by Stone, Jean
“Is it possible … I mean, is there a chance that …”
It wasn’t like her son to stammer. “What is it, Scott?”
“Well, I was just wondering. Is suicide hereditary?”
Zoe thought her heart had stopped beating. She looked at Marisol. Her friend’s dark eyes widened in surprise.
“What an awful question,” Zoe managed to say.
“Well, I mean, Dad was a man, and I’m a man … well, almost … and I was just wondering if there was a chance that when I’m older … I mean, I know that lots of things are hereditary. Some people say alcoholics come from alcoholics. And druggies. Stuff like that. I just wondered that if Dad committed suicide, if there was a chance …”
His words trailed off. Zoe stared at Marisol, hoping her friend would say something, could find some words that she could not. Her friend had a knack for smoothing out a crisis, as readily and as calmly as she smoothed the wet clay on her potter’s wheel.
Marisol bit her lip. “Scottie,” she said, “I don’t think you need to worry about it. Your father—well, he had problems we didn’t know about. But you’re a different person from him, with different feelings and different ways of reacting. Besides,” she added with a comforting wink, “half of the stuff you’re made of comes from your mother.”
Zoe turned her head toward the window, as though she were watching the bright springtime California landscape passing by. But instead there was an aching, sick feeling growing in her stomach as she realized that someday, maybe someday soon, she might be faced with having to tell her son the truth.
It was a hazy afternoon, the kind of gray-veiled day that was so common in the city, yet infrequent here in the hills. Zoe stood on the deck of the dramatic cedar house and looked out over the valley. She rubbed her arms, wondering why she felt such a chill. There was no breeze in the air; in fact, it seemed as though there were no air at all.
Marisol had tried to get her to leave the house after the police took William’s body away. She tried to convince Zoe to get away for a while, go to a hotel, do anything but stay there. She said she didn’t think that being in the house where William had shot himself was smart. Marisol was Zoe’s friend—her best friend. And though they’d been through so much together over the years, Marisol still could never know the gratitude and love—well, it had grown into a sort of love—that Zoe had felt toward William.
If Zoe’s parents had been still living, she could have gone there. But her father had died a decade ago, and her mother two years ago.
Zoe had nowhere to go. But it didn’t really matter, for she couldn’t possibly leave Cedar Bluff. William had built it for her after Scott was born. It was where she’d spent the long years of recuperation, of rehabilitation, after the stroke—the stroke she’d had in the delivery room, the stroke that had left her partially paralyzed for years. At Cedar Bluff she’d isolated herself from the media, from her fans, from the world, preserving the secret of what had happened. At Cedar Bluff, with William’s devoted encouragement, with Marisol’s loyal patience, and with the hard work of a team of trusted therapists, Zoe had learned to walk again, to talk again. At Cedar Bluff she had discovered what was important in life. No, Zoe couldn’t leave here. Not now, not ever. She touched the left side of her face, the corner of her mouth that still drooped a little. The scar that her fans did not, nor ever would, know existed. Let them remember her as she had been. Let them remember the beautiful, intoxicating, flawless Zoe.
She heard the doorbell chime. She was alone in the house; she’d convinced Marisol to take Scott to the beach house for the day. She hadn’t wanted him there when Phil Clifford came.
As she padded across the wood floor in her bare feet, the bell chimed again. Zoe’s nerves grated at the man’s insistence. At the thought of the man himself. She crossed through the living room and into the foyer, where she stopped and adjusted the front of her caftan. Not used to receiving visitors, Zoe had been unsure of what to wear. She’d chosen the caftan because it was loose enough to hide most of the unwanted pounds she’d gained since stardom, and, most appropriately, it was black.
She opened the double doors. Phil Clifford stood there, eye to eye with her five-foot-three height, dressed in a polo shirt and jeans, carrying a DeVecchi briefcase that had more class in its handle than Phil had in his entire body. Someone, Zoe assumed, must have given it to him.
“Phil,” she said, “come in.”
“How you doing, Zo?” he asked as he stepped inside. Zoe hated it when anyone called her “Zo.” It sounded too childish, almost disrespectful. William had never called her that.
“I thought we could meet in the living room,” she said as he followed her obediently. ‘The, uh’—she hesitated, wanting to get the words out—“the cleaning people haven’t finished in the study yet.” Her words hung, unanswered, in the air. Zoe could almost feel him cringe, almost feel him grappling for something to say, awkwardly coming up with nothing. Good, she thought. I hope he’s as uncomfortable as hell. Because he has no right to intrude on my grief.
She led him into the large, open room, the walls of which had been covered, at William’s insistence, with colorful promo posters from Zoe’s days of stardom. The chronology wasn’t difficult to detect: posters of her early films featured the titles and a photo in which Zoe was one of two or three actors; the later ones had “Zoe” emblazoned across them and showed a photo of only her. The film’s title was printed in small type, usually near the bottom. In many ways William had made Cedar Bluff a shrine to Zoe’s success. But there was one element missing: Zoe had not allowed him to construct a theater. After the stroke she did not want to see herself walking, talking, whole.
As she sat on an alpaca-covered chair, Zoe decided the room must be redecorated in order to rid herself once and for all of the past that could never be resurrected.
Phil went to the matching sofa and tossed aside a woven pillow, nearly knocking over a round aubergine-colored pottery bowl, a favorite piece of Zoe’s, one that Marisol had crafted. Without apology he sat down. Zoe didn’t offer him a drink.
He unclasped his briefcase and took out some papers. “It’s still unbelievable to me,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s still so unbelievable that William …” He averted his gaze and looked at the floor. Zoe couldn’t tell if he was sincerely distraught, or if he was playing it up for effect. Living in Hollywood tended to bring out the theatrics in people.
Phil rubbed his mustache. “He didn’t leave a note?”
“No.”
Phil nodded. “That’s surprising.”
“Yes. The police thought so, too.”
He shrugged. “I guess it happens sometimes.”
“Yes. I guess.”
There was silence. Phil nodded again. He was, Zoe decided, nervous. Genuinely nervous. For all his usual brassy, big-mouthed demeanor, Phil Clifford seemed, quite simply, at a loss for words. And although they had never actually been adversaries, she suspected Phil knew she wasn’t crazy about him. She had tolerated his presence when it was absolutely necessary: maybe he had felt the same about her. But he had been William’s friend for many years. Perhaps, she thought now, he was suffering a loss, after all. Perhaps he was grieving, too.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked quietly. “Some iced tea, perhaps? Lemonade? I’m afraid we don’t have any alcohol.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said. “But thank you.” He cleared his throat and fluttered through the papers on his lap as though he’d just remembered the reason he was there. “I really hated to bother you so soon,” he said.
Zoe didn’t respond.
“But there are a few matters that need tending to right away.” He stared at the papers, not making eye contact. “I don’t know how familiar you are with William’s financial situation.”
She folded her hands on her lap. “Not very,” she responded, not wanting to sound as though William had purposely excluded her. “William always felt I had enough on my mind without w
orrying about those things.”
“I see.” Phil put the paper down. Zoe noticed that his brow was beginning to sweat. His lips tightened. “Then you don’t know.”
“Know what?”
He sighed and rubbed his mustache again. “William invested heavily in real estate back in the eighties.”
Phil cleared his throat again, then took a deep breath. Zoe had a feeling she wasn’t going to like what he was about to tell her. She wondered if she’d have to leap from her chair, grab him by his skinny shoulders, and shake it out of him.
“He bought into several condo developments, venture-capital projects, things like that,” Phil finally said.
Zoe crossed her legs. She didn’t know any of this, though she had assumed her husband was involved with other businesses, for he hadn’t had a client since Zoe who was so successful, such a guaranteed moneymaker. He had a smattering of stars, though no megastars, no one who could have brought enough income into William’s agency to provide them with the lavish lifestyle, and the constant medical care for Zoe, that William provided. Not one singular career whose 15 percent could have maintained Cedar Bluff.
Phil had stopped talking. Zoe blinked and turned her attention back to him. “I think I’ll have some lemonade, after all,” he said.
So she was gong to have to shake it out of him. That would probably be what he wanted: a little confrontation to regain his control. Zoe wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. She stood up. “Of course,” she said calmly, steadily. “I’ll just be a minute.”
She went down the hall to the kitchen, walking carefully, yet assuredly. Part of the reason Zoe liked to go barefoot was that it allowed her to feel certain that her left foot was connected with the floor. Her left foot—the one that for several years had been virtually lifeless, unworkable.
Zoe took two glasses from the cabinet and opened the refrigerator door just as Phil appeared beside her.
“Never mind,” he said. “I don’t want any lemonade.”
Zoe closed the refrigerator door.
“Zoe,” he said, “you’ve got some problems.”
She looked at him cautiously. “Problems?”
“William took some heavy losses in his real-estate deals.”
She stood squarely on the floor, wishing she were sitting down, realizing that the foreboding she’d sensed earlier hadn’t been her imagination. It now stood between them like a heavy black cloud, a seemingly impenetrable barrier, one that Zoe feared she did not want to pass through. “How heavy?” she asked.
“Very heavy,” Phil rubbed his mustache. “He lost everything.”
Zoe thought she had misunderstood. “Everything? That’s not possible.”
“It is. He did.”
The cloud between them now surrounded her, enveloped her. “No,” she said.
“Yes,” he answered.
She leaned against the refrigerator and hugged her arms around her thick waist, uncaring that her stomach protruded, indifferent as to whether Phil noticed. “You’re wrong,” she said. “Cedar Bluff is still here. He didn’t lose everything.”
“I’m afraid he did.”
“No.”
Phil stepped forward and placed his arm on Zoe’s shoulder. “William mortgaged and remortgaged Cedar Bluff to help cover his losses in other deals. The house is in your name alone. You must have signed the refinancing papers.”
Zoe struggled to pull her memory to the surface. There had been papers, yes. Once. Twice. Three times? She couldn’t remember. Nor could she recall that William had told her what they were. She didn’t think the word “refinancing” had ever been mentioned, but, then again, she’d always trusted William, and she probably hadn’t paid too much attention.
Phil removed his hand from her shoulder and stepped back. “To put it simply, there’s a balloon payment of half a million dollars due on this place in less than sixty days. William didn’t have the money.”
Zoe looked into Phil’s eyes. They were small and they were sad, and they told her he was not lying. “I think I need to sit down,” she said.
Somehow Zoe endured the rest of the day. There were tacos and burritos for dinner—delivered, of course, for Zoe didn’t cook, had never learned how. She acted out her role as though it had been an ordinary day, as though nothing were wrong. Any more wrong than the fact that William had killed himself just a few days earlier.
It was after eleven now. Scott had gone to bed; Zoe sat with Marisol in the family room, sipping tea. She had explained to Marisol what Phil had reported. As she watched her friend try to digest the information, Zoe felt as though she must be in a dream, that soon she would awaken and this entire nightmare would have been just that. But as she looked around the room at the southwestern-style furniture, the aqua and salmon and beige appointments, Zoe knew this was no dream. The images were too crystal clear, the edges too defined.
“It must be why he killed himself.” Marisol said suddenly. Her words were exactly what Zoe had been thinking.
Zoe wasn’t convinced of that, but neither was she strong enough to contradict. “There is insurance,” she said. “He’d taken a half-million-dollar policy out on each of us. It’s enough to cover the balloon payment, but after that there’s nothing.”
Marisol stirred a spoon in her thick mug.
“I guess I’ll have to sell the house,” Zoe continued, but even as she spoke, she heard disbelief in her mechanical words. “After the other debts are paid off, there should be enough to buy another place. A smaller place. For the three of us.” Marisol had been a part of their family for so many years, Zoe wanted to reassure her that wouldn’t change. Or maybe it was herself she needed to reassure.
“Where?” Marisol asked. “Back in the projects?”
Zoe gripped the handle of her mug.
Marisol put her hand on Zoe’s. “Listen to me. I can go back there. Living in this house was always a fantasy for someone like me. But you? No. You cannot go back, Zoe. This is where you belong. You and Scott.”
Zoe felt the tears come. She had waited so long to cry; now the tears flooded down her cheeks. Days of tears. Maybe months. Maybe years.
“I have no choice,” she sobbed.
“You always have a choice. Look at you. You’re beautiful. You’re a star.”
Anger rose in Zoe’s cheeks. She scraped her chair against the tile floor and stood up. “Don’t be a fool, Marisol. Of all people I thought I could count on you.”
“You can.”
“Not when you talk like that! Look at me!” She skimmed her hands over the front of her body. “I’m old. I’m dumpy. And my freaking mouth still hangs down like it’s made of Silly Putty.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does. It’s all I see when I look in the mirror. That, and the fact I seem to have lost my cheekbones under about a hundred layers of fat cells.”
“You look in the mirror too closely. You don’t see the Zoe I see.”
“God, Marisol,” she ranted, ignoring her friend’s comments. “It’s not only the way I look. For godsake, I haven’t worked in fifteen years. I’m a has-been. Over the hill.” She scooped her mug off the table. It caught on the edge. Tea spilled all over the floor. “Damn you!” she screamed.
Marisol calmly got up, took her napkin, and began mopping up the mess. “Sit down,” she commanded.
Zoe sat.
Marisol returned to her chair. “Listen to me. A lot of people, they still think of you as Zoe the star. But I know you better. I know you as Zoe, my friend.”
Zoe choked back more tears.
“You came up from nothing. Nobody knows that better than me. And you never forgot me. Even when you were sick. You gave me this job. You told me I would always be part of your life. Sure, I took care of you. But you took better care of me. You saved me.”
Zoe remembered the loud nights, the frightening sounds of the beatings in the next apartment. She remembered hearing the shouts through the walls, the cries; she remembered
seeing the bruises for days on Marisol’s face and arms and legs. Marisol had been unable to have children, something for which she was very sad, yet very glad. It had made leaving her man so much easier, once Zoe had convinced her it was the right thing, the only thing, to do.
“You want to sell Cedar Bluff?” Marisol asked. “I don’t think so. Maybe someday. Not now. It’s too soon.”
Zoe put her face in her hands. “You’re the one who didn’t want me to come back here after William died.”
“Sure. For a few days. A week maybe. But you belong here, Zoe. Cedar Bluff is part of you. At least for now.” Marisol pulled Zoe’s hands from her face. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to go back to work. You said the insurance will give you enough money for this big balloon thing. But you’re going to go back to work. Then if you decide to sell this place, it will be because you want to, not because you’ve got no choice.”
“Marisol, I can’t …”
“Don’t give me no shit. You’re going to do as I tell you.”
Zoe remembered those words. She’d heard them often enough from her friend while she was recuperating from the stroke. At times when she was afraid to try walking. At times when she’d go for days without trying to talk. “Don’t give me no shit.” Marisol certainly had a way with words. But it had worked. Then.
“It’s different now, Marisol. We’re not talking about keeping up my spirits or trying to get me back on my emotional feet. There are debts here. Bills. Big ones. I simply don’t have what it takes to overcome this.”
Marisol leaned across the table and took her friend’s face in her hands. She looked squarely into her eyes and said, “Yes, you do. You got guts, honey. You got Scottie. And you got me. And I’m gonna help.”
Marisol stood up and began to pace the floor. “And here’s where we’re going to start. First, you’re going to get yourself fixed up. Because if you look like a star, you’ll feel like a star again.”
Zoe sighed.
“We’re going to get you to one of those fat-farm places.”
“A spa?”
“Yeah. A spa.”