It is amazing how simple things are when no one knows you. Four days later, I’m filling out paperwork for my first day of work at I. Magnin—half a block from Saks and nearly as prestigious. I’m starting in hosiery, the breaking-in ground for new clerks. The department is basically Loretta, a divorcée in her thirties, and me. She teaches me how to write up a sales slip, use the levered embosser to run a charge plate, and the proper way to match a stocking to a woman’s skin tone.
“And over here,” she motions to a small display in the corner. “Are panty hose—stocking and panty all in one. But hardly anybody will ask for them. We’re carrying them temporarily to see if they find a market.”
Looking between the garter belts and that new panty-stocking combination I say, “I bet everybody would want them if they knew about them.”
“Well, don’t count on it. Our ladies require proper foundation garments.”
Maybe once I’m comfortable here, I’ll move the display to where people can see. As short as the skirts in California are, soon there won’t be any room for proper foundation garments.
I soon discover very few wealthy women spend time in our department. Instead, they send someone from the dress department or their personal secretary to pick up their stockings, which allows me to cut my teeth slowly, without much danger of being bitten back.
Before long, I no longer feel like I’m pretending. I am a working girl with no past and an infinite future.
My other stroke of fortune—and I feel more than a little guilty thinking of it as that—is Bobbi’s roommate, Karen, came back after the holidays with the news that her parents gave her a six-month trip to France for Christmas. Bobbi and the other girls suspect “France” is a home for unwed mothers in some godforsaken place like Minnesota. I’m sorry for her, but I was happy to officially become a resident at the club just the same.
* * *
After only three months, I understand why Southern California is the subject of songs and the location for movies. The air sits feathery on your skin, the sun casts a flattering light, the streets are clean, and there are so many different kinds of people around that if you ever feel out of place, you won’t for long.
Today I’m finally going to make it to Huntington Beach. It’s a perfect Sunday afternoon—although Bobbi assures me it’s warmer than usual for late March—so the top is down on Bobbi’s car. She loaned me a triangle scarf that she insisted should be tied in the back under my hair instead of beneath my chin. Being a California girl now, I have my own sunglasses. The radio in the dash is tuned to KRLA. We sing “Surf City” at the top of our lungs. I throw my arms in the air and feel as light as a kite.
As we roll into Huntington Beach, I’m a little disappointed. There are ugly oil derricks along the beach, although Bobbi says not as many as there used to be. The buildings along the highway aren’t much different from the outskirts of most towns I passed on my way west. Other than the blue Pacific to my right, there is nothing magical about this place, not like I’d imagined.
Near the pier, things get livelier. Motels. Seafood. Colorful surf shops. As we pass a twenties-type stucco-and-tile building, Bobbi points to it. “That’s the Golden Bear. As much a part of Huntington Beach as the pier. Music and drinking—the most beloved things next to surfing.”
We park in a lot next to a vehicle that looks like a cross between a station wagon and a delivery van with a surfboard tied on top. I get a little thrill-tingle—I’m about to see real live surfing! Bobbi grabs a blanket and her transistor radio. I pull out the small, red metal Coca-Cola cooler, and we make our way toward the beach. A few surfboards are propped against the elevated lifeguard stand, but I don’t see anyone riding the waves.
As we walk across the sand, Bobbi says, “I wish you’d bought a swim suit.”
Looking at the girls in their bikinis, I’m glad I didn’t. I’d looked at Woolworth’s, but even the most modest two pieces made me feel naked. “I told you, I don’t like getting in the water.”
She waves a hand. “Do you see any of those girls in the water? It’s too cold to swim this time of year. It’s all about getting tan and looking cool.”
I glance down at my Bermuda shorts and sleeveless shell. “Guess it’s too late to look cool, so I’d better hope for a tan.”
Once we get settled on our blanket and have the radio on, I lie back on my elbows and enjoy the warmth of the sun. “Thanks for driving down here. I really wanted to see it.” I haven’t told her about Griff, or why I came to California. Thankfully, she hasn’t asked.
“That guy over there is looking at you.” She lifts her chin in the direction of the pier.
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s probably just shocked at my inability to look cool. Or more likely, he’s looking at you.”
“You really don’t know how pretty you are, do you?”
“Funny.”
“Oh my God, you’re not just feigning modesty.” She sounds genuinely surprised. “From the second I first saw you, I knew you didn’t belong in this town. I just wonder how long it’ll be before you figure that out.”
I lift my sunglasses and look at her. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted.”
“Definitely flattered. Once you’re here a while, you’ll see.”
This city is a million things, not just a single, small-minded organism like Lamoyne. Before I can argue, I’m thumped on the back of the head with something that bounces off and lands on the blanket between us.
“Sorry!” the voice comes from behind me. “Are you okay?”
I turn and words evaporate from my tongue. The guy is tall and tan with sun-bleached longish hair. He belongs on a surfing poster.
Bobbi pipes up. “This lovely lady you just beaned is Tallulah. And you are . . . ?”
“Cody. I really am sorry, Tallulah.”
I manage an inelegant shrug.
“Tallulah might feel better if she had a Sno Cone,” Bobbi says. “They sell them up at the Pav-a-lon.”
“I’m fine.” I force myself to make eye contact. His are green. And incredible. I pluck the Frisbee off the blanket and hand it up to him, hoping he can’t see the artery in my neck telegraphing my rapid heartbeat. “And I don’t need a Sno Cone.”
“Well . . . thanks, Tallulah.” He takes it and trots off.
“He was the one looking at you,” Bobbi whispers. Then she calls loudly, “A gentleman would bring back a Sno Cone.”
“Shhhh.”
“Hey, Cody!” she yells louder.
He stops and turns.
“Do you surf?”
“Nah. Guitar’s my thing. Come on over to the bonfire later and see.” He points to a pit dug in the sand. “Sunset.”
“We won’t be here that late.” I’m rewarded with an elbow from Bobbi.
“Ignore her, she’s new in town. We’ll be there.” She waves him on. Then she says to me, “Lesson one: you don’t come to the beach and not stay for sunset. Lesson two: you certainly don’t turn down a cute guy’s invitation to a bonfire.”
* * *
When we join the group at the fire pit, I steer clear of Mr. Green Eyes. Bobbi engages in a conversation with a dark-eyed boy, and I talk with the other girls. I tread warily, keeping an eye out for the sly look, waiting for a joke at my expense. But the girls act as if I’m just like them. Even as I begin to relax, I can’t shake the feeling that sooner or later, they’re going to turn on me. Maybe Lamoyne will never leave my blood.
A couple of boys join our side of the circle. I grow quiet and stare into the fire, unprepared for the way it draws me in. Yellow flames grow, climbing higher, broadening to a massive size. A tinny version of “Blue Velvet” suddenly plays in the recesses of my mind. A chill begins at the nape of my neck and creeps across my skin. Even a life filled with chaos and uncertainty did not prepare me for the way my family imploded the night of the Wickham bonfire. I thought I would never recover, never leave it behind. And yet, as I sit on this beach, I feel the distance mor
e than the suffering. Maybe I am truly reborn.
Cody sits down next to me and drapes an arm over my shoulders. “How’s your head, Tallulah?”
I’m so flustered by his boldness, it takes me a few seconds to craft my oh-so-clever response. “Fine.”
He pulls his arm away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t . . . I mean . . .”
“You’re from the South.” He lifts a shoulder. “More rules, I guess.”
I manage a half smile and feel a little less brittle. “You could say that.”
“How long have you been in LA?”
“Just over three months.”
“So are you an actress, singer, or student?”
I smile. “Sales clerk at I. Magnin. No ulterior ambitions.”
His laugh sounds like California itself, full of life and free. “I’m happy you’re not an actress awaiting discovery. That feels too close to a damsel in distress awaiting rescue.”
“Hey, those girls work hard! They take classes and hold more than one job and sit for hours at open calls. They are not waiting to be rescued.”
He raises his hands. “Okay, okay. I stand corrected.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Do anything other than play guitar?”
“Nope. Well . . . I sing and write songs. I play the piano, too—but I can’t fit one in my bus.”
I turn to him. “You have a bus?”
“Not like a bus bus. A V-dub.” I must not be hiding my confusion as well as I think because he raises his eyebrows and adds, “Volkswagen.”
“I know. You make it sound like you live in it, that’s all.”
“I kinda do. My folks live up in Monterey, so when I’m down here or traveling to perform, it’s home sweet home.”
“You play a guitar for a living?” He sounds like a gypsy.
He shrugs. “I don’t need much.”
“Guess not.”
He looks west. “There it goes.”
I look up just as the last sliver of orange disappears and brilliant pink flares on the undersides of the few, spotty clouds. “Wow.”
“Every time.” He says it in a way that is sweet and a little heartbreaking.
After the sun disappears, it gets chilly quickly. I stand and brush the sand off my shorts.
“Where are you going?” he asks, looking up at me, firelight dancing in his eyes.
I don’t like the way he pulls me off-balance just by looking at me, as if his eyes have gravitational properties to which only I seem to be susceptible. I suddenly get a terrifying glimpse of what bound Margo and Daddy. My stomach turns.
I remind myself, plenty of people have relationships without that horrible tangle of love and hate, relationships not ruled by extremes. But I do feel extreme when he looks at me. Maybe I’ve inherited the defective James genes everyone is always alluding to. Drawn to the destructive. Helpless against the winds of emotion.
“I’m cold. And tomorrow’s a work day.” I look around for Bobbi but don’t see her.
“Here.” Cody hands me a sweatshirt. “Take a walk with me.”
“I thought you were going to play guitar.”
“I can play anytime. I’d rather walk with you. C’mon.”
“I should wait here.” I make a show of glancing around for Bobbi again.
“She took a walk with Greg.” He points, and I see them about a quarter mile down the beach. “We’ll be back before they are. I promise.”
I want to walk with him so badly my whole body is vibrating. I slip the sweatshirt over my head. “All right.” I’m surprised my voice sounds calm and reasonable, when inside I’m full of grasshoppers.
As we walk, he angles us toward the water. He asks me questions, not regular get-to-know-you things, but about what I think about life and the wider world, if I believe in fate or if we’re totally creatures of free will. He’s interesting. He acts as if what I have to say is important.
He talks about Woody Guthrie (whose name I know but whose music I do not) and Bob Dylan (who I’ve never heard of) and the poetry of Leonard Cohen (which he recites, and I feel it reach deep into both our souls). I imagine Cody writes deeply serious songs, not about catching waves and fast cars. He says music is a form of poetry and songs like “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and “She Loves You” and the Beach Boys in general are lyric larceny; crimes against the power of words.
My only experience with music is radio hits and American Bandstand, so I focus on the thing I do understand. “My dad taught us to believe words are arsenals and require skill in wielding them wisely—just like any other weapon.”
“Exactly!” Cody says, excitement in his voice. “Is he a writer?”
“History professor . . . at least he was. He passed away last year.” Passed away. Two words far too innocuous to describe what happened to Dad.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is that when you came to California?”
“I hitchhiked out here a short time later.”
He stops and looks at me. “Seriously? You hitched alone all this way?”
“I did.”
“Wow. You’re one brave girl.”
I shrug. I wasn’t brave. I was desperate.
We approach a woman who looks down on her luck, even in this light. She has a worn paper sack with the top rolled down next to her and is huddled in a holey sweater. Cody must notice me looking at her because he whispers in my ear. “That’s Mary. Pretty much lives on the beach. Has for years.”
A coffee can sits in front of her. As we pass, I see it contains coins and a few dollar bills. After we’ve gone on about two more steps, I stop and go back. I dig out three ones, all I brought with me, from my pocket. “Stay safe,” I say softly, as I drop them into her can.
She smiles her thanks, and I hurry back to Cody.
He stands for a moment, looking at me . . . no, not at me, into me. “That was nice.”
I wave away the comment and start walking.
Full darkness descends, which somehow intensifies the sound of the waves. The water feels bigger, more powerful, ominous. I try to veer away from that dark, grasping mass. Cody playfully nudges me with his shoulder, and I take two stumbling steps. The cold grabs my ankles. I give a deathly squeal and shove past him for the security of dry land.
His arms wrap around me. “Hey, are you okay? You’re shaking.”
“I . . . I had an unpleasant experience with water once. Not so fond of it anymore.” My racing heart freed up more than I intended to offer.
He holds me tighter. “Oh man, I’m sorry. I was just joking around. I would never—”
“I know.” I push slightly away. “I didn’t know how bad it was myself until a few seconds ago. Don’t worry about it.”
He takes my hand and walks us up into the dry sand before turning around and heading back toward the bonfire.
The solidness of his hand around mine affects me in a way I’ve never felt before. My heart is filled with song; my skin is on fire; my soul reaches out to his poetic heart. I feel naked and vulnerable, standing on the edge of a high, rocky cliff.
And I cannot let myself fall.
25
I’m getting ready to go to a party with Bobbi—who’s out on a liquor run because it’s a BYOB apartment gathering and not a Beachwood Canyon shindig—when there’s a knock on my door. Pamela from down the hall sticks her auburn head in. “You have a visitor downstairs.”
I turn from the mirror with an eyeliner brush in my hand. “Must be a mistake.”
“You’re the only Tallulah within thirty miles, so I’m pretty sure it’s not.”
I throw on my new white shift dress but don’t bother with sandals. When I make the last turn in the stairs, I stop dead.
“Cody?” I’d forgotten how good-looking he is. Maybe because I wanted to.
He grins. “Surprised to see me?”
He’s called three times in the three weeks since we met. I feel less vulnerable talking on the phone than when I’m looking in
to his eyes, but I’m frightened by the way my heart races and my body tingles at the sound of his voice. What frightens me more is how he fills my mind when I’m falling asleep and when I’m handling delicate lingerie at the store.
I’ve never felt so out of control.
Dad probably didn’t either before he met Margo.
Forcing restraint, I walk slowly down the last few steps.
He says, “I was hoping you’d come to the strip with me, hear some music.”
Most of the clubs require you to be twenty-one. I don’t want to scare him away with even my pretend age of nineteen. “I have plans.”
He closes some of the space between us. “I wanted to spend time with you before I leave.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I have shows at some colleges up north—a few clubs, too. I’ll be gone for at least a couple of months. Three if I can get more dates locked down.”
“But you’re coming back to LA?”
He looks at me so intensely, I can’t breathe. “Depends.”
“On what?” The two words are choked and quiet.
“Will you still be here?” His smile is so sweet it lifts my heart.
I try to strip the naked eagerness out of my voice. “Don’t have any plans to the contrary.”
He steps close and gives me a quick kiss on the lips. “Good.”
That’s when I remember my hair is still in the shape of rollers, stiff with Dippity-do, and only one eye has liner. “Ugh! I—”
“Rival a sunset.” He runs a finger along my cheek. “Eclipse the moon.”
I want to call him a liar. But the gravity of his green eyes steals my voice.
“I’ll call you whenever I can,” he says as he takes a backward step.
We stand sharing the same air, looking at each other. I feel greedy, hungry. Nothing else matters but moving closer to him, into him.
Then I do and he’s kissing me, sweetly, unhurried.
The desperation that washes over me is staggering. I want to claw and cling. My fingers dig into the back of his neck. As I feel the soft flesh give and hear his sharp intake of breath, I freeze and jerk away, horrified.
The Myth of Perpetual Summer Page 26