by Jill Zeller
If she noticed this, Susan said nothing about it. She watched him eat his sandwich, and he talked about his recuperation, family dramas, how he missed her. She listened saying nothing. Susan knew everything about him, but Hank only knew the white geography of her body, and that her mind was private, peculiar.
A thumping noise signaled that Joseph was up. Hank could see him pass through the living room in an open robe and white pajamas to flop onto the couch.
“Susan!” He called for his sister in an imperious way. “Where is my hypo?”
Susan got up, not looking at Hank, and left the room.
Following, Hank came into a chaotic mess; used dishes on the coffee table, disordered newspapers, reek of multiple cigarettes, empty, sticky glasses, a couple green with mold.
“Well, hello, stranger! The prodigal. Susan’s teenage love—come in, come in.”
After taking in the mess, Hank gazed at Joseph, and could not keep the shock off his face. A ragged beard had appeared on Joseph’s face, and the bones of his face stood out in fierce angularity.
Joseph said, “Yes, you see how I mourn the loss of the lovely nurse. She left abruptly, it was my fault, I suppose. Ah, here we go.”
Susan entered carrying a plate. On it was an ampule and a syringe. She expertly cracked the top off the ampule, drew the liquid into the syringe, and as Joseph turned to reveal a hip bruised and mottled with evidence of many shots, injected the morphine.
“The nurse showed her how, marvelous, isn’t it? These damn ankles, they hurt me all the time.”
Done with her ministrations, Susan got up, went into her bedroom, shut the door.
“She hates me, “Joseph said, his jaw tight. “What can I do? No good to anyone this way. But I am walking.”
“I see that.” An uncomfortable rage grew in Hank, that Susan would let Joseph destroy her house, her life. How could she have let Luz go, he wondered, angry that he couldn’t have been here in a clean living room and see Luz and try to get her to talk to him.
“I better go.”
“No, wait. How are you, young man? You look the picture of health considering the death’s-head you resembled when they wheeled you out of here.” Joseph waved his hands, his fingers extraordinarily long.
Hank gave him the standard answer, that he was coming along nicely. “Better than you, apparently,” he couldn’t help adding. But it was not out of sympathy, and Joseph noticed the edge to his voice.
He spread his hands, knocked a pile of magazines to the floor, and with them, a plate and fork. “The help around here. Really, it is too bad you can’t get good assistants. How about at your fine house, Hank, up in the hills of Westwood? Do the Mexicans clean your house and your butts?”
Hank closed his hands into fists. Turning away, he walked to Susan’s door and knocked.
“Oh, she won’t be out for hours. She’s sulking. Her big bad brother is an abusive asshole.” Joseph’s voice was louder now, so Susan could hear.
But Hank thought he heard her, and could see no light under the door.
“Go away, Hank,” was she saying? “Come back tomorrow?”
Turning back to Joseph, Hank looked him over. No wonder Luz had left him. He must have muttered this aloud, because Joseph squinted, ran a hand through his greasy, unwashed hair.
“Luz? Who is this Luz? That nurse? Oh, was that her name?”
Sarcasm ringed his voice. Hank was stung. Joseph was mocking him. Mocking Luz.
The next thing he knew, Hank was on his knees beside Joseph, clutching the lapels of Joseph’s robe, got his face real close in. Joseph’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Yes,” Hank hissed. “Her name is Luz. Luz Del Mar. She cleaned your house and wiped your ass. And thank god she had the good sense to get the fuck out of the hell hole that is your life, Joseph.”
“Leave him alone!” Susan’s voice, brittle, quick. She was at their side, prying Hank’s hands from Joseph. Heat burst on to Hank’s face as he got to his feet, stunned that Susan had come to his rescue, in a way, even though he knew he was perfectly capable of handling himself.
But it was not Hank she came to rescue. Pushing herself between them, she smoothed Joseph’s lapels and ran her fingers down his face.
“Are you all right?” she said, not to Hank, but to her brother.
Watching them, Hank saw something he didn’t want to see, that he hated to see, that filled him with dread. His throat tightened with anger and turning, he headed crazily toward the kitchen thinking he would get out of here on his bike; then he remembered there was no bike, only the car.
Joseph’s voice stopped him. “Wait, Hank. Don’t go. I’m sorry. Please, stay for a while.”
He sounded truly sincere, otherwise Hank would have kept going. It was Joseph, not Susan, who urged him to stay, who apologized.
Turning in the doorway, Hank looked back. Susan stood a few feet away, arms folded, face turned away. To his astonishment, Hank saw Joseph’s eyes red with tears.
“I’m an asshole. I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it.”
Hank could only suppose this apology was for both Susan and himself. Joseph swiped a hand across his eyes.
“I need to get back to work, but these damn ankles. Susan needs the money. I’m just a shitbird, sitting here, a wart, a parasite.”
“Joseph, stop it.” Susan’s voice was fierce.
“Yeah, I’ll turn off the ‘I Hate Joseph’ show.” He leaned back, closed his eyes, opened them again a moment later.
Hank stood in the silence with them. No one moved for a moment.
“Sorry I grabbed you.” He thought he sounded like a child, apologizing via coercion.
“Good, good. I deserved it. He’s a good guy, Suze. He’s an honorable guy.” Joseph lifted his arms, motioned at them, like a priest urging the marriage couple to kiss.
Susan walked past Hank without looking at him, and he followed her into a setting sun sending a cool shadow over the backyard; birds flicked away from them as they emerged.
Passing the makeshift patio, where a pottery monk, missing one arm, adorned the little table, Susan led him down the driveway, then stopped. He looked at her face, clear and dry, her eyes wide with anxiety. She kept her arms around herself, and he didn’t touch her.
She said, “I don’t make excuses for Joseph. But nothing, nothing in all the world, will make me choose.”
Hank looked at her beautiful face, golden from the slanting sun. They stood on the driveway, almost to the street. A passing couple out for a walk with the dog glanced at them curiously. He wanted more than anything to kiss her, pull her skin next to his, feel her curves. But something stopped him, and it wasn’t propriety.
“It’s not like that and I don’t care what people say about us,” Susan said, and Hank remembered Connie and what she had admitted to him yesterday about her and Carl. “But I have to take care of him Hank, and you have to understand.”
“I don’t have to understand,” he heard himself say. “How can you live like this, Susan? What crazy thing is he going to do next? You have your own life.”
She stood, her hands opening and closing like his. She shoved her hair from her eyes. “I made a promise to our mother. Joseph has always been fragile. You see, he was five years old, walking with our Dad, when a freak accident happened. The limb of a big tree fell. Just fell on Dad, killed him on the spot. Ever since then, he’s been an edgy guy. I was hoping the army wouldn’t take him because of his history, but they gave him a jeep to drive.”
Listening, watching her move her hands up and down her arms, looking everywhere but at him, Hank fell even more in love with her.
“You see, Hank, this is my life.” She gestured toward the house. “This here.”
Now she looked straight at him, searching his face for a reaction, he thought. Defiant. Hank saw inside her, through the chocolate eyes and saw love there. And it wasn’t for him.
Eighteen
It was fruitless to telephone all the Del
Mars listed in the book. There were dozens of them, and Hank didn’t know if Luz’s parents even had a phone because he never called Luz because she never gave him a number. But he did remember where her father worked.
Various telephone ruses, discarded, resurrected, discarded again, came into his mind. Luz won a contest! No, she probably never entered contests. The hospital was short handed, needed her to return to work. But what if the hospital had already called, or called again? High school reunion? But they had only graduated two years ago.
Finally determining a fool-proof excuse, Hank realized he would have to enlist Connie. But when he got up Sunday morning, the day after his quarrel with Susan and Joseph, he found that both Connie and Carl had been called to the studio.
Dad and Mom were off somewhere, too.
“What’s your hurry, esse?” Joaquin picked up Hank’s empty plate as he pushed it across the table. “Is there a special mass today? A holy day? The padre got sick and they called you in?”
“Yeah,” Hank said, wiping his mouth. “I’m saint-of-the-week. St Hank, repairer of flat tires.”
“You be careful out there, San Enrique,” Joaquin said, completing his sentence in Spanish, which Hank barely heard as he ran out the kitchen door.
Looking longingly at the Peugeot, Hank pulled out the Raleigh, relieved to find that its tires were not flat. He knew the studio was farther than he had been riding since he’d gotten sick, but he didn’t care. It was the quickest way to get there, Connie and Carl having taken the Cadillac and no one was allowed to touch Mom’s Chevrolet coupe, which was also missing from the garage anyway.
Besides, once he made it up to Sunset, the grades were fairly level and if he didn’t push it, he knew he would be fine.
By the time he got to the studio it was late morning and he was tired but not exhausted. He coasted through the lot, having been granted entrance by the young security guard who had a crush on Connie, and because Hank always promised to give the guard’s phone number to her.
By the time he arrived at the studio, it was all over.
He could see it was bad. Mom, Connie and Carl stood in a tight circle near the big barn studio doors. Cedric Sigfried’s shaggy white head was disappearing into a Lincoln, along with the director. Connie raised one hand and Mom slapped it down—Hank knew she was flipping Sigfried off. He could hear Connie’s voice, loud, riddled with emotion, filling the nearly empty lot with angst.
Carl leaned against the studio wall, his hands in the pockets of his immaculate jacket. He looked down at his shoes, a hank of golden hair masking his eyes.
Standing between them like an umpire, Mom waited—if she was speaking, it was calm and slow. She seemed to be shielding both Carl and Connie, keeping them both safe, especially from each other.
No one had seen Hank where he had stopped several yards away. The Sigfried limo passed by, and he looked in to see Cedric and the director arguing, gesturing. He could leave now, he thought. His family would never know he was here. But as he thought to turn around, Carl glanced up and saw him.
Too late. If he left now, there would be endless questions, recriminations. Disheartened, Hank coasted toward them and stopped a few feet away.
Connie’s face was a rigor of torment. Eyes red, cheeks mottled, makeup running in bruised marks and seeming to pool under her eyes. As Hank approached, she stood still, breathing heavily, chest moving up and down.
“I’m sorry, Connie.” Carl seemed to be looking for a cigarette, instead found a flask, tilted it to his mouth. He too, looked ragged, stained like an abused work shirt. “What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Connie’s voice singed even Hank with contempt.
Mom rummaged through her purse, pulled out a notebook and scrabbled for a pencil.
“Mom, it’s in your hair,” Carl said, shifting his glance to Hank. He looked liberally shattered.
Her jaw set, Mom gave Carl a piercing look, pulled a pencil from above her ear. “I will talk to Mr. Sigfried. There has to be a way to mend this. You both have a contract with the studio. He can’t violate that, in other words, fire you from the studio. But I believe he can remove you from a project for ‘improper behavior’. Although the interpretation of that wording changes depending which lawyer is looking at it.”
It did not take mind-reading skills to uncover what was going on in everyone’s heads. The Cleveland Twins had been fired from the picture; an excuse of budget overrun would be given out; their scenes would be cut, but the real reason was Carl’s recent unflattering publicity, even though worse had been tolerated by the studio by more established box office draws.
Carl provided unwitting confirmation about his transgression. “How was I to know she was Sigfried’s niece’s daughter, or whatever? And I only slept with her. She wanted it. She seduced me!”
“Carl, shut up.” Mom made quick notes, wrinkling the paper, her hands shaking. “Connie, don’t worry, honey. We can make it work. I’ll go to Mr. Sigfried’s house this afternoon. He’s agreed to talk to me.”
Connie fired because of Carl. There was always a first time. It was bound to happen, and Hank knew what would happen now. He saw it on Connie’s face, on all their faces. What Carl had worried about a month ago would come to pass. The act was going to break up.
Mom seemed to notice Hank for the first time. Nodding at him, she continued with her notes. Hank said nothing, but he felt sorry for Connie, especially. Not so much Carl, who deserved this kick in the gut. But Connie didn’t.
“Let’s get you home,” Mom said, taking Connie by the arm. Shaking her arm free, Connie turned and stalked down the street between the studios to where the Caddy was parked in the lot behind. Mom followed, and then Carl, and Hank trailed behind, rolling his bicycle.
“I’m not riding in the same car,” was all Connie said, but everyone knew what she meant.
“I’ll take the Caddy,” Hank heard himself say. His bike would never fit in Mom’s little coupe unless he held onto it rolling along the ground outside the window. “Connie can ride with me.”
Pulling a cigarette out of the glove compartment, Connie slammed the car lighter in and waited, rolling the cigarette over and over her fingers.
“I’ll kill him. I really will kill him this time.”
Hank pulled out into the traffic, and, driving slowly, quickly fell behind the coupe as Mom screeched away to dump Carl at home and drive to Sigfried’s villa in Beverly Hills. Remembering the last time he was there the night before he got sick, a cold feeling of dislike filled Hank, as if, he knew strangely, that he could blame Sigfried—or thank him maybe—for changing the course of his life. This reminded him of the favor he wanted to ask of Connie, but prudently he waited.
The lighter popped, Connie lit up, and with shaking fingers twirled the radio knobs until something quick and loud with lots of brass tuned in.
“My brother is a cretin. He is a beast. He lives not by his wits, but by his dick.” Connie drummed the dashboard to the time of the music, and her words tumbled out in time to the beat. Then she looked at Hank. “Let’s go get a drink.”
“Con, it’s Sunday.”
“Don’t worry, sweet Hank. I have a plan.”
She directed him along quiet suburban Hollywood streets. Soft air breezed through Hank’s open window, and the smell of cut grass. She stopped him in front of a garden apartment building, one-story cottages in the shape of a ‘U’, bordering a fountain of blue tile.
He parked in front and she got out, and when he hesitated, she leaned through the window and smiled. “Come now, Hank. She’s just a friend of mine, a ‘starlet’ friend. I need a drink, is all, and I know she’ll have something.”
Well, if this would make Connie happy, and Hank needed her to be happy to agree to his plan, he decided he would go in.
The starlet’s apartment was in the front, and the girl who opened the door was very pretty, with close-cropped pixie-cut cinnamon hair, a pointed chin, and a slim, pert body, genero
us breasts enveloped in a dragon-emblazoned robe.
“Oh Connie, is this your little brother? The other one? Oh, yes, he’s cute.” Seizing Hank’s arm, she pulled him inside, and Connie clunked in after, kicked off her shoes, walked to a wooden table covered with bottles and glasses, and filled three with something brown and bright.
They were like Mutt and Jeff, the friend who told Hank her name was Mary stood a good ten inches shorter than the statuesque Connie. Refusing the offered whiskey or brandy or whatever it was, Hank watched the girls stand before him, clink their glasses and exchange a glance that carried more packets of information than the ordinary telegraph.
He didn’t know what ideas they transmitted to each other, but he hoped it didn’t have anything to do with him and a possible teasing seduction.
Indeed, Connie was already relaxed, almost giddy, as she poured two more and they clinked glasses again. Watching them from the couch, Hank couldn’t help thinking that Connie looked relieved.
“So,” Mary said, as she, to Hank’s relief, flopped not on the couch next to him, but into a heavy chair near the window, draping her legs over one arm. “What brings the prima donna into my neck of the woods?”
Pouting, running both hands through her hair, a feat of majesty with cigarette in one and whiskey in the other, Connie launched into Carl’s betrayal and her getting fired from the picture. Tears came again, a rolling cough in her voice, sighs and sobs. Hank watched impressed, but something about this performance wasn’t quite right.
Mary seemed to suck it all in. Getting to her feet, she wrapped Connie in her arms. “Poor baby, what a snake! He deserves to have his balls cut off and served to him for breakfast.” She seemed genuinely rattled, concerned to the point of tears herself. Hank relaxed, feeling as if he too had had a drink. So Connie had not dragged him here to offer him up as a main course to the feast of the starlets. She really did need a drink and a good bitch session.