Almost Paradise

by Susan Isaacs

  There were some things they could not do for him. Shooting had come to a standstill. It poured, and when it didn’t pour, a greasy fog blew over the beach. They only had two scenes left: one from the middle of the film, when he had to pull his wife out of the water at night, where the drug traffickers had left her, wounded, to drown; and the penultimate scene, where he had to stalk a densely packed beach, around supine bronzing bodies, just another blasé stroller shouldering past standard Riviera types—bikinied exhibitionists, musclemen, fat men with fat cigars—trying to find the man who’d kidnapped his wife, before the man found him.

  Nicholas was sprawled across the bed, a blanket over his legs. It was cold in the trailer. He was wearing his costume, formal dress. A white dinner jacket hung beside him on a straight-backed chair. They were waiting for the weather to clear so he could drag Laurel Blake out of the water. He yawned. It was after ten. The night was black. Sheets of rain slashed against the trailer. He’d agreed to stay until midnight to get the damned thing over with. The weather reports had been favorable, the director optimistic. His brother had said good night an hour earlier.

  He’d been worried about Edward, but it had turned out well. With his scrawny build, straggly red beard, and his clothes, bib overalls and no shirt, he looked like a migrant laborer, but he was personable and, to Nicholas’s surprise, relatively hardworking. For someone who had flunked out of three colleges and nearly gotten a dishonorable discharge from the army—he was caught selling hashish to undercover military police in Vietnam—Edward was behaving like a solid citizen.

  The noise of the rain was loud enough to drown out the knock on his trailer door, and he didn’t realize someone was outside until the knock became a wild pounding. He opened the door. For an instant he did not recognize who it was. But when he looked closer, he saw it was Laurel Blake, his co-star, in a soaked trench coat, a green plastic trash bag covering her hair. Her high-heeled gold slippers were dotted with mud. “I hate to bother you,” she said.

  “That’s okay. Come in.”

  Actually, she really hadn’t bothered him too much. In the first of the twelve weeks of shooting, she’d come on to him, hinting she’d like to see his villa, half teasing about rehearsing their love scenes. But whatever desire she had for him had been counterbalanced by her awe of him, and she was nervous enough in his presence not to pursue him.

  She was young and beautiful and missed being dull-witted by a hair’s breadth. But when the actress who’d been chosen to play his wife changed her mind the day before she was supposed to sign, he’d agreed to see Laurel’s first film. She’d had a small role playing what, in fact, she was: a high-fashion model. She looked lovely on film—he’d heard many models did not. Her diction was clear, her voice well-pitched, and she seemed to be able to act convincingly.

  Gingerly, Laurel took the trash bag from her head. Her hair, a chestnut brown, was pulled back tight into an elaborate top-knot of curls that was held in place by jeweled clips. The curls were not hers and the jewels were fake. Laurel would be flailing in the water until he pulled her out, and after each take they’d stick on a dry hairpiece.

  “How is everything going?” he asked. She was looking around his trailer. He assumed she was comparing it with her own.

  “What?”

  “How is everything?”

  “I’m bored.”

  “It can get boring. Would you like to borrow a book?”

  “No, thanks.” She was an unusual beauty. Her eyes were large and dark, and they slanted up, giving her face an exotic Eurasian cast. Her skin, though, was fair, her lower lip unusually full. Her nose was too small, too cutely upturned for the sophistication of her face, but instead of detracting, it added to the sum of her appeal. “What do you do when you get bored?” she asked.

  “I’m working on my next film…. I’m directing. And I read. Make business calls. Speak to my wife and children.”

  “Do you think we’ll be able to shoot tonight?”

  “No, but I think he’ll want to keep us here until twelve, just in case.”

  “In case what?”

  He didn’t think she was faking it. She seemed genuinely dumb. “In case it clears.”

  “Oh.” She put a hand on the belt of her trench coat. “Could I take it off? It’s all wet.”

  “Sorry. Sure. Let me help you with it.”

  “That’s okay.” She slipped out of the coat. She was wearing nothing under it.

  “Oh, Christ!”

  She had a magnificent body. He’d never seen anything remotely resembling it, not even in men’s magazines. Magnificent, slender, soft. Her breasts were small but full, with the same upturned curve as her nose. Her waist was tiny, as though pieces of her had been artfully chiseled away. Her pubic hair was a triangle of rich fur.

  “Put on your coat and get out,” he said.

  She dropped the coat to the floor and walked to him, her legs long and sleek in the high gold shoes. She stood before him, hands at her sides, motionless. The clips in her hair threw off blue and green sparks. He waited for her to make her move, to put her arms around him and draw him against her, kiss him, go for his pants. Then he could push her away and say “Out!” She did nothing. Her shoulders were creamy, with a pale pink gleam, like the inside of a seashell. If she took half a step forward, she’d be pressing against him. She stayed still.

  I don’t want this, he thought. I don’t want any of this.

  He lifted his hand and cupped her breast. Firm. The skin so hot. Her arms remained at her sides. He held her other breast, rolled the small nipple between his fingers, then let his hand graze down her belly, to the soft triangle. She was just standing there, letting him do anything he wanted. Just standing there.

  Enough was enough. Things were going too far. He could feel himself at the edge, wanting to tear off his shirt and feel her hard little nipples against his chest. He had to get her out. Out.

  He plunged his hand deep into the patch of fur. The heat rose from between her legs and warmed the tips of his fingers.

  “Kiss me,” he said. “Come on. Do it.” She turned her mouth up toward his. That was her only movement. “Kiss me, god-damn it.” Her mouth waited for his. “Did you hear what I said? Kiss me.”

  Then he grabbed her. He held the back of her neck as tightly as he could and brought her forward, slamming her mouth against his. He held her body tight, crushing her breasts against his starched formal shirt. Suddenly she gave in. Her arms reached around his neck. Her hips thrust forward. Her mouth opened, pulled in his tongue, and sucked on it. He grabbed her behind and squeezed hard. She let out a squeak of pleasure. “Now,” he said, as he threw her onto the bed, “now I’m going to give you what you came for, you goddamn stupid bitch.”

  21

  …although a spokesman for the hospital said a decision as to whether neurosurgery is indicated would be made within the hour.

  —WTOP Radio, Washington, D.C.

  “You always do this,” Jane said, putting the old gym bag Rhodes had brought as a suitcase on a footstool in one of the guest bedrooms. “You never call. You just drop in.” She peered at the bag with its fraying handles. “Is this chic?”

  “For me, yes. For you, no.” Rhodes unzipped the bag and handed her a package. It was wrapped in burgundy paper and tied with a long, thin ribbon that spiraled like Shirley Temple’s curls. “Why should I call? You’re always home.”

  “Stop that.”

  “I merely made a statement of fact.”

  “But what if I’m having other guests? I mean it, Rhodes. People are coming here all the time to work with Nick between films.”

  “A, Nick is away. B, if push ever comes to shove, blood relatives come before the hired help. You’d just roll the little old Italian director out of the bed and say ‘Ciao, Mario darling. My brother is here.’” Rhodes reached down to unpack. His socks, folded rather than rolled, were in a flat plastic case, his undershorts in another, and his undershirts, the sort with straps Jane
assumed had become fashionable in Europe again, in still another. Each shirt and sweater was wrapped in its own cellophane package. “Would you open the present? Once you see what it is you’ll be a little nicer to me…if you have an ounce of taste.”

  “It’s gorgeous!” It was a shawl of antique lace. “Just magnificent! You shouldn’t have. It must be terribly expensive.”

  “It was, but I had to. I may be enjoying your hospitality for a while.” His voice was wrong; she could feel prickles under his smooth delivery. His appearance, however, was aggressively relaxed. He’d arrived from the airport in shorts—actually cut-off, overbleached jeans—and a faded black T-shirt. He unzipped a plastic case and put his socks in a drawer, smoothing them down in neat lines, each pair equidistant from the next.

  “Oh,” Jane said. “Glad you’re staying.” Rhodes slid the drawer closed but continued to face the dresser. “Does Philip have a lot of meetings in New York? Or are you meeting him…Rhodes, what’s the matter?” He stepped out of his sandals, stretched his toes with the lazy ease of a cat, and flexed his legs, movements so at odds with his tight voice she knew he was putting on one of his cool acts. “What’s wrong?”

  “I left him.”

  “You what?”

  “I said, I left him.” There was a catch in his throat. He did not turn to face her. He rested his arms on top of the tall chest of drawers and laid his head on them.

  “Oh, Rhodes.” Jane stood. She was about to walk to him and put her arms around him, but then, through the thin cotton of his shirt, she saw his back stiffen. “What happened?” she asked, remaining by the gym bag.

  “Nothing.”

  “Rhodes, please.”

  Her brother straightened and turned toward her. He had not been crying as she’d thought, but his face was slack. His eyes looked more inward than outward, as though he were terminally ill. “I’m almost thirty years old. Do you know what that’s like?”

  “Yes. I’ve been through it. But I didn’t leave Nick.”

  “Oh, cut it out. You couldn’t leave Nick. I hear you can’t even get past the front door any more.”

  “Rhodes—”

  “I know all about it, okay? Vicky told me before I had a chance to get out of the car. What’s wrong with you? What are you afraid of?”

  “You’re managing to get off the subject, aren’t you?”

  “I asked you a question, Jane. What are you afraid of? Or are you afraid to answer?”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Are you afraid of bees?” His voice was sharp, honing itself for attack. “Are you afraid you’re allergic like your mother? Is that it?”

  “No. Now stop it!”

  “One little zap and it’s checkout time. Bye-bye Sally, hello Dorothy.” Jane grabbed a package of undershirts and hurled them at Rhodes’s face. She missed. The package landed on top of the dresser. “Thanks,” Rhodes said, and opened another drawer.

  “Speaking of checkout time, Rhodesie,” she hissed, “are you still paying rent on seven rooms overlooking Eden Park? Sorry, does Philip Gray pay the rent? Or did he stop paying the rent and…”

  “And what?”

  “Fire you.” His eyes widened. He seemed to be surprised not only at her words but by her anger. Surprised, then wounded. He took a step back. “How can you make fun of my mother’s death?” she asked, softening her tone, realizing he was far more hurt than she. “What’s wrong, Rhodes?” He held onto the edge of the opened drawer as if he needed it for support. “Come here,” Jane said. She sat on the bed. Rhodes hung back for a few seconds, then came and sat beside her. He tucked his right foot under his left thigh. When they were children, he’d sat that way in their gentlest moments, when he sneaked into her room with a storybook. “Tell me about it, Rhodes.”

  “You know how long it’s been for us. Eleven years.”

  “I know. It was just before Nick and I—”

  “I’ve seen him every single day since that first day. Every day. Even when they went away together, without me—and that was only a couple of times—I’d go and stay in another hotel. And he’s been completely…Listen, Jane, I have to talk. You know what the score is, don’t you? About Philip and me.”

  “You mean that you’re lovers.”

  “Yes. I mean, Mom thinks I work for him, and I knew you knew, or I thought you knew, but it wasn’t something I thought we had to talk about.”

  “Do you honestly think she believes it’s an employer-employee relationship?”

  “Jane, please get off her. This isn’t about her, okay?”

  His pleading tone unnerved her. In the past few years, she had grown so dependent on the services of others that she’d forgotten what it was like to be depended on. People were hired to drive for her, clean and shop for her, mother her children when they left the house. Sometimes she forgot there had been a time when she was strong. “I’m sorry. Please, go on.”

  “Eleven years. When we’re off together, just the two of us, it’s perfect. Even if he’s on the phone half the day. We never get bored with each other. I’m not just talking about sex.”

  “I know.”

  “Books, movies, people, art, music, you name it. Even when I was a kid, eighteen, we were turned on to each other in every way. And it’s only gotten better.”

  One of his eyebrows was ruffled. Jane stroked it back into place. “Then why did you leave him?”

  “Because—” He broke off, unable to speak, and shook his head.

  “Do you want to be alone for a few minutes?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m okay. Let me finish what I was saying.” He took a deep breath. “When we’re away, it’s heaven. And we get away a lot. You know we’re always off someplace. But in Cincinnati…we have to be careful. We used to go out together, but then people started talking so we stopped. He goes out. He goes with her.”

  “He still lives with her?”

  “He lives with her. They’re Mr. and Mrs. Philip Gray, and they’re invited everywhere. And when they finish going everywhere, he drives to my place. Some of the time. Sometimes he stays with her.”

  “Do you think they still…”

  “Yes. Most nights, weekends, they go their own separate ways and we’re together. But we’re together in my place or at one or two friends’ houses. And that’s it. This is your life, Rhodes Heissenhuber.”

  “What about work?”

  “Come on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you really think he’d ever let me into that part of his life? Do you think I have any real understanding about what he does? Do you think I care?”

  “Oh.”

  “I go in a couple of days a week, sit in my office, make a few phone calls. I do things for us. Hotel reservations. Keep up with friends in Europe. Call the shirtmaker. I’m twenty-nine years old, and that’s all I can do. I never went to college. I never had a job. I never got a paycheck. He pays for everything. All I’ve done is…been with Philip. That’s some résumé, isn’t it?”

  “Rhodes, did he ask you to leave?”

  Rhodes snorted a laugh. “Of course not. He won’t even know I’m gone until late tonight. He and Clarissa are having twenty pillars of the opera in for trout in aspic, and he won’t come…Forget it. Fuck it.”

  “You didn’t tell him you were going?”

  “I left him a letter.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “Oh, Jane!” he demanded. “Don’t you understand? He’s never going to leave her. Never. For the rest of my life I’m stuck in Cincinnati, spending nine months of the year waiting to go on vacation. I can’t make my own friends because we have to be very, very sure our friends are oh, so discreet, so there are five people, five, I can see. He checks up on me. He knows where I am every minute. Once he had me followed.”

  “By detectives?” Rhodes nodded. “Why?”

  “Three guesses. Then he laid down the law: no bars, no drugs, no anything else. Like he was my father, you know, and I
was a kid hanging out with a bad crowd.” He rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands. “Oh, shit. I’m nothing. I don’t even have a checkbook. He’s set up charge accounts. I drive around in a forty-thousand-dollar Lamborghini wearing custom-made two-hundred-dollar loafers, and I have two bucks in my pocket.”

  Jane put her arms around him, stretched up, and kissed the top of his head. “Rhodes, he’s terrified you’ll leave him.”

  “I wouldn’t. He should know I wouldn’t. He should trust me.”

  “He’s frightened. He knows you could…he knows you have choices.”

  “Choices? Jane, he owns me. Do you know how I got the money to come here and buy you that lace thing? Last night I took three hundred dollars from his wallet. Isn’t that nice? Made me feel real fucking proud of myself.” Rhodes began to cry. Tears poured from his eyes as though someone else were weeping. He neither sobbed nor shook, but sat utterly still on the bed.

  “It’s all right,” she said, kissing him again.

  “No. It’s not all right. What am I going to do? Find someone else to keep me? And then another and another until I’m so old all I’ll be able to do is—”

  “Speak to him. Tell him what you’re telling me.”

  “Don’t you think I have? He passes it off. ‘Oh, come on, darling, do you really want to learn to read an annual report? If you want to I’ll be glad to teach you, but you know how boring it’s going to be.’ And he’s right. I have zero interest in it. Oh, and then he says, ‘You don’t need money. Don’t you know I’ll always take care of you?’”

  “Tell him you don’t know he’ll always take care of you. That you don’t want him to. Tell him you’re an adult. Take a cue from the women’s movement. I mean it, Rhodes. You’re a person. Tell him you want to be treated like one. You want a salary. You want to pay your own way.”

  “Let’s not go overboard.”