Magic Hour

by Susan Isaacs

  "Bonnie," I said to her back, "in AA, one of the things we do is to make a list of all the people we've harmed. Then we've got to be willing to make amends. I know I harmed you. I'm not going to make excuses—"

  "Gideon said you didn't remember what hap­pened."

  "I didn't. But later, after he left ... I remem­bered some of it. I know I'll never be able to know what really went on between us—what we talked about. But let me just say how sorry—"

  She turned back and gazed at me so straight I looked away. "No amends, okay? I don't want any magnanimous Twelve Step gestures that will make you Feel Good About Yourself. Yes, you hurt me. But I let myself get hurt. I was playing a raunchy sex scene, and I tried to score it with violins. Well, I was the dope."

  "You know it wasn't any scene."

  "I know it's history." She sat down on the bed again, feet on the floor this time, hands in her lap. Mormon schoolmarm posture, not Bonnie posture. There was a long silence. It was broken by the screech of a gull flying toward the water. Bonnie fi­nally said: "I apologize for the outburst."

  "No problem."

  "I don't want to be a bitter person. I lost control for a second. I'm exhausted. I haven't been sleeping, not since Sy was killed. Not since you rang my bell. I'm scared. I wake up and the sun is shining and I yawn and stretch—and suddenly I'm overwhelmed with terror. I'm trapped inside a nightmare, and the sunshine doesn't give me any light. And you: I can't resolve my memory of you and my fear of you. It's very hard being here in your house."

  "I understand, and I just want to say how sorry—"

  "Let's drop it now."

  "Can't I—"

  "Please, don't."

  It was getting dark. I knew I had to call Lynne. I walked into the kitchen, but instead of picking up the phone, I put Moose's dog chow in a bowl and got her some water. Then I took the dinners out of the oven and brought them back into Bonnie's room on plates, with forks and napkins. I thought she'd say, No, thanks, I'm much too upset to eat, but by the time I got back again with Cokes, she'd woofed down a drumstick and half the mashed potatoes and corn.

  I sat there holding a wing, like I couldn't figure out what to do about it, thinking that there were approxi­mately a million subjects I wanted to talk to this woman about: what teams she liked, although I had a dread suspicion she would be a Mets fan; what Mor­mons were all about; whether she read about stuff like Eastern Europe and the national debt in the pa­per or just articles about movies and saving marsh grasses; what was her favorite running route; how had she hurt her knee; did she only like the John Wayne and Katharine Hepburn stuff or did she ever watch a good horror movie; did she believe in God and did she feel guilty or only regretful about her abortion; had it simply been the sex—amazing, all-star sex—or had she fallen in love with me in the course of that night.

  What I asked her was: "When did you begin sleep­ing with Sy again?"

  "That last week."

  "Why?"

  " 'Why?' "

  "What was it, a casting couch kind of thing? You thought if you slept with him, he'd make your movie?"

  "You know," she said, and reached for another napkin, "there's an old show-business joke: A gor­geous, talented actress walks into a producer's office and says, 'I want that part. I'll do anything, and I mean anything, for that part.' She gets down on her knees and says, 'I'm going to give you the world's most incredible blow job.' And the producer looks down at her and says, 'Yeah, but what's in it for me?' " Bonnie wiped the bread crumbs from the chicken off her hands. "So what was in it for Sy? Nothing. There was nothing I could do for him that would entice him into doing anything he didn't want to do."

  "But how could you sleep with such a bastard? Okay, he let you have the house, but other than that, he left you broke. He made you get an abortion—"

  She cut me off. "No one held a gun to my head."

  "Maybe he didn't, but he gave you the clap, didn't he? Forget that it's proof positive of adultery. It took away the chance for you to have the one thing you wanted more than anything in the world."

  I'd just hit her most painful spot. She didn't wince; she just stood, holding out her plate. "Why don't I bring this into the kitchen?" Her voice was artificially high, as if she were being stretched too tight.

  "No. I don't have curtains or anything on the win­dows. I can't risk having you seen. I'll take it in later." I took the plate from her and put it down on the floor. "You're going stir-crazy, aren't you?"

  "And this isn't even stir," she said softly.

  "Put on your sneakers." When she did, I turned off the lamp, took her arm and steered her out of the bedroom, through the dark main room and out the back door. It was nearly night; the sky, already dotted with stars, was a uniform blue. Dark, indigo, like my Jag. I sat her down on the back step and murmured, "Keep your voice down."

  "You're worried about nocturnal farmers, plowing out there, right past those bushes, listening in?"

  "I always worry about nocturnal farmers. Or a friend could drop over. So what do you want? To sit out here or go back inside?" In response, she leaned against the doorframe and took a deep breath. What­ever she'd had in mountains, this had to be better. The bracing salt of the sea, the fragrance of pine, the deep, musky smell of the earth. "More questions, Bonnie."

  "Okay."

  "Why did you sleep with Sy after what he did to you?" She didn't answer; I think she was still with that lost baby. "Come on," I pushed her. "You don't strike me as one of those masochistic broads who lets herself be used. You seem to play more by men's rules than women's rules. You have a good time, you say thank you and that's it. You don't wake up the next morning feeling like a piece of shit; you wake up and say to yourself, 'Hey, I got laid. It was good. Cleared my sinuses.' And that's that."

  "That is never that."

  "But it's not that far from the truth, is it? You're not saying, 'Sweet Jesus, help me. I hate myself.' "

  "People of my persuasion generally don't say 'Sweet Jesus.' "

  "You know what I mean."

  "Am I one of those women who sleeps around to degrade herself? No. I sleep around—or slept around—for sex. Sometimes to be held."

  "So answer my question."

  "I slept with Sy because he was there, a real, live person who knew me. He came to the house to go over his memo on my screenplay, and we wound up talking about my brother Jim's wife, who Sy had al­ways had a little crush on, and about his Uncle Char­lie's bypass surgery, and about all the movies he wanted to make after Starry Night."

  Talk about stars. The night was so clear that the stars were not cold, distant lights but twinkling points of warmth: Hi! Welcome! Nice universe we've got here!

  Bonnie went on: "When Sy saw the pitchers on the mantel, he reminisced about the trip we'd taken to Maine, where we bought a couple of them. It was so nice—a shared memory. What else? He said my script looked like hell and he couldn't believe I was still using a typewriter, and he picked up the phone and called his assistant and had him order a computer and printer for me." I made a mental note to ask Easton about that. "Let's see. He brought me flowers. So I guess you're wondering, was I had for an IBM-com­patible and a bunch of day lilies? Partly. Sy swoops into your life, takes over everything. Let me tell you, it's very seductive, having someone come and care for you: buy you electronic toys, brush your hair, ask you how your day was. So that was part of it. And the other part was, I slept with him because I was so unloved. I couldn't stand it anymore." Before I could say anything, she added: "And don't ask if I really think he loved me, because we both know what the answer to that one is."

  "Why you? Look, I'm not putting you down, but he was living with Lindsay Keefe."

  "I'm sexier than Lindsay Keefe." She wasn't being falsely immodest. She was being matter-of-fact. She meant it. Then she stretched out her legs and got busy doing toe touches again. She couldn't sit still; she had too much energy. I wondered how she sat for two hours to see a movie. It was such a dark, sedentary passion
for someone who seemed all day­light and outdoors. "It wasn't just sex for Sy," she was explaining. "He was screwing me literally to screw Lindsay figuratively. He was always so much happier when he was cheating. Somehow, his women always suspected, and he liked their scram­bling to hold on to him. He liked their anguish too. And he loved the logistics of sneaking around. But with Lindsay, it was more than his usual infidelity. He was furious at her."

  "Why? Because she wasn't good in the movie?"

  "Because she wasn't good—and she wasn't trying. See, Sy had his own money, the bank's money and some of his friends' money invested. It was a real risk. He knew this kind of sophisticated adventure-romance doesn't do fabulous business unless there's something very special about it. But he felt he had that in the Starry Night script. For all Sy's baloney, he truly believed in what he did."

  I remembered that Germy had liked the screen­play. "Did you read it?"

  "Yes. It was terrific. But Sy needed box office clout and ecstatic reviews: 'An American classic! See it!' And Lindsay Keefe was his ticket. She's a star. Men, especially, love her. But more important, she's made quality movies. The critics take her seriously. Also, Sy knew that with the wrong stars, actors with a limited emotional range, Starry Night would be just another one of those 1950s Eastman Color-style rich-adventurers-on-the-Riviera movies, except set in the Hamp­tons and New York. But with actors who could show innocence, sweetness, under elegance, who could re­ally deliver lines—because the dialogue is so good—he'd have a major commercial and critical hit. He was on his way; from what he said, Nick Monteleone was born to play this role. He was debonair without being too Cary Grant; he was manly, exciting. But Lindsay just ruined it. She walked through the part as though it was beneath her, and that was showing contempt for Sy's judgment, and for Sy. You didn't do that to him, not if you had any brains. It was a major no-no."

  "Why didn't he kick her out of his house? Fire her?"

  "Well, he wasn't going to fire her until he had a replacement, which was going to be terribly expen­sive. Lindsay had a pay-or-play contract: she got paid in full whether she made the movie or not. But he was looking for someone else. That's why he was going to L.A. As far as kicking her out of his house, he was first and foremost a smart operator. If for any reason he couldn't make a deal with another actress, he'd be stuck with Lindsay, and while she was living with him and having sex with him and getting little ten-thousand-dollar trinkets from him, she'd at least be semi-manageable. If he gave her the heave-ho, she'd be blatantly hostile."

  "Do you think Lindsay knew Sy was seeing you?"

  "Me specifically? No. Seeing someone? Definitely. Not that Sy told me, but he'd call her trailer from my house; they have those portable phones. She'd come to the phone and obviously ask where he was, and he'd take a long beat and then say, 'Oh, I'm, uh, having lunch with an old friend from college, uh, Bob, just ran into him. We're at this little hole-in-the-wall.' And she asked him where, and he took another beat and said, 'Uh, uh, Water Mill.' He was lying but letting her know he was lying."

  "Did you get any sense from Sy that Lindsay might have someone on the side?" Bonnie smiled and shook her head, as if the possibility was too ridiculous to even consider. "Why not? Was he that terrific in the sack that she wouldn't want anyone else?" I confess: this was not strictly a police question. I wanted to know.

  Maybe she knew I wanted to know. But she didn't want to tell me. "That's really not relevant."

  "Yes, it is. I've got to know everything about him. I've got to know how he behaved toward people, toward women. It's important that I know what kind of number he was doing with Lindsay Keefe. Why are you so sure she wasn't stepping out?"

  "Because Sy could satisfy anyone." She sat up, eyes right on me, trying to act detached, trying for a clinical look, like a woman in a white coat on TV selling April Showers douche. If she'd worn glasses she would have taken them off and looked sincere. "Sy was extremely adaptable with women. He could be whatever they wanted. Well, he couldn't be six three, with a thing that went from here to Philadel­phia. But he could talk dirty or romantically. He could be an animal, or he could be Fred Astaire to your Ginger Rogers. Forget real passion, or real warmth—he wasn't capable of either. But he could be a sensational animal, a fantastic Fred Astaire. Or whatever it was you wanted."

  Moose came to the door and started barking. She wanted to join the conversation. I couldn't risk let­ting her run out and setting off my neighbors' dogs in the dark. So we went back inside, back to the pineapple room. I switched on the lamp, and we took up our previously staked-out positions. But since we were getting along better, I decided it was safe to put my feet up on the bed. "What if I told you Lindsay was having a go at Victor Santana?" I inquired.

  "No!"

  "Well?"

  "I'd say..." Bonnie gave it about five seconds' thought. The fresh air had brightened her eyes, cleared her head. "She probably could have gotten away with it. You know why? Sy would never believe it." She pulled up her legs, hugged her knees. "But if he did, that would have been it for her. He was so vindictive. If anyone—an agent, a studio executive—crossed him, he'd go on Sy's list. Seriously, he had this mental list, including a top ten, that kept chang­ing. Whenever he could zing it to someone on his list, no matter what number, he would. And once you were on, you never dropped off."

  I kept thinking Sy's vengefulness had to mean something. Maybe he'd confronted Lindsay, worked her over about her crummy acting. Or he'd found out about Santana. Maybe she sensed he was about to do damage to her: not just fire her but try and destroy her career, let everyone know she'd lost it as an ac­tress. Would she have gone after him then? It added up, I thought. No. But almost.

  Bonnie said: "I honestly don't think Sy knew. He wasn't in one of his I'll-rip-out-her-heart-with-my-teeth moods. He was very optimistic about his trip to L.A. Very relaxed too. He'd planned on taking the ten-fifteen morning flight, but instead he decided to go over to the set, to make nice to everybody because he knew morale wasn't all that high. Then he called me to meet him at his place. I'd never seen it before. He gave me the grand tour. Wanted to hear me say 'Gosh! Gee! My God!' "

  "Did you?"

  "Sure. If you're going to make a fuss over a house, this was the one to do it with."

  "He was relatively relaxed?"

  "He wasn't tense. He said he'd done everything but wave pom-poms and cheer on the set, and when he'd left, he could feel the change in atmosphere. Much more positive. And as far as the L.A. trip, he'd gotten copies of the screenplay to three different ac­tresses, and he was going to take the seven o'clock evening flight, get a decent night's sleep, and the next day he was going to have breakfast, lunch and dinner with them. He was going to make one of them an offer that same night. He told me, 'I'm a little in the hole right now with Starry, but watch. I'm going to pull it out. It's going to be my biggest. My best.' "

  I put my feet down and pulled the chair closer to the bed: straight talk time. I didn't like being so charmed by her. "Tell me why you threatened Sy."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Bonnie, come on. You went to see him at the Starry Night set. We have witnesses. You said: 'Sy, you've just been a rotten bastard for the last time.' "

  "You call this an interrogation?" Too cute. Like a snotty Upper East Side bitch.

  "Fuck off, Bonnie."

  "No, you eff off. Don't you know anything about people? Here's Sy Spencer, my former husband who's been coming to my house every day, having sex with me, telling me how he's missed me, how wonderfully human I am, how there's been an emptiness in his life since I've been gone despite all the other women and he's beginning to think he made a ghastly mis­take. 'Ghastly' was his word. Sure, I knew it was al­most all bull, but he said, I want you to come down to the set one day soon; I want you to see what I'm doing firsthand. So I went. Okay, it might have been better to wait for an engraved invitation: big deal. But when I got there, he told me to leave—so everyone could hear. I wasn't hur
t. I was furious. And that was going to be the last time he was a rotten bastard. He came over to my house later and I wouldn't let him in. Over. Goodbye."

  "Except it wasn't over."

  "He called about two seconds later from his car phone. He said he felt terrible. He explained that if he had invited me on the set, it would look like we had something going, because he never took anyone to the set except big banker types. And he couldn't afford to have Lindsay focus on me; it would give the game away, and he wasn't ready for that yet. So he had to disavow me publicly. Naturally, he apologized all over himself and swore he was getting rid of her. As soon as she was gone, I'd have carte blanche to visit anytime I wanted. He said he was proud of me. I'd created Cowgirl. He wanted to parade me around, show me off to the crew." I didn't say anything. I didn't have to. She acknowledged: "Even if you were dying to believe him, you couldn't. For a sophisti­cated man, he could be such an ass."

  The day's heat was finally rising off the land. The first night breeze blew through the window. The shade flapped, and Bonnie shivered. "Let me get you a sweatshirt or something."

  "No, thanks. I'm fine."

  Okay, I would have liked to see her in my old SUNY Albany sweatshirt. I would have liked to take her hands between my hands and rub them. The fact was, I liked having Bonnie in my house. Despite the insane circumstances, despite the occasional angry sparks that flared up between us, it was so comfort­able. So much about her pleased me, from her not making cholesterol remarks when I handed her the TV dinner to her courage to her wonderful, glossy hair. But the great thing was, I realized, that in spite of the pleasure of her company, I had recovered from my obsession with her.

  Maybe by allowing myself to remember what had gone on between us, I had broken her hold over me. Here I was, able to sit in a box of a room, inches away from her, question her, behave like a real cop. Her power was gone. I could relax, not fantasize about kissing her. Or about licking her lips, putting my tongue in her mouth. I was past that hump of desire. Hey, I thought, about time.