My first book was published the year we returned from Sweden—a slender collection of short stories that seemed, and was, destined for the remainder bin. My publisher made a brief effort at promoting it with a handful of signings at bookstores in the South and Northeast. It was at one of these signings that I saw a familiar face, though I couldn’t place it immediately. The woman was slight and red-haired, my age or a bit younger. “Regina,” she said. “Do you remember me?”
I looked at her closely. Through her heavy makeup, I could discern a dark band of freckles crossing her nose like a bandage.
Tilly lived in Atlanta now, married to a linesman for Georgia Power. They had two daughters. She’d seen my photo in the arts section of the newspaper and recognized me at once, despite my unfamiliar last name. “I’m so proud of you,” she said. “Melanie would be so proud.”
Melanie. After all these years her name affected me strangely, like the name of my first love. “How is she?” I asked.
“She died,” Tilly said.
Over tea in the bookstore café, Tilly told me how Melanie had battled polycystic kidney disease, the illness that had killed my aunt Elsie. “It runs in the family,” said Tilly. “You should have yourself checked.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“I’m sorry to lay this on you,” she added. “She was ill for such a long time. We looked everywhere for you. We thought maybe you could help.”
“I was living in Sweden,” I said automatically, not comprehending her meaning. “With my husband. I got married.”
“I guess that’s why we couldn’t find you. We didn’t know your married name.” Tilly stared off into the distance. A bookstore employee was making a racket, stacking plastic chairs. “We tried her aunts, but Rosemary was too sick. And Velva wasn’t a match.”
“My aunts,” I corrected her. Tilly wasn’t really part of the family; it was understandable that she’d get confused. “They were Melanie’s sisters.”
Tilly covered her mouth with her hand.
And so it was Tilly who told me that Melanie was not my aunt. She was my sister. Melanie, dying, had needed a kidney, and the family had tried desperately to find me. They were certain that I’d be a match.
“I’m sorry,” Tilly said that day in the bookstore. “We all assumed Peg had told you.”
But Peg, my mother, had not.
The baby was born in May, the year my mother turned eighteen. A few years before, Gone with the Wind had opened in theaters, with Olivia de Havilland in the role of Melanie, a beautiful woman who also died young. It was my mother’s favorite film. She saw it four times at the Rivoli Theater. That was before she quit school and became a homebody, canning and cooking and helping my grandmother with the new baby.
I imagine a boy from a neighboring farm, in love with my mother—a girl who lived for the movies, tall and red-haired and less shy than I’d been led to believe. Who was that boy, I wonder, and who was that girl? I have pieced together as much as I can. My mother and my aunts are gone now. There is nobody left to ask.
I’ve thought often of that trip to Pittsburgh, my mother opening her pocketbook to pay for our ice cream. For her it was a day of silent, anguished giving: to one daughter, a searing lesson; to the other, a second chance.
Peggy can do anything.
I can still see Melanie that day in the Ag Hall, her hands oddly gentle as she admired our mother’s quilt.
Is this your sister? the boy asked her.
Sort of, she said with the smile I now think of as secretive. Did she know the truth then or find out later? I missed my chance to ask her. I was in Sweden for three years with my husband. I wasn’t here to help.
A Place in the Sun
They drove east through the desert towns: Hesperia to Victorville to Barstow to Yermo, past the dusty bed of Soda Lake, dry now, a ghostly crater waiting for rain. The route was familiar, a memory stored in his bones. The return trip, Sandy had driven in every condition—exhausted, panicked, blind drunk, sick with shame. But the eastbound journey occurred, always, under controlled conditions. They’d left L.A. at three in the afternoon. You’re crazy, said Myron Gold, whose car he’d borrowed this time. It’s the hottest part of the day. But the timing was no accident; it was part of the protocol: rolling into Vegas at first dark, slipping away (this was the hope) before dawn. Vegas at noon would look stripped and diminished, like a Christmas tree in daylight. It was no place he wanted to see.
He glanced over at Marnie, curled up in the passenger seat, her breathing slow and deep. She had never been to Vegas. It’s your birthday, she’d pointed out. We should be together on your birthday. Bringing her was a mistake, he knew it already: a clear breach of protocol. A month ago his no would have been easy, automatic. But she loved him too much, had lost too much. Now he couldn’t refuse her anything.
In the rearview mirror the white sun was nearly blinding. Years ago, crossing the desert in his Pontiac convertible, he’d kept the top up and sweated through his shirt. Later he’d borrowed girlfriends’ cars, a Chevy Bel Air, a Mustang. He remembered both distinctly, more clearly than he did the girls. The trips, too, ran together in his memory—the radio stations that petered out every ten minutes, the stops in Barstow or Baker for cold sodas and gas. The desert heat had been a constant, a character in the story. But Myron Gold’s Eldorado had air-conditioning, an unsettling development. When Marnie turned it on full blast and bent her face to the cold, Sandy had snapped to attention: another break in the protocol. His nerves prickled, a flash of alarm.
The protocol was scientific, based on experience. He’d learned through trial and error—expensive, devastating error—which conditions produced the desired result. In Vegas he’d have a light supper at the Boxcar, scrambled eggs and coffee; then a single drink to smooth him out. Nerves were the enemy. He’d seen it plenty of times, from both sides of the table: the anxious player under a toxic cloud, fear rising off him in waves. One drink was enough to dispel it, but two was risky. Three and you might as well leave your wallet on the table, a lesson it had taken him years to learn.
He’d left Vegas—for good, he thought—in the summer of ’60, grateful to get out with his skin. In the Pontiac convertible, watching the desert fly past, he’d made a series of resolutions.
Three squares a day, bed at a decent hour.
A daytime job—steady, respectable.
No cards or dog track or lottery tickets, no slots or craps or betting on sports.
It was a pledge he’d modify later, in the dazzling season of ’62, Vince Lombardi’s Packers an irresistible sure thing. But the central promise, the critical one, he adhered to strictly: he did not set foot in a casino.* Since then he’d ventured back only when necessary, when his material circumstances left him no choice. Now, for instance: his phone shut off again, the landlord clamoring for rent. He owed thousands to Myron Gold, hundreds to his relatives back in Pennsylvania. Try to cut back on your expenses, his sister Joyce had suggested in a letter, Joyce the prim schoolteacher who wrote him faithfully once a month whether he answered or not, and tucked a ten-dollar bill into the envelope. Because Joyce loved him more than anybody did or should, he tried to follow her advice. He smoked fewer cigarettes. Finally he sold the Pontiac at a price that sickened him, and rode the bus to work.
Work, he knew, was half the problem. Tending bar kept him out and circulating. If a card game was happening somewhere in North Hollywood, it was impossible not to know. But his various day jobs (driving a bread truck, selling vacuum cleaners) had ended badly. The last one—short-order cook at Myron Gold’s diner—had proved more dangerous than bartending. Gold’s wife had taken a shine to him, a development that could only end in disaster.
She had hired him off the street. Bleary, hungover, he’d wandered in for breakfast after an all-night card game. A sign in the window said HELP WANTED. Can you cook? Vera Gold asked.
He looked down at his greasy plate. Better than this? Sure. You bet.
For months they’d worked side by side, through lunch rushes and long empty afternoons. Her husband had bought the diner on a lark—It’s smart to have a cash business, he told Sandy later. Vera kept the place running. She hired and fired and ran the register. On Friday afternoons her husband appeared, heading straight for the back room. He emptied the safe into a zippered vinyl pouch.
He had noticed Sandy immediately. Who’s the pretty boy? he asked Vera, loud enough for Sandy to hear. A moment later he barreled into the kitchen, a short, squat man in Clark Kent eyeglasses and a bristly gray crew cut.
Where’d she find you? he demanded.
I came in for breakfast, Sandy said. Where’d she find you?
And just that easily they were friends. Every Friday afternoon, Gold spent a few minutes in the kitchen with Sandy, dispensing filthy jokes and business advice. Vera rolled her eyes good-naturedly; she had heard it all before. For work she dressed in clinging dark dresses. All day long Sandy was aware of her body—behind the lunch counter, at the cash register, her high heels clicking across the floor. Without even looking, he sensed exactly where she was. Her whole life, probably, she’d affected men this way—a bombshell, tall and red-haired.
You mean it’s not natural? he asked later, when this fact had become apparent.
Smart aleck, she said, laughing low in her throat.
They were lying in bed at Gold’s house in the hills—their first time or second, half smashed on Bloody Marys Vera mixed by the pitcher. In the afternoon light, her face was etched with lines, her makeup kissed away.
Her exact age was a mystery. He’d never had the brass to ask. She was Gold’s fourth wife—my child bride, he called her—but that could mean anything; the man was seventy if he was a day. He’d made a fortune in his youth, lost and then remade it. Somewhere along the way he’d invested in the pictures. Vera had been a contract player at MGM, a rising starlet with a big future, until the war came.
Go ahead, do the math, she told Sandy. Count on your fingers if you need to.
(In fact, math was the only subject he’d ever excelled at, the one part of his schooling that seemed to have a point.)
She was a voracious lover, nothing like the girls he was used to, pure or pretending to be, waiting to be coaxed. From his high school sweetheart, who really was one, to the fastest showgirl, each had acted like a virgin, a charade he was expected to uphold. But with Vera there was no playacting. She wanted him openly, fervently—as, against his better judgment, he wanted her.
When he finally came to his senses, she dismissed him with a shrug. You’ll be back, she said.
Fearing she was right, he quit the diner and got hired at the Beehive. It wasn’t hard to do. He could mix anything, make conversation with anyone.
Are you an actor? At least once each shift, a customer would ask. In North Hollywood it was a reasonable question. Half the guys under forty and all the pretty girls wanted to be in the movies.
Nah, he said each time. I just pour drinks.
He knew it wasn’t true, that in some way the bar back was his stage, a showcase for his best qualities, his wit and style and instincts and speed. It was an act he’d mastered long ago, running the most popular table at the hottest casino in Vegas, which involved more than dealing cards. Tending bar was no different. Any clown could pour a drink, but Sandy’s customers became regulars. Men liked to be remembered: Rams or Dodgers, vodka or gin. A plain girl fed on flattery, a pretty one on judicious appraisal—an appreciation of her unseen qualities, her intellect and taste. In Hollywood everyone, when you got down to it, just wanted to be seen.
In that way it was the opposite of Vegas, where taking a snapshot could get you bounced from a casino. Bartenders, drivers, dealers, stickmen: in Vegas you learned when to look away, to keep your eyes on the floor.
The sun was setting right on schedule, a fiery backdrop for the famous horse-and-rider sign. The Hacienda was a tourist trap catering to retirees. A mile ahead, the Tropicana marked the beginning of the Strip. Sandy would never forget his first sight of it, the tulip-shaped fountain dancing with light. To a snot-nosed kid from Bakerton, Pennsylvania, it had seemed the height of splendor, the swankest joint in town. Ten years later—an eternity in Vegas time—it had been eclipsed by flashier acts: the Stardust with its elaborate signage, a panoramic view of the solar system; the new Caesars Palace, Ben-Hur with showgirls. But to Sandy, the Trop still sparkled—an aging siren, glamorous and wicked, and rife with possibilities.
Against his will, he thought of Vera Gold.
Beside him, Marnie stirred. “Wake up, baby,” he murmured, touching her shoulder. “You don’t want to miss this.”
She sat up in her seat, disoriented. “We’re there already?”
“Four hours door-to-door. Just like I said.” He drove too fast, he knew he did, but cops were rare on this stretch of freeway. He hadn’t gotten a ticket in years.
She stared out the window. The Strip unrolled before them, a throbbing assault of shimmering, bubbling neon. Same old Vegas, though changes were visible if you knew where to look. The Tally-Ho was now the Aladdin, where Elvis Presley had just married his Priscilla. The Sans Souci had become the Castaways, recently bought—like half the Strip—by Howard Hughes.
“Is that a church?” Marnie asked.
“Wedding chapel. An old one. The new ones, you can drive through.” He signaled to change lanes. The Eldorado responded smoothly, a hell of a car. “There are a couple dozen more up the road.”
“Is this real?” she murmured.
“Sort of,” he said.
She rubbed her eyes, patted her stiff blond hair. She’d had it cut recently, teased into a stylish bouffant. Still her hand went often to the nape of her neck, where her ponytail had been, as though she couldn’t believe it was gone. They had known each other four months, longer if you counted the run-up, when she’d appeared at the Beehive with an actor named Donny Valentine. My boyfriend, she’d called him, and no one had the heart to correct her, though everyone knew Donny was queer. To Sandy, her innocence was touching and a little alarming. He had no business messing with a girl so easily fooled.
“Wayne Newton is playing tonight,” she said. “I saw it on TV.”
“Old news, baby. He was headlining back when I lived here.”
“Did you ever go see him?”
“Nah. That’s for the tourists.” Sandy’s shift had started at eight, the precise moment when curtains were rising all over town. He’d been working the night Sinatra and Dean Martin first played the Copa, an act he wouldn’t have minded seeing. But he had never watched a show of any kind. “That’s where I used to work,” he said, pointing. The familiar sign filled him with an old longing, the looming S with its tall graceful curves.
The Sands
A PLACE IN THE SUN
“Is that where we’re going?”
For a moment he was tempted. The town had a short memory, and seven years had passed. Still he wouldn’t chance it. He’d been known there, known and recognized: Sandy from the Sands. It wasn’t worth the risk.
They found a cheap motel a block north of Fremont. Alone, he wouldn’t have bothered. He could stay awake for days if he had to, drive home high on adrenaline and caffeine. But with Marnie, gentle measures were called for. He’d make sure she got to bed by midnight. He owed her that much and more. (Loyalty? Protection? He wasn’t sure. He knew only that he was inadequate to the task.)
Now, for instance. The drive up the Strip had juiced him. He was ready for his eggs, his drink. Instead he willed himself to be patient as Marnie unpacked her small suitcase into the crappy particleboard dresser, lingered at the bathroom mirror in her stockings and slip. Sandy lay on the bed watching her: the round freckled shoulders, the small ripe breasts. He hadn’t gone near her in weeks. I’m still sore, she said the one time he’d tried. Ashamed of himself, he hadn’t touched her again.
“It might be a late night for me,” he said. “You can take a taxi back here when you’ve had
enough.”
“Are you kidding? We’re in Vegas! And it’s your birthday. I want to stay up all night.” She turned, her bright face startling. Like all actresses, she was an expert with makeup. Barefaced, she looked like what she was—an exceptionally pretty twenty-year-old, the flower of her father’s dairy farm in southern Ontario, raised on milk and apples. Now her freckles were gone. In false eyelashes and pancake, she was just a Hollywood beauty, like so many others.
She blotted her lipstick. “Come on. This will be fun.”
Not fun, Sandy thought. The exact opposite of fun. Vera had understood the difference. The night before a trip, she could sense his sober mood.
You’re a barrel of laughs, kid. Like a banker leaving for the office.
That’s right, baby. I’m all business.
“The thing is, I’d like to win some money,” he told Marnie. “Need is more like it. I need to win some money.” The confession pained him. Myron Gold had loaned him another five hundred but made him beg first. Behind the Clark Kent glasses, his eyes narrowed ominously. I’ll put it on your tab, he said finally, handing over the keys to the Eldorado. I’m starting to think you’re a bad investment. You know what gonif means? No? Look it up.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Marnie reached into her pocketbook and brought him a small gift-wrapped package. “This is for you.”
Shame burned his cheeks. He was sorry he’d told her about his birthday. He hadn’t told anyone else, so only his sisters had remembered. Dorothy’s card promised a month of prayers by the Carmelite Sisters of Loretto, Pennsylvania. Joyce was more practical, or maybe she simply knew him better. Her card contained two twenty-dollar bills.
News From Heaven Page 7