Beaches

by Iris R. Dart

  “Come to Los Angeles?” she asked, as if the request had been to come to the moon.

  “Better yet, my parents have a wonderful place in Pebble Beach. They’re in Europe. Next weekend I have a few meetings in Carmel, but in between, we could take walks, drives, have dinner in Big Sur.”

  A tryst in Pebble Beach. A romantic weekend. With a boy. What if she got there and looked at him and didn’t want to sleep with him? All the way to Pebble Beach. She felt the way she had when she used to be invited to college weekends. “Always make certain that you have appropriate and private accommodations,” Rosie would tell her, and Bertie would have to tell some panting college boy, “You see, I have to have my own room with a shower,” and the boy would say, “Huh? Yeah. Oh. Sure. Yeah.” And then find her a room on the first floor of a dormitory or sorority house so he could slip in the window to “visit” her at night, and try to jump all over her. Except for Michael. He had never tried anything like that. Until they were pinned. She should have known then that he was a cold fish.

  “You can have the guest cottage, which is an absolute palace. My mother decorated it, and it’s heaven,” David offered.

  Gentlemanly. This man had promise.

  “Thank you, David,” Bertie said. “It sounds wonderful. Let me think about it.”

  “Think about it? You wishy-washy bitch. Call the little prince back and tell him not only are you on your way, but you’re bringing your friendly neighborhood movie star with you as a chaperone,” Cee Cee said when Bertie told her. “Bertie, why are you stalling? This guy sounds great.”

  “Well…I’ve never left Nina with a sitter for so long before and—”

  “Two lousy days, Bert. The kid’s not gonna shrivel up and die if you leave her. I’ll take her, for chrissake.”

  “No. She’s in nursery school. And there’s a nice woman who I trust here, and—”

  “So when’re you goin’?”

  “David has meetings in New York and Chicago during the week. But he wants to meet me in Monterey on Friday evening.”

  “Hey!” Cee Cee said. “Make it four days and come to L.A. for two. Or wait—better yet, I’ll rent a car. And when you get here I’ll drive up there with you. We’ll hang out on Wednesday and Thursday, and then when he shows up Friday I’ll leave, and you two can shack up.” Cee Cee sounded excited to see her. It had been a long time. And it sounded like a perfect plan. A few days of laughing with Cee Cee would relax her. Cee Cee was right. Nina wouldn’t fall apart without her, and the time away would feel good. And David. Getting to see David—to be in the same room with him, to touch him—see how it felt to be this turned on about someone at last, at last.

  “I’ll do it,” Bertie said.

  David sounded sincerely delighted to hear that Bertie had taken him up on the offer and insisted the two women go to Pebble Beach directly to his parents’ home. Stay there for the two days. Be let in by one of the servants, and stay there.

  “Without you? Oh, no,” Bertie said, imagining Cee Cee dropping clothes and cigarette ashes and spilling wine all over Rand Malcolm’s estate. “We’ll stay in Carmel.”

  “I insist,” David said, and immediately air-expressed her a handmade map of “the forest,” as he called the area where his family’s obviously grand home was located, and instructions on how to get in the gate, and the names of the servants who would be waiting.

  “David.”

  “All you have to do is pick me up at the airport on Friday night,” he said. “I’ll fly from Chicago to Los Angeles, then Los Angeles to Monterey. Be in at eight-thirty PSA.”

  “You’ll just miss Cee Cee,” Bertie said. “Her flight leaves for L.A. at seven-thirty.”

  “Love to meet her,” and then he added, “some other time.” He and Bertie both laughed.

  Cee Cee met Bertie at LAX outside the baggage claim. She sat in a red Camaro she’d rented that morning. She was wearing her usual floppy hat and glasses. Bertie had one small bag and the trunk of the Camaro was already full and so messy that she had to put her bag on the back seat.

  “Cee,” she said after she had slid into the passenger seat and hugged her friend, “you’re only going to be gone for two days, what do you have there?”

  Cee Cee shrugged. “The usual. Pillow, hairdryer, face steamer, snacks, clothes, tape deck—stuff,” she said, shrugging again.

  She drove like a maniac, weaving in and out of traffic on the L.A. freeways, gabbing away about some new man she’d met (Zack was already old news). This one was a photographer, “He came to do a layout,” she said, and couldn’t miss the opportunity to lean on the pun, “and boy, did he ever.” And as the Camaro hit the open road, she talked about some new songs she was going to record, and then with all the windows open, as they went blazing up the coast road, she sang one of the songs for Bertie, full voice. It was a country-and-western tune called “Gettin’ Through a Day Without You.” The words were heartbreakingly beautiful, and they made Bertie think about the fact that she hadn’t been really in love in years, or maybe ever. Not the way they talked about it in songs. Never really loved Michael that way. And now she had a chance. A far-fetched chance with this…boy…young man, who seemed so nice on the phone, so self-assured, so…interested in her. Maybe these few days she was going to spend with him would begin something special between them.

  Cee Cee didn’t stop except for gasoline until they got to San Simeon to see the Hearst castle.

  The lines to get in to see the home of William Randolph Hearst were long, and even though she wore the hat and glasses and Levi’s and a shirt, several people recognized Cee Cee and pressed forward for autographs.

  “I’m just lookin’ the place over ’cause I’m thinking about moving out of L.A.,” Cee Cee said loudly, and some people who hadn’t noticed her before recognized her voice and came over.

  During the tour she made loud jokes about Hearst and Marion Davies’s sex life and the tacky taste of some people, for the amusement of the crowd. Bertie burrowed her chin into the turtleneck sweater she was wearing, as if she were trying to disappear. But soon even she had to giggle, because the jokes were funny, and she was always amazed at the way Cee Cee could make any location a backdrop for her own special act.

  By four o’clock, the two of them sat outside by the fire at Nepenthe in Big Sur nibbling cheese, drinking Cabernet Sauvignon, and watching the fog roll in over the water below. Cee Cee was tired from the drive. Bertie had called Nina from a pay phone and was musing about how when the babysitter told Nina it was “Mommy calling from California,” Nina wasn’t all that interested. And then her mind wandered to David, and she remembered how he’d said on the phone, “I like kids. I haven’t been around too many of them, but when I am I always like their honesty.”

  David. Tomorrow evening they’d be together.

  “I’m excited for you, Bert,” Cee Cee said, as if she were reading Bertie’s thoughts.

  “Me, too,” Bertie said, afraid to say anything more, to feel too hopeful, for fear of the pain and disappointment.

  The gate to the house on the Seventeen Mile Drive moved open slowly.

  “Drive down long driveway to the left,” Bertie read from the paper bearing David’s directions. Cee Cee turned left, and as they had their first glimpse of the view from the Malcolms’ estate, both women spoke at the same time.

  “Good heavens.”

  “Holy shit.”

  The Mediterranean-style villa sat out on a cliff. Below it, the frothy white California waves crashed against the rocks. Close by the shore on the jagged rocks, lazy harbor seals were sprawled, watching the orange sun slip inch by inch toward the horizon.

  “Hey, I think I like this guy a lot for you, Bert,” Cee Cee said, stopping the car and rolling down all the windows so they could breathe the glorious ocean air. They sat silently until the sun was gone, then Cee Cee turned the car up the driveway toward the Malcolm mansion. The door opened, and a house man in a white coat stood there to greet them. He took Be
rtie’s bag from the back seat and didn’t flinch when Cee Cee opened the trunk piled with all her things. Just asked, “All of this inside?” When Cee Cee nodded, he proceeded to pick up their belongings and head toward the house. They followed him through a high-ceilinged foyer out through a glass door and past the pool, where Cee Cee whispered, “See how Hearst fucked up. He should have picked this place. It’s closer to the ocean.” And then they were in the guest cottage. Cozy, Mexican tiled floors, brightly colored fabrics, every touch perfect down to the tiniest detail.

  By the time Bertie had thanked the man, who said his name was Victor, and he had told her that he could be reached by pressing button number four on the com line, and that, please, Mr. Malcolm wanted them to make themselves at home, Cee Cee’s side of the bedroom was already a mess. Clothes on the bed and the floor. Cassette player and cassettes everywhere. Bertie took a deep breath and thought about the nicest possible way to say it, and was just about to try, “Cee, can I help you hang some of your things up?” when the phone rang.

  It was David. Bertie was so thrilled at the sound of his voice that she almost couldn’t hear what he said. Calling to make sure they were comfortable. Comfortable? What an understatement. “Don’t hesitate to ask Victor for anything,” he went on. “He’ll bring breakfast whenever you call. There’s a wonderful wine cellar. Please help yourselves.”

  “Thank you,” Bertie kept saying. Was there no end, please God, to this man’s graciousness?

  “Bert,” he said, finally, huskily, seriously, “I can’t wait to be with you.”

  Bertie closed her eyes. “I can’t wait for that either, David,” she said.

  Friday was a gorgeous May day, and Bertie and Cee Cee spent the morning on the Seventeen Mile Drive and went to the wharf at Monterey for lunch, had their picture taken in Victorian costumes on Cannery Row and finally, at four o’clock, went back to the Malcolm guest cottage to get Cee Cee’s things so she could pick them up and return the car.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t leave,” Cee Cee teased. “Maybe I should hide in the airport and just sneak a peek at this hot shot when he gets off the plane.” Bertie grinned. She felt like a child on her way to Disneyland.

  Bertie went to the magazine stand and Cee Cee went to the Hertz counter to return the car. There was a line at the Hertz counter, and Cee Cee pulled her hat down a little lower onto her face. The two men in front of her, both wearing suits, businessmen, were talking very seriously. Cee Cee wondered if David Malcolm was a serious type like these guys.

  “Rolled over on its side,” one of the guys said to the other.

  “They say it was the worst one ever,” the other one answered. Cee Cee hated lines, and this one wasn’t even moving. The holdup seemed to be a man at the counter who couldn’t find his credit cards.

  “They say takeoffs and landings are when you have to worry most,” the first one said. “Once you’re up there, I guess there’s not much you can hit.” The other man laughed. They were talking about airplane crashes. Thanks, boys, Cee Cee thought. I hate goddamn flying to begin with and now I got to listen to this? Gimme a break.

  “There were reporters and photographers all over LAX,” one of the men said.

  The man at the front of the line found his credit cards in his briefcase and was laughing with relief.

  “Hey,” Cee Cee said, tapping one of the men on the shoulder, “mind if I ask what you’re talking about?”

  Both men turned. Neither of them looked as if they recognized her.

  “Big plane wreck in Chicago. American Airlines. Chicago to L.A. A DC-10. Looks like everyone in the plane bought the farm, if you get my meaning.”

  Cee Cee held on to the man’s arm for an instant for support, then turned toward the magazine store from which the beautiful smiling Bertie had just emerged, carrying a paper bag filled with the magazines she was planning to read while she waited for David Malcolm to arrive.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm,

  I was a friend of David’s and I wanted to

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm,

  Although I only recently met your son I wanted to write and tell you how impressed I was by

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm,

  Your son was a fine man. Please accept my deepest sympathies on his passing.

  Roberta Barron

  CARMEL, CALIFORNIA

  1983

  Cee Cee stood on the steps, leaned against the wall, and stared at the door of the bedroom. Finally, it creaked open and Janice Carnes emerged. She was silent for a moment, as if she were trying to form in her mind exactly what to say.

  “Cee Cee,” the woman said. There was something too sweet in her voice that made Cee Cee wince inside. “I’m from the volunteer hospice program in Monterey.”

  The what?

  “Roberta contacted us earlier this year because she’s very ill, and she wanted to die here in Carmel. And not in a hospital. People from our program come here to tend to her daily needs. So this morning when she called you, it was because she…”

  Cee Cee slowly sank and sat down on one of the steps.

  “Are you all right?” Janice Carnes asked. “Cee Cee?”

  All right? How could she be all right? There was a look on the woman’s face that said, don’t worry. I’m strong. I can handle anything, so if you want to scream and yell and fall apart go right ahead, because I can handle it.

  “Yeah,” Cee Cee said, “I’m all right.” But she felt weak and small and afraid, and she didn’t want to ask the question that came next: “What does she…I mean, what’s wrong with her?”

  “She has ovarian cancer.”

  “And how much…I mean, how long?”

  “Two or three months at best.”

  Oh, God. No. Please. Stop. Take it away, Cee Cee thought. But when Janice Carnes just stood looking long into her eyes, Cee Cee finally forced herself into a standing position, and somehow managed to place her left foot on the next step up, and then put her right foot on the next step, and when she reached the top of the stairs, she moved to the bedroom door and pushed it open.

  God, help me so I don’t show how scared I am. How bad she looks. Real bad. Not as bad as she did when she was asleep. But real bad.

  Bertie was sitting up, wearing a blue flannel robe. Her hair looked very neat, almost too stylish, and when she saw Cee Cee, a huge smile flashed across her face.

  “Thanks for coming, Cee,” she said, like they were just about to sit down to tea or something.

  “So big fuckin’ deal,” Cee Cee said. “You’re dyin’. You couldn’t maybe think of somethin’ original to do?”

  Bertie chuckled.

  “I already had my friend Peter Sellers die, my pal Freddy Prinze die. Hey, I mean, Bert, you asshole, dying is really a cliché.”

  Bertie was laughing now.

  “Tell the truth,” Cee Cee went on. “Do you really want to be in the same category as Esther Garfield, Sam Weinstein, and Abie Levine?”

  “I don’t know,” Bertie said through a giggle. “Who are they?”

  “They’re friends of my mother’s who died. I mean, Bert, dying is so gauche. Even my mother did it. Do you want to follow in Leona’s footsteps? I mean, if you want to, far be it from me to try and change your mind but…”

  The sob that was rising in Cee Cee’s throat stopped her next line, and Bertie reached out her long thin arms for Cee Cee to come to her. Cee Cee couldn’t speak but she sat on the edge of the bed and hugged her friend, feeling Bertie’s frail bony body through the blue flannel robe. Finally Cee Cee swallowed and spoke again. This time her voice was hoarse.

  “Bert,” she said, “I’m rich. I got millions. I’m not gonna let you die. I’m gonna get the best doctors in the world and fly ’em all here to save you. I know people with their own airplanes, even people who know the president, Bert, and I’ll spend everything I’ve got. You’re not gonna die so fast there, kid, and I’m gonna see to it.” She sat back to look at Bertie. Bertie was still smiling, but there we
re very dark deep circles around her eyes.

  “Cee,” she said, and for that fleeting second she looked to Cee Cee like the little lost girl she’d met on the beach so long ago in Atlantic City. “Here’s the thing. You see, I really want to be like Esther Garfield and Sam Weinstein and Arnie Levine.”

  “Abie Levine,” Cee Cee corrected her. “Arnie is Abie’s brother. His smarter brother, Bert, because he’s still alive.” They both laughed, a little laugh.

  Bertie continued to smile her tired smile as she went on. “I want to die, and money doesn’t matter, because I know doctors too. Good ones. More doctors than I ever thought there were in the world. The best ones. And it doesn’t matter. Because I’m ready. Even if it means following in Leona’s footsteps.” Her smile grew brighter.

  “But why, you asshole?” Cee Cee asked.

  “Well, the big reason is so I’ll never ever have to hear you call me that again,” she said, and they both laughed. “And the other reason is because I’m sure that it’s my time.” And then they both cried.

  When the crying subsided, Cee Cee handed Bertie a Kleenex, took one for herself, and they blotted their eyes. “I needed you to be here, Cee,” Bertie said, “because I knew if you were, at least I would die laughing.” And that made them both grin, and Bertie lay back on the pillow, looking as if the laughing had exhausted her. “And I picked Carmel because I fell in love with it that time you and I came here…to see…to be with…”

  “David,” they said at the same time. And Bertie nodded and then said the only thing she ever did when David Malcolm’s name came up.

  “Wasn’t that sad? So very sad. God, that was too bad.”

  Cee Cee said nothing because she knew there was more coming. The part about a lovely man. And what a loss.

  “What a loss,” Bertie said. “Because he was a truly lovely man.”

  Cee Cee said what she always did at that point in the conversation.

  “Yeah. Lovely.”