you. I was terrified and I just remember running around in a big circle and all the kids standing there and yelling but nobody doing anything to stop it and I didn’t see any end to it. It felt like forever and then finally I fell. I want the story to be that the dog came to my side, licked my hand or something. But really he just ran past me, into another group of kids. And I was just there in the mud, in this light blue corduroy dress. Usually I wore, like, sweatsuits. But that day, I don’t know why, I was wearing this dress and I thought my mom was going to be really upset to see it all dirty. But if she was, she didn’t say anything. And I didn’t mention anything about the dog. I never mentioned it to anyone really. Except you. Now.”

  “That sounds awful. The whole thing. But mostly that you were so alone.”

  “But I could’ve told my mom. I could’ve told anyone.”

  “They could’ve asked.”

  “True,” said
Viv. And she turned to Lee: asking.

  What to tell her? Lee thought of what so often disturbed her lately: Andy and the last few months. Not as a sequence of events, not this happened, then this happened, then this and here’s what it means. It was all still sensation for her. She didn’t know how to explain that to Viv. But Viv didn’t push for anything more. She just put her arms around Lee, a side hug, and kind of hung there, her chin on Lee’s shoulder. Lee searched the skyline, the mountains, the basin of building after building, street upon street, that stretched out before them, the cluster of towers in downtown Los Angeles rising like a derelict Emerald City in the distance. How vast it seemed, but also, from up here, how shimmering and ephemeral. To steady herself, she held on to Viv, and soon enough they were breathing together, rising and falling, at the top of the trail.

  Acknowledgments

  Jesse Parrish is an imaginary, impossible combination of a number of much mythologized icons, but his background is particularly inspired by that of Gram Parsons and I drew on some details from the following biographies: Twenty Thousand Roads: The Ballad of Gram Parsons and His Cosmic American Music by David N. Meyer, Gram Parsons: A Music Biography by Sid Griffin, and Hickory Wind: The Life and Times of Gram Parsons by Ben Fong-Torres. I’m also indebted to the works of Eve Babitz, which, sadly, had been out of print until recently. A lot of what Andy knows about the Garden of Allah, and a good deal more about Los Angeles in the seventies, I learned from Babitz’s wonderful Slow Days, Fast Company; Eve’s Hollywood; and Sex and Rage. And I couldn’t have conjured Elise Robin without some help from Pamela Des Barres’s memoir I’m With the Band.

  Huge thanks to Kate Garrick and Margaux Weisman. Kate, your vision and your unwavering belief mean the world to me. Margaux, you made this happen and your superb skills made it all the better. I’ve been so lucky to work with both of you. Thank you to everyone at William Morrow/HarperCollins who helped turn this into a reality, especially Ashley Marudas, Lauren Jackson, Mumtaz Mustafa, and Julia Meltzer. Thanks also to Colin Farstad and Cathy Jacque. I’m so grateful to Lauren Acampora, Carlene Bauer, Sarah Bowlin, Stephanie Feldman, and Caroline Kepnes for all of your insight and encouragement. This book took shape over a number of years and it wouldn’t really exist without the friendship of Alex Abramovich, Nida Alahmad, Kathleen Andersen, Jessica Berman Boatright, Coco Culhane, Jim Drain, Carrie Gabriel, Monica Khemsurov, Sam Lipsyte, Carole Obedin, Kelly Shimoda, Nicole Walker, and Rita Zilberman. Thank you to my friends and to my family, especially Renee Peppercorn, Phil Shapiro, Rebecca Shapiro, Reba and Hal McVey. And to the greatest of hearts, Lewis and Callum McVey.

  About the Author

  DEBORAH SHAPIRO has published short stories in Open City, Bridge, and Washington Square Review. A graduate of Brown University, she has worked at New York, Elle, and Self magazines. She lives in Chicago, Illinois, with her husband and son.

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  Credits

  Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

  Front cover photograph: William Eggleston, Untitled, 1974 © Eggleston Artistic Trust, courtesy Cheim and Read, New York. Used with permission. All rights reserved.

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  THE SUN IN YOUR EYES. Copyright © 2016 by Deborah Shapiro. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  ISBN 978-0-06-243558-3

  EPub Edition JUNE 2016 ISBN 9780062435606

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