“Okay.” She sat in a chair and eyed Chris sleepily as he sprawled on the couch, his long legs straight out in front of him, his hair looking shaggier than ever after our day on the beach. I got Sam’s pajamas and was walking back toward the kitchen when I heard her ask Chris in a hoarse whisper, “Are you a real cowboy?” There was hope in her voice, and I wondered what he would say;
“Yes, I am. Do you mind much?”
“Mind? No . . . no . . . I wanna be a cowboy too!” The tone was conspiratorial.
“You do? That’s great. Maybe we could ride together sometime. But first do you know what you have to do?” I couldn’t see her face but I could imagine her eyes opened wide, waiting to hear what he was going to say. “You have to drink a lot of milk, and go to sleep when your mom tells you. Then you get to be big and strong, and you’ll be a really extra terrific cowboy.”
“I have to do all that yucky stuff?” Sam sounded disgusted.
“Of course not. Only if you want to be a cowboy, silly.”
“Oh . . . well . . . okay . . .” I walked into the room with her glass of milk and was grateful for Chris’s speech. For the first time she drank it in what looked like one gulp and headed for bed like a flash, with a last wave toward Chris and a mumbled, “Goodnight, Mister . . . Mister Crits . . . see you at a rodeo someday.” I tucked her into bed, kissed her goodnight, and went back to find Chris looking pleased with himself.
“Thanks. That made things a lot easier for me.”
“She’s cute. I like her. She seems like a nice kid.”
“Wait, you haven’t seen her in her full glory. She was half-asleep. Next time she might try a new lasso trick on you and give you rope burn. She’s something else.” But I was pleased that he liked her.
“You’re something else, too. And I’m not sure I’d trust you with a new rope trick either. You might try to strangle me. I really think you were trying to knock me off that horse today when you thought I had a gun on you. But I was waiting for you.” He looked amused at the memory of it.
“Good thing for you that you were. I was planning to knock the bejesus out of you.”
“Wanna try again?” He held out his arms to me as I stood across the room and I walked toward him with that feeling of having been reborn again. It had been so long since anyone had given a damn about me, or wanted me as a woman. And now I had someone who wanted me as a woman. Whether or not he gave a damn about me was something I’d find out in time.
3
The phone rang at nine-fifteen again Wednesday morning, and I was torn between hoping it was Chris and wishing it would be another job. I needed the money.
“Hello?”
“Gillan? Joe.”
“Oh. Hi. That was quite a shooting yesterday.
“Yeah. I just thought I’d call and check that you weren’t pissed off at me for getting you into that madhouse scene. And I wanted to be sure he hadn’t dropped you off a cliff or something.” Pissed off?? Wow!
“Nothing of the sort. I had a great time. That was the easiest hundred and twenty bucks I’ve ever made. He had me a little worried with the water pistol though.”
“He did? I thought you knew.”
“No, I didn’t. And he almost got himself knocked off the horse as a result, but it all turned out okay.” Yes . . . it did. . . .
“I’m glad. Say, listen, I called to ask you something. Are you free on Friday night?” Huh? Friday night? Shit, no job. A date. And I wanted to go out with Chris, not Joe. “It’s the annual Art Directors’ Ball, and it’s a bit of a free-for-all, but I thought you might like it.” Oh hell, why not?
“Sure, Joe. I’d love to.” But what if Chris should call? What if . . .
“Great. Wear anything you want. Sort of far-out type stuff, nothing formal. We’re having it in a warehouse downtown. Sounds a little crazy but it might be fun.”
“It sounds terrific, Joe. And thanks for asking me.”
“Prego, prego, Signorina. I’m delighted you can make it. I’ll pick you up at eight. See you then. Bye, Gill.”
“Bye.” We hung up and I wondered if I’d done the right thing. Joe had never asked me out before and I didn’t want to get into a heavy scene with someone who could give me work. It was bad policy. And Joe wasn’t really my type . . . and what if Chris wanted to . . . oh shit. I figured he’d understand, and anyway I’d accepted, so why stew about it. I could talk it over with Chris. . . . I could have that is, if he had called.
As it turned out, the week ambled by without a call from Chris. Sam and I went to the beach, I painted the kitchen floor with red, white, and blue stripes and painted stars on the ceiling, I got a job from Freeman & Barton Advertising that took me all of two hours to do on Friday afternoon, and still no sign of Chris. I could have called him, but I didn’t want to. He had left me early Wednesday morning with the first light of day and he had said he’d call. But he hadn’t said when . . . next year maybe? Or maybe he was just playing it cool, but that didn’t seem quite his style. Maybe he was just busy . . . making movies . . . but all work and no play wasn’t Chris’s style either, and I was getting very down about it by Friday evening when I fixed Sam’s dinner.
“Why are you going out tonight, Mommy?”
“Because I thought it might be fun, and you’ll be asleep, so you won’t miss me at all.” I tried to sound lighthearted for Sam’s sake, but I was feeling lousy.
“Yes, I will. Am I having a sitter?” I nodded and pointed to her dinner she wasn’t eating. “Maybe I’ll tie the sitter to a chair and set the rope on fire. That’s what Indians do. It’s called being an Indian giver.”
“No, being an Indian giver is giving something to someone and then taking it back.” I thought of Chris and cringed within myself. “And you’re not going to tie the babysitter to anything or I’ll give you the spanking of your life when I come home. Is that clear?”
“Okay, Mommy.” She sank into her milk with a look of boredom and despair and I went to my room to pick out something to wear for the Art Directors’ Ball. He had said something far-out, so I dug around and came out with a flowery gypsy skirt I’d forgotten I owned and an orange halter top. I had a new pair of orange suede boots and a pair of gold loop earrings, and I knew that would do it . . . and maybe after a bath I’d feel more like me again.
I could hear Sam rummaging around in her room and at ten to eight I went in to check on her and announce bedtime.
“Okay, Sam. Put your stuff away and get your pajamas on. The sitter’ll be here any minute.”
“You look pretty, Mommy. Are you going out with Mister Crits?” My heart rose and sank almost simultaneously, and I shook my head. No, I wasn’t going out with “Mister Crits,” but I wished I were, and I suddenly began to wonder if Chris might be at the party.
The doorbell rang at eight and Joe Tramino and my babysitter walked in together.
“Hi, Sam’s in her room. It’s time for bed and I’m all ready to go. Hi, Joe. Goodnight, Barbara. Bye Sam.” I blew a kiss toward her room and walked outside with Joe. I didn’t want to get into any of Sam’s editorials on the situation and I wanted to get the hell out. I was feeling restless.
“Christ, Gill, you look fantastic!” I could see in his eyes that he meant it and felt briefly guilty for being unenthused about the evening. Hell, maybe it would be fun.
“You look pretty good yourself, Mr. Tramino. Very snazzy.” He was wearing tobacco-colored suede levis and a dark red turtleneck and it struck me that, side by side, we clashed terribly. But maybe that was just how I felt inside. We walked to his car parked at the curb and he helped me in. It seemed a little funny to be a girl to someone you had played “one of the boys” with, but that’s all part of going out with someone you’ve worked with. It always seems a little funny to me.
“I thought we might stop for dinner somewhere on the way. Do you know Nicole’s?”
“No, I’m a new girl in town, remember?”
“You’ll like it. French food. It’s terrific.” He was tryi
ng so hard to please that it was painful. Poor Joe. I knew he was considered a prize catch at the agency. He wasn’t beautiful, but he was thirty-six years old, had a good job with an impressive salary, a nice personality, and a good sense of humor. And he didn’t turn me on. He hadn’t before, but now it was worse. He wasn’t Chris.
We joked with each other through dinner and I tried to keep a spirit of camaraderie in the conversation. But Joe was trying to turn the tables on me. He was plying me with a heavy red wine and we had one of the best tables in the house. He had chosen a really pretty little restaurant. It was decorated like a large summery tent at a garden party, the tables were covered in red and white checked cloths, and the room was ablaze with candles.
“Who’s going to be at this party, Joe? Anyone I know?” I tried to make it sound like idle conversation, but it wasn’t.
“Just the usual troops. The art directors from most of the agencies in town, a lot of models, some film guys, nothing special.” But he was on to me. He knew I had meant Chris and he was waiting to see what I would say next.
“It sounds like a good group. There’s a thing like that in New York every year, but it’s so big you never really see anyone you know. Just a great thundering horde, like the rest of New York.”
“It’s different out here. Everything’s smaller. San Francisco is a very small town. And everyone knows everyone else’s business.” What was this all about? “Like I know that if you fall for some people you could get hurt. I mean Chris, Gill.” There, he’d said it.
“Oh?”
“Look, I wasn’t matchmaking the other day. I was setting up a job. I even had another stylist lined up but she got sick. Gill, he’s a terrific guy and I’m crazy about him, but he has no morals, he collects women, and he doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself. He’s a lot of fun. But don’t go falling in love with him. Maybe I’m way out of line, but I thought I’d say it. And just so you don’t get your hopes up, he won’t be there tonight. He hates these kinds of parties. Look, the guy’s a hippie. You’re a nice girl from New York, probably from a good family. And you’ve had your troubles, you’re divorced . . . don’t mess around with him.” Wow . . . quite a speech.
“You haven’t left me much to say, Joe. Of course I’m not in love with him. I just met him last Tuesday, and I haven’t seen him since”—goddam it—“and I agree with you, he’s fun to work with but probably lousy to get involved with. But I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself. And I’m not involved . . . okay?” . . . Who says?
“I’ll take your word for it. But I’ll be sorry if I hear that you two get into something serious with each other. I’d feel guilty as all hell. . . and I’d probably crawl the walls of my office in a frenzy of jealousy! Here’s to you.” He toasted me with the last of the bottle of wine, and, as I drained my glass, I silently wished that he would be having that jealous fit before too long.
We left Nicole’s then and drove downtown on Broadway, past the neon hysteria of the topless dance parlors, and then turned onto Battery Street, near the entrance to the Bay Bridge. It was a district that had once been a port, and the shipping lines were still within a block or two. They had put in landfill in the early 1900s and the area had only recently become one of the more interesting parts of town. A lot of the ad agencies were moving in there, and the decorating business had taken over years ago. The result was a series of dismal-looking warehouses interspersed with well-designed new buildings with brick sides and glass fronts.
Joe parked outside one of the warehouses and we went inside. It was a hell of a scene. Miles and miles of shiny mirrorlike Mylar had been hung from ceiling to floor and flashing strobe and neon lights made the room look as though it were about to explode. There was cellophane confetti all over the floor and an acid rock band dressed in silver lame jeans and shirts was blasting their message through the building at an ear-shattering, heart-pounding pace. There was an ingeniously designed bar in one corner of the room. It looked like an iceberg, and the girl doling out the drinks was wearing a skirt made of plastic icicles, and no top. And in the center of the room and along the walls were the guests. And they were wearing just what Joe had suggested . . . really far-out stuff. Fuchsia satins, and green suedes, dresses that were frontless, or backless, or seemingly both, hair of all shapes, colors, and varieties. Boots by the truckload and blue jeans by the ton. It was a crazy scene and one that only the artistic community of any city could produce. No one else would dare. I almost felt like Little Bo Peep in my gypsy outfit, but I was glad I’d worn it. It gave me a chance to stare at everyone else in reasonable anonymity while still looking fairly with-it.
I noticed a group off to one side of the room staring up at the ceiling then, and Joe tugged at my arm.
“Take a look.” And when I did, what I saw made me laugh. Suspended from the ceiling, about twelve feet off the floor, was a small but perfectly normal ice-skating rink, with a girl in an ice follies outfit quietly doing her number. She moved to her own slow, graceful beat, totally apart from the crazed sounds of the acid rock band. She was marvelous.
“Where the hell did they get her?”
“I don’t know, but you haven’t seen anything yet. Take a look over there.” He pointed again and this time I saw a ballerina doing quiet spins in the corner, and every few minutes or so she went into a dead faint on the floor. Then she’d revive, pick herself up again, and do her pirouettes for a while before seeming to die on the floor again. She was even better to watch than the skater. And I began to look around the room myself for more oddities. As it turned out, there was only one, a gentleman who looked like a well-dressed, well-stuffed bank president, and who walked sedately around the room, speaking to no one, and blowing huge bubbles with what must have been a wad of bubble gum the size of my fist. They were terrific. And eventually, inquiries disclosed that they and the room’s ingenious decor had come from an enterprising service organization called “Rent-a-Freak” run by a young San Francisco artist who thought it was a good idea. He was right, it was. And it made the party.
Joe and I lost and found each other several dozen times in the course of the evening. I met a few people I knew from other agencies, and danced with what seemed like an endless series of similar faces. They all looked the same, none of them looked like Chris, none of them was Chris. And Chris wasn’t there. But I was, and in the end I had a good time.
We left a little after 3 A.M. The party was still in full swing, but we’d had enough. Joe took me to the Buena Vista for an Irish coffee and a pleasant view of the bay and Sausalito sparkling on the other side, and then we called it a night.
He pulled up in front of my house and I noticed with some dismay that all the lights were out. Which meant the babysitter had passed out. Nuts.
“Thanks, Joe, it was a really super evening. That was one of the best parties I’ve been to in years.”
“And you’re one of the best dates I’ve had in years. Could we make it again sometime?”
“Sure, Joe. And thanks.” I pecked him lightly on the cheek, pointed my key in the lock and turned it quickly, and was relieved to see that Joe was on his way back to his car. No sweat. No hassle at the door. Peace.
I woke the babysitter and offered to call her a cab, but she said she had her own car, so she vanished only moments after Joe, and Sam and I were alone again in the quiet house.
Too quiet. The sitter had said the phone hadn’t rung all night. No messages. Damn.
4
On Saturday morning the sun was up before we were, and Sam and I headed for the Marina Beach next to the Yacht Club for a little sun before lunch. We had a lengthy discussion on the sand about the merits of the life of a cowboy, and I described the party to her. She was impressed. A ballerina and a skater and a man who chewed bubblegum? Wow! That had to be some party! And I noticed with amusement that the newspaper said it was, in roughly the same terms as Sam.
At noon, we munched hot dogs and potato chips on the stone steps near the boats
and threw bits of the rolls to the sea gulls who waited to be fed.
“Mommy, what are we going to do today?”
“Nothing much. Why?” I didn’t have any plans, and I was a little tired from having only managed three hours sleep before Sam arrived to order her corn flakes. Sleeping Beauty I was not privileged to be.
“Let’s go see some horses.” . . . Christ . . . how about a game of football? . . . You’re a girl, Sam. . . .
“Maybe we can go see the horses in Golden Gate Park.” But I wasn’t particularly enthused.
“That sounds like a nice idea to me.” But the voice that spoke behind me wasn’t Sam’s. It was a man’s voice. I turned to see, but I already knew. It was Chris.
“Hi, Gill. Hi, podner. Don’t you girls ever stay home? I dropped by twice this week. No one home.” I was feeling unglued.
“You did? Why didn’t you leave a note?”
“I never thought of that. Anyway, I figured I’d catch up with you sooner or later.” Yeah, but it turned out to be later than sooner dammit. But who cared? He was back.
“It’s nice to see you. How did our film turn out?”
“Great. Tramino’s going to love us.” Us? That was a nice touch. And I could see that he was genuinely pleased with the film. “But let’s not talk about work. I take it you’re going to see the horses in the park. Can I come?” Are you kidding? Of course you can come! After three days of not seeing him he could have come to the dentist with me if he’d wanted to. The three days felt like years.
“Will you come with us, Mister Crits, please?” She stretched out the please and my heart with it, and I nodded happily.
“Why don’t you, Chris?”
“Thank you, ladies, I’d be delighted. But don’t call me Mister Chris please, young lady. Or I’ll call you Samantha. How would you like that?”
“Yerggghh.” She made a face that illustrated the point and Chris and I laughed.
“That’s what I thought. So you call me Chris. Just Chris. Okay?” She was about to burble into ecstatic speech but I shook my head and Chris raised an eyebrow. “No go, Gill? Come on, don’t be so stuffy. Okay, how about Uncle Chris?” He seemed amused at the idea and I felt better. Sometimes my stiff childhood training stuck out in funny places.
Going Home Page 4