"Fits . . ." I stopped myself from mentioning the Detective. I saw the whole thing through his eyes, and even I would have to laugh given Fits's probable take: You slept with the law? Was his gun on and everything; he hot or what? Then— bang— you try and jump your old man? C'mon over and do me. Jesus, Ardennes, you're on a freakin' roll. I'm hip. Not to the cop, maybe, but a good lay is a good lay. I guess.
To my silence Fits said, "Okay, Andre walked out. Ya want me to come over and tuck you in, sing 'Kumbaya'? Ride, the storm, baby, ride the storm."
"How long does it last, Fits?"
"As long as it has to." He yawned loudly into the phone, and I saw his face as clearly as if he were seated next to me on the bed. "You figure out the dead roses?"
"No . . . an admirer, I guess." He laughed, and we said good- night. Before hanging up he said he'd give me a call after work tomorrow. There would be a tomorrow. . . .
I came across some papers while clearing out the old Riverdale apartment. My mother was gone and I was left to sort through her and my father's effects. Her dying had been so sudden— a massive stroke— that there was a teacup and plate still on the kitchen table. She was a tea drinker like me— or me like her. My half- brother had been Dad's executor, which years ago had taken care of what he'd meant Alec and Arlene to have. I called them both to see if they wanted anything else, like Daddy's military dress uniform and two pistols from the war. Both said they didn't think so, but then Alec called back to say he would stop by if that was all right. Considering he lived in Maryland he would hardly be stopping by, but I said sure, okay. Arlene chatted for a few minutes but had no interest whatsoever in revisiting Daddy's past. She did say she'd seen my movies and that her husband thought me "top drawer." Arlene was leading what my mother would call a purposeless life of expensive distractions.
The apartment walls echoed with the silence of my missing family. The little stage by the windows would hold no more performances, at least not by me. My audience was gone. Mom and I went to see every one of my movies; I'd fly back to New York for one day sometimes just so we could go together. Sometimes I had to warn her that she might not like what she saw. Joe joined us once or twice. Anyhow, I sat on the floor by the stage leafing through Dad's army papers, thinking I'd make a bundle for Alec of his war history, when I came across a disturbing couple of documents. There had been a complaint, all the way up to the Pentagon, against Dad regarding what had gone on in the Ardennes Forest. A wounded soldier, it seemed, had been left behind to die, to bleed to death, I imagined, on the pine needles amid spotty snow and the roar of German guns, the day my father led the others out. I looked up at the empty stage. "Dad?"
My mother died nine months earlier, and I'd been paying the maintenance fees on the apartment. My accountant was after me to sell or rent, so I was there to clear the place out, a chore I would gladly have put off another six months and equally gladly gone on paying. Joe and I were on the rocks we'd be shipwrecked on until we finally ended the misery, so I planned to stay in my old bedroom rather than in the West Side apartment among our anger and lusty hope, at least for a day or two. I had a fire going in the fireplace, though it was spring. I wish I'd left the old army papers alone. When I read the complaint I felt as if I'd sailed out of my body. Dad had always been modest and pooh- poohing of the whole Ardennes affair, never talked directly about his feelings about the war, and that incident in particular. "Soldiers don't discuss what they've seen," my mother cautioned— more than once to my prying questions. She let me know not to expect too much from Daddy in that way. He did tell me of the first time he'd seen a dead German soldier. The corpse had been abused by passing GIs: propped against a tree, a rigor mortis hand held up by a branch, pointing the way for the Allied troops coming up behind. What sickened my dad was seeing that they'd placed the dead soldier's family photos in his other hand. He said you had to respect your enemy, and the dead. Now here I was reading a complaint that said he'd abandoned one of his own.
I right away called Joe. He took the subway up, and we sat in the apartment after I showed him the report, then had sex in my childhood bedroom and slept cramped together in the twin bed. We went to a diner for breakfast the next day, the same one where I used to hang out with my friends. We talked sweetly, steered clear of any topics of disruption, and he told me to come home that night and to quit talking to the dead. "Most people don't have heroes for daddies anyhow, Ardennes," he said. I felt the space where he left out the words that I should grow up.
We kissed on the corner near the subway entrance and I went back to the apartment that had been my home. But what was home now? Riverdale? L.A., where most of my work was centered? Or the small West Side flat with Joe? By then we could have afforded a bigger place, maybe even a three- bedroom. But it would be on my dime and that apparently did not sit well with Joe. My grandmother once told me a man does not want a woman supporting him. That sounded like prehistoric news to me, and still does, but I suppose there's something to it in a never- make- it- to- the- top- of- the- brain sort of way. Did Joe think I was trying to emasculate him? Why would I do that? I adored his penis— in a non- Freudian sense. He didn't act insecure; why would a smart, talented guy care where the rent money came from? Dottie once said, "The caveman is there underneath every one of them, Ard, honey, they just put loincloths and leather over that detail. Keep the info tucked in your mind so you don't accidentally get clubbed." We'd both laughed.
I returned to the pile of papers on the floor and found I hadn't read the whole story. The case against my dad had been dismissed after all. No verification, no corroboration to the complaint, the army report went, concluding no wrong done. My dad always said the army never admits a mistake, and it had decorated him, so, while it looked as if the situation ended there, I had a lingering sense that my dad might have done something less than on the up- and- up: like left a wounded soldier on the forest floor. He didn't desert because he went on to other battles. But you're not supposed to walk away from a fight. But are you required to commit suicide?
I started imagining the scene— colored by too many war movies watched growing up with Dad narrating, telling me what was fake, what rang true in a battle scene, or with the guys sitting around waiting for orders, which, he let me know, was mostly what soldiers did when they weren't being shot at or bombed. So I pictured him with the dying man. Half his men thinking: The guy's a goner, no saving him, load him up on morphine and get the hell outta here before it's all of us lying with holes in our guts. And the others, the altruistic half, saying, Captain, we can't leave him like that. Make a stretcher out of a blanket and carry him out— under heavy assault.
And Dad standing there, figuring what to do with the soldier— just a kid, who'd blacked out again anyway, so at least he couldn't hear his fate being decided by a twenty soldier- year- old newly minted U.S. Army captain. The greatest moral dilemma of Dad's young life, maybe of his whole life, and what was right and what was wrong and couldn't someone else make the decision for him? If it was a horse, he could shoot it. He could pull out his gun to force any soldiers who objected to leaving the good- looking kid behind (he would be good- looking in the movie version, to wring out one more tear). So, did Captain Thrush give the order to retreat? Who would have ratted out whatever happened that day? Who talked out of school? Which soldier under Dad's command was bitten by remorse or doubts or post- traumatic stress or plain old fear? Who had a conscience that wouldn't leave him alone? The documents in my hand didn't say.
Did my father kneel down briefly by the unconscious maybe already dead kid and say, Sorry. Soldier, be at peace, and then give the order to move out? Is that what happened? Or did he pass sentence and live with that the rest of his life so that the decision made him a better man when it could easily have gone the other way and turned him into a mean and haunted cynic, even a criminal? Had Daddy lived his whole life with an awful secret buried in his heart?
I was left with a tugging undercurrent, a nagging doubt that he migh
t have been a quitter— at least in that one instance— in the midst of a battle no one had excused him from fighting. And if he was, wasn't I one too — just a plain old common ordinary quitter?
It turned out Alec didn't come up after all, and I was relieved. The thought of spending a night in the apartment with him had made me uneasy. I ended up sending him the uniform. I carried the pistols down to the West Side on the subway and stuck them in a shoe box, with the plan to sell them to a World War II gun buff. I didn't, and for all I know Joe still has them somewhere in his life.
I don't know what made me think of that episode in the Ardennes, though it has long been there at my emotional fingertips, rearing up at the worst possible moments— like now— to remind me that I can never be certain. But through the fog of all the doubting and smothering I was able to see that Fits, for all his nonchalance, had caught me and was there for me. Fits would be there for anyone in trouble. He'd have come over if I'd asked, or I could have gone to him. Not a thing was solved, but there was Fits, and that was a candle glow in the dark. And this brought up the Detective, my supposed protector in what was or was not a real situation of someone stalking me. It was close on one a.m. Where was Andre now? Probably sound asleep wherever he'd checked in for the night. Was Andre a glow in the dark? I'd been careful never to test him. Of course he was, at least as a director. . . .
I was tired, and I knew things would look just as black and unresolved in the morning, so I told myself to go to bed: Sleep, Ardennes, sleep. I laughed dully. Not like Grandma used to say: "It'll all be brighter in the morning, Ardie, sweetie, you'll see."
Instead of turning out the lights, I dialed the Detective's cell and got his message voice. What did I expect? Cops sleep; they're not required to keep their phones on, the way off- duty police must carry their sidearms and ID. Are they? I left a brief message: "It's Ardennes, Detective. Sorry to call so late. I hope you're sleeping well." I paused enormously, stupidly, and then added, "Good night." The call made no sense. But neither did anything else, not after a day like this.
5
I n d i o
After calling Billy I actually slept. Time just moved along and plowed everything in its path and in the morning I awoke refreshed. For a full minute I forgot Andre was not beside me, somewhere on the island of our giant California king. That's right, I reminded myself, he's in another hotel. Okay, no matter, I felt very clear for the first time in a long time, and I was pretty sure I knew what I had to do.
First things first: shower, tea, breakfast— I was ravenous after another day of near zero nutrition. Opening the curtains revealed exquisite skies: pellucid, pale blue, no clouds other than the usual puffers over the San Gabriels, and the mountains were shining to bursting, snow visible like veiled virgin brides. No sign of the pollution ring hovering over downtown and the hills. The air had been wiped clean, scrubbed, the temperature crisp, though it would likely heat up. Gone were the ghosts of last night.
I sat at the table with my tea and a big bowl of cereal and banana. I found one last croissant in the freezer and heated that. I could have wolfed down a he- man breakfast of pancakes, eggs, home fries and toast. I thought about jumping into the car and driving over to the Detective's diner. My mother made fun of my diner taste. I'd tell her it was my personal bit of white trash coming out and she'd say, "I don't know from whom." Not from her French- Scottish people, only a generation down from Canada.
Not Daddy. The Thrushes were English from way back, though things got muddied a drop when his grandfather married an Italian— northern, Dad always added— the one lapse into snobbery from a staunch egalitarian. I thought about that, and in this wide- open day I couldn't see Simon Thrush as a man who'd left a soldier to die alone in the field. I decided the soldier had already died, and I was willing to let it go at that, not pick it apart and insist on leaving a hangnail of doubt. I had a lifetime of picked- over doubts that I would not let go of, a whole filing cabinet marked: UNDECIDED DOOM.
But Grandma must have been right: Things did seem brighter this morning, only I had a giddy feeling I'd forgotten something important and couldn't think what. I turned the cereal box upside down for a second bowlful, but only a couple of flakes fell out. Put it on the list, I told myself. Today I was going shopping. Head out to Trader Joe's on La Brea, fill the larder. I was going to cook a proper dinner, and we were going to sort everything out. I was practically whistling. The song "What a Difference a Day Makes" and the rejoinder twenty- four little hours circled inside my head like a plane waiting to land.
My first mistake was turning on my cell phone. I'd recharged before going to sleep, the charger plugged in by the bed. No message from Andre. He would still be asleep was my guess; I wouldn't call and chance waking him up. Unless he was already awake, and doing damage control. Billy had returned my call, telling me to return his when I got the message. I couldn't tell much from his neutral tone. I lay back on the bed and played the message again. It didn't sound so neutral the second time. I played it again. Longing struck. I felt his weight on me, I felt him . . . it's funny how the exact memory of sex slips away, like they say about pain: You can't recall the exact sensation. You can recall the longing. . . .
It was just after nine o'clock; probably Billy called from work, but why not from home as soon as he got my message? I hit call history; he'd phoned about eight minutes ago. Probably didn't want to wake me up in case my phone was on, but now, like it or not, we had to get down to business. I decided not to return his call. Not just yet. That was the second mistake.
I brushed my teeth and applied the usual minute amount of makeup, mostly under my eyes, where my mother said the Italian grandmother showed up and left her mark. No else in the family had the dark circles. They're not that bad, but the makeup people treated them like leprosy, constantly reworking my eyes for every scene. Caking was an issue in a close- up. Joe said it was a sign of character— he meant real, not as in playing one. I did what I could with the circles, tossed my hair around, and went to clear the breakfast things.
As I dried my hands on the dish towel, wisps of thoughts crept out of that yet- to- be destroyed UNDE CIDED DOOM file cabinet. A whole new document, the subject: What are you so chipper about, Ardennes? Slam the door! I told myself— don't listen— but the fact was there, as real as the gorgeous L.A. day beyond my balcony— into which I planned to go in a few minutes, this being no day to be stuck inside— that nothing had in fact been resolved. "It will be," I whispered aloud. "It will be."
My third mistake was answering the doorbell. The do- not- disturb sign was not out. The maids always rang the bell before unlocking the door. But would Alma or Zaneda come this early? The desk people called before sending up maintenance or a package. Carola or any of Andre's people would call. I half decided, for whatever reason, it must be Grant Stuart. My inclination was to ignore the bell, retreat to the bedroom until whoever it was went away. But the maids would come in if I didn't answer. I moved into the bathroom; I could say I hadn't heard the bell. It rang again. I should listen to the little inner voice . . . but then I thought it might be Andre and that he was being formal, making a kind of separation between us, putting me on notice that things had grown seriously strained, hence he was announcing his arrival rather than entering intimately as a husband. But I knew it was not him— the little voice did. I think I wanted it to be him. Wanting it to be him was revealing. If I hadn't wanted it to be him, it would have been revealing in the other direction. I walked to the door. I didn't look through the peephole. The fourth mistake.
I opened up with the determination of a fresh ocean breeze and who should I see standing there, throwing a curve to my wind, but Sylvia Vernon, diminutive, unsmiling, her face all business, and not good business either by the look of her. She pushed in. Why didn't I push back? My fifth mistake.
"Where's Mucho? And what's that in your hand, Sylvia?"
By way of reply she waved the gun, indicating I back up, which I did. The piece was small, a .22 if
I knew my movie guns, and it looked old. Sylvia had her heels on and leggings and a long linen tunic top. No hat this time, just her bright Carol Channing hair. I could have kicked her, she was that close and so much smaller, but I reminded myself this was not a movie take, no one would call Cut, try it again, if I missed, no director was in charge, and the moment for me to try any stunts quickly passed. Besides that, part of me wouldn't go around kicking old ladies. The result was Sylvia in charge.
"You're coming with me," she said.
The clarity I'd felt since waking up vanished into something like a heavy sadness for the whole world, a weary sadness that it was all so unknowable. All our little and big struggles, hurting each other along the way, the importance we place on every little gesture as one day turns into the next until we think we have it figured out, or stop short of that and settle on some approximation of what we think we were meant to be. I felt like lying down. But Sylvia was aiming that pistol at me and I had no idea why. Hers was the second gun in my life in as many days, if you count the Detective's piece. And that made me think of my father and the pistols I'd lost track of, and it came to me all at once, a minirevelation: My father was a kind man, as a father but also to others, and he was not a man to run from a fight. And that thought, in the current moment of an ex- stripper pointing a revolver at me, made me feel the most outrageously glad I'd ever felt. That would explain the giddy feeling from before. I slammed the drawer shut on that doom file with all my mental might: I was certain my father never left any soldier to die alone while he ran out of the Ardennes Forest to save his own skin. I wanted to tell Sylvia: He would never have named me after the scene of his own disgrace! The sin of the father did not visit the daughter. There was no sin. Ha!
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