My eyelids began to ache.
I said, “I know.”
“Alex,” she said in a pinched voice, “don’t feel pressured to respond— in any way. God, that sounds so ridiculous. I’m so afraid of going out on a limb here . . .”
“What is it?”
“I’m feeling really lousy tonight, Alex. I could really use a friend.”
I heard myself saying, “I’m your friend. What’s the problem?”
So much for steely resolve.
“Alex,” she said timidly. “Could it be face-to-face, not just over the phone?”
“Sure.”
She said, “My place or yours?” then laughed too loudly.
I said, “I’ll come to you.”
• • •
I drove to Venice as if in a dream. Parked in back of the storefront on Pacific, impervious to the graffiti and the trash smells, the shadows and sounds that filled the alley.
By the time I reached the front door she had it open. Dim lights touched upon the hulls of heavy machinery. Wood-sweetness and lacquer-bite floated forth from the workshop, mixing with her perfume— one I’d never smelled before. It made me feel jealous and antsy and thrilled.
She had on a gray-and-black floor-length kimono, the bottom hems flecked with sawdust. Curves through silk. Slender wrists. Bare feet.
Her auburn curls were lustrous and loose, tumbling around her shoulders. Fresh makeup, age lines I’d never seen. The heart-shaped face I’d woken up to so many mornings. Still beautiful— as familiar as morning. But some region of it new, uncharted. Journeys she’d taken alone. It made me sad.
Her dark eyes burned with shame and longing. She forced herself to look into mine.
Her lip trembled and she shrugged.
I took her in my arms, felt her wrap around me and adhere, a second skin. Found her mouth and her heat, lifted her in my arms, and carried her up to the loft.
• • •
The first thing I felt the next morning was confusion— a desolate bafflement, throbbing like a hangover, though we hadn’t drunk. The first thing I heard was a slow rhythmic rasp— a leisurely samba-beat from down below.
Empty bed beside me. Some things never change.
Sitting up, I looked over the loft rail and saw her working. Hand-sanding the rosewood back of a guitar clamped to a padded vise. Hunched at her bench, wearing denim overalls, safety goggles, and a surgical mask, her hair tied up in a curly knot, bittersweet-chocolate curls of wood collecting at her feet.
I watched her for a while, then got dressed and went downstairs. She didn’t hear me, kept working, and I had to step directly in front of her to catch her attention. Even then there was a delay before our eyes met; her focus, narrowed and intense, was aimed on the richly patterned wood.
Finally she stopped, placing the file on the bench top and pulling down the mask. The goggles were filmed with pinkish dust, making her eyes look bloodshot.
“This is it— the one for Joni,” she said, cranking open the vise, lifting the instrument, and rotating it to give me a frontal view. “Your basic carved belly, but instead of maple she wants rosewood for the back and sides with only a minimal arch— should be interesting to hear it.”
I said, “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” She put the guitar back in the vise, kept her glance lowered even after the instrument was secured. Her fingers grazed the file. “Sleep well?”
“Great. How about you?”
“Great, too.”
“Feel like breakfast?”
“Not really,” she said. “There’s plenty in the fridge—mi fridge es su fridge. Feel free.”
I said, “I’m not hungry either.”
Her fingernails drummed the file. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Not wanting breakfast.”
“Major felony,” I said. “You’re busted.”
She smiled, looked down at the bench again, then back at me. “You know how it is— the momentum. I woke up early— five-fifteen. Because I really didn’t sleep well. Not because of— I was just restless, thinking about this.” Caressing the guitar’s convex back and tapping it. “Still trying to figure out exactly how I was going to get into the grain. This is Brazilian, quarter sawn— can you imagine how much I paid for a piece this thick? And how long I had to look to find one this wide? She wants a one-piece back, so I can’t afford to mess it up. Knowing that jams me up— it’s been slow going. But this morning I got into it pretty easily. So I kept going— I guess it just swept me along. What time is it?”
“Seven-ten.”
“You’re kidding,” she said, flexing her fingers. “Can’t believe I’ve been working for almost two hours.” Flexing again.
I said, “Sore?”
“No, I feel great. Been doing these hand exercises to ward off the cramps and it’s really working.”
She touched the file again.
I said, “You’re on a roll, kiddo. Don’t stop now.”
I kissed the top of her head. She took hold of my wrist with one hand, used the other to push the goggles up on her brow. Her eyes really were bloodshot. Poor goggle fit or tears?
“Alex, I—”
I placed a finger over her lips and kissed her left cheek. Remnants of the perfume, now familiar, tickled my nose. Mixed with wood dust and sweat— a cocktail that brought back too many memories.
I freed my wrist. She grabbed it, pressed it to her cheek. Our pulses merged.
“Alex,” she said, looking up at me, blinking hard. “I didn’t set it up to happen this way— please believe me. What I said about friendship was true.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Somehow I feel there is.”
I said nothing.
“Alex, what’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know.”
She lowered my hand, pulled away, and faced the workbench.
“What about her?” she said. “The teacher.”
The teacher. I’d told her Linda was a school principal.
Demotion in service of the ego.
I said, “She’s in Texas. Indefinitely— sick father.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that. Anything serious?”
“Heart problems. He’s not doing too well.”
She turned, faced me, blinked hard again. Memories of her own father’s sludged arteries? Or maybe it was the dust.
“Alex,” she said, “I don’t want to— I know I have no right to ask this, but what’s your . . . understanding with her?”
I moved to the foot of the bench, leaned on it with both hands, and stared up at the corrugations on the steel ceiling.
“There is no understanding,” I said. “We’re friends.”
“Would this hurt her?”
“I don’t imagine it would make her whoop for joy, but I’m not planning on submitting a written report.”
The anger in my voice was strong enough to make her clutch the bench top.
I said, “Listen, I’m sorry. This is just a lot to deal with and I’m feeling . . . jammed up, myself. Not because of her— maybe that’s part of it. But most of it is us. Being together, all of a sudden. The way it was last night . . . Shit, how long’s it been? Two years?”
“Twenty-five months,” she said. “But who’s counting.” She put her head on my chest, touched my ear, touched my neck.
“It could have been twenty-five hours,” I said. “Or twenty-five years.”
She inhaled deeply. “We fit,” she said. “I forgot how well.”
She came to me, reached up and held my shoulders. “Alex, what we had— it’s like a tattoo. You’ve got to cut deeply to remove it.”
“I was thinking in terms of fishhooks. Yanking them out.”
She flinched and touched her arm.
I said, “Choose your analogy. Either way it’s major pain.”
We stared at each other, tried to temper the silence with smiles, and failed.
She said, �
�There could be something again, Alex— why shouldn’t there be?”
Answers flooded my head, a babel of replies, contradictory jabber. Before I could pick a reason, she said, “Let’s at least think about it. What can we lose by thinking about it?”
I said, “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t not think about it. You own too much of me.”
Her eyes got wet. “I’ll take what I can get.”
I said, “Happy carving,” and turned to leave.
She called out my name.
I stopped and looked back. She had her hands on her hips and her face was contorted in that little-girl scrunch that women never seem to outgrow. Prelude to tears— probably carried on the X chromosome. Before the valves opened full-force she yanked down her goggles, picked up her file, turned her back on me, and began to scrape.
I left hearing the same rasp-rasp samba that had greeted me upon waking. Felt no desire to dance.
• • •
Knowing I had to fill the day with something impersonal or go mad, I drove to the University Biomedical Library to seek out references for my monograph. I found plenty of stuff that looked promising on the computer screen, but little that turned out to be relevant. By the time noon rolled around I’d generated lots of heat, very little light, and knew it was time to buckle down and wrestle with my own data.
Instead I used a pay phone just outside the library to call in for messages. Nothing from San Labrador, six others, no emergencies. I returned all of them. Then I drove into Westwood Village, paid too much for parking, found a coffee shop masquerading as a restaurant, and read the paper while chewing my way through a rubbery hamburger.
By the time I got home I’d managed to push the day along to 3:00 P.M. I checked the pond. A bit more spawn, but the fish still looked subdued. I wondered if they were all right— I’d read somewhere that they could damage themselves in the throes of passion.
The uniforms changed, but the game never did.
I fed them, picked dead leaves out of the garden. Three-twenty. Light housekeeping took up another half hour.
Bereft of excuses, I went into the library, pulled out my manuscript, and began working. It went well. When I finally looked up, I’d been going for almost two hours.
I thought of Robin. You know how it is— the momentum.
The fit . . .
The impetus of loneliness, propelling us toward each other.
Fishhooks.
Back to work.
The drudgery defense.
I picked up my pen and tried. Kept at it until the words ran out and my chest got tight. It was seven by the time I got up from the desk, and when the phone rang I was grateful.
“Dr. Delaware, this is Joan at your service. I’ve got a call from a Melissa Dickinson. She says it’s an emergency.”
“Put her on, please.”
Click.
“Dr. Delaware!”
“What is it, Melissa?”
“It’s Mother!”
“What about her?”
“She’s gone! Oh God, please help me. I don’t knowhatodo!”
“Okay, Melissa. Slow down and tell me exactly what happened.”
“She’s gone! She’s gone! I can’t find her anywhere— not on the grounds or in any of the rooms. I was looking— we all were looking— and she’s not here! Please, Dr. Delaware—”
“How long’s she been gone, Melissa?”
“Since two-thirty! She left for the clinic for her three o’clock group, was supposed to be back by five-thirty, and it’s . . . seven-oh-four and they don’t know where she is either. Oh, God!”
“Who’s they?”
“The clinic. The Gabneys. That’s where she went— she had a group meeting . . . from three to . . . five. Usually she goes with Don . . . or someone else. Once I took her, but this time . . .” Panting. Gulping for air.
I said, “If you feel you’re losing your breath, find a paper bag and breathe into it slowly.”
“No . . . no, I’m okay. Got to tell you . . . everything.”
“I’m listening.”
“Yes, yes. Where was I? Oh, God . . .”
“Usually she goes with someone but this ti—”
“She was supposed to go with him— Don— but she decided to go herself! Insisted on it! I told her— I didn’t think that was— But she was stubborn— insisted she could handle it, but she couldn’t! I knew she couldn’t and I was right— she couldn’t! But I don’t want to be right, Dr. Delaware. I don’t care about being right or having my way or anything! Oh, God, I just want her back, want her to be okay!”
“She didn’t show up at the clinic at all?”
“No! And they didn’t call till four to let us know. They should have called right away, shouldn’t they?”
“How long a ride is it to the clinic?”
“Twenty minutes. At the most. She gave herself a half hour, which was more than enough. They should have known when she didn’t— If they’d called right away, we could have looked for her right away. She’s been gone for over four hours. Oh, God!”
“Is it possible,” I said, “that she changed her mind and went somewhere else instead of the clinic?”
“Where! Where would she go!”
“I don’t know, Melissa, but after talking to your mother, I can understand her wanting to . . . improvise. Break free of her routine. It’s not that uncommon in patients who conquer their fears— sometimes they get a little reckless.”
“No!” she said. “She wouldn’t do that, not without calling. She knows how much it would worry me. Even Don’s concerned, and nothing gets to him. He called the police and they went out looking for her but they haven’t found her or the Dawn—”
“She was driving her Rolls-Royce?”
“Yes—”
“Then she shouldn’t be too hard to spot, even in San Labrador.”
“Then why hasn’t anyone seen it? How could nobody have seen her, Dr. Delaware!”
I thought of the empty streets and had a ready answer for that.
“I’m sure someone did,” I said. “Maybe she ran into mechanical problems— it’s an old car. Even Rolls aren’t perfect.”
“No way. Noel keeps all the cars in top shape, and the Dawn was like new. And if she did run into problems, she’d call! She wouldn’t do this to me. She’s like an infant, Dr. Delaware— she can’t survive out there, doesn’t have any idea of what it’s like out there. Oh, God, what if she had an attack and drove off a cliff or something and is lying there, helpless . . . I can’t take this anymore. This is just too much, too much!”
Sobs poured out of the receiver, so loud I pulled my ear away involuntarily.
I heard a catch of breath. “Melissa—”
“I’m . . . freaking out . . . can’t . . . breathe . . .”
“Relax,” I commanded. “You can breathe. You can breathe just fine. Do it. Breathe regularly and slowly.”
Strangulated gasp from the other end.
“Breathe, Melissa. Do it. In . . . and out. In . . . and out. Feel your muscles loosen and expand with every breath you take. Feel yourself relax, just relax. Relax.”
“I . . .”
“Relax, Melissa. Don’t try to talk. Just breathe and relax. Deeper and deeper— in . . . and out. In . . . and out. Your whole body’s getting heavier, deeper and deeper relaxed. Think of pleasant things— your mother walking through the door. She’s okay. She’s going to be okay.”
“But—”
“Just listen to me, Melissa. Do what I say. Freaking out can’t help her. Getting upset can’t help her. Worrying can’t help her. You need to be at your best, so keep breathing and relaxing. Are you sitting down?”
“No, I uh—”
“Find a chair and sit down.”
Rustle and bump. “Okay . . . I’m sitting.”
“Good. Now find a comfortable position. Stretch your feet out and relax. Breathe slowly and deeply. Every breath you take will make you deeper and deeper relaxed.”
“Melissa?”
“Okay . . . I’m okay.” Whoosh of breath.
“Good. Would you like me to come out there?”
Private Eyes Page 18