by Rona Jaffe
He looked into her eyes. “Then I’ll never lie to you.”
The next day around noon he went off in the clean jacket and one of the clean pair of pants and Silky went off to an interview at Sardi’s where she smiled and laughed a lot and carefully restrained herself from saying that she had a boyfriend or was in love. She felt wildly frivolous and could hardly keep her mind on the same dull questions and her same rehearsed answers, but she did her best and felt very tired when the interview was over. She went home and took a nap, ate a steak, and went to the theater. Monday night was usually the worst night of the week, but tonight it was a good audience and the house was full again, which made the cast very up. After the show she met Bobby in the alley.
“I had a hard time getting rid of my friends,” he said. “They wanted to go down the street.”
“Do you want to go?”
“I didn’t know how you felt.”
“I don’t care.”
He took her to the bar, then, and they sat at a table for two. His friends kept coining over and greeting him, and they were all nice to her. Bobby kept holding her hand and pressing her knee, and Silky began to feel less self-conscious about being seen as his girl in front of all the kids from the show and soon she didn’t mind at all. He dragged his chair over so he could sit next to her, and after a couple of drinks they were all over each other and then they went home.
“Well,” she said, “I guess they know.”
“Do you care?”
“Do you?”
“I only mind if you mind.”
“I’m proud of it,” she said.
When he was undressing he took off a pair of gold and sapphire cuff links that she hadn’t seen him put on in the morning. He saw her looking at them and showed them to her.
“Cartier’s,” he said. “Eighteen-carat gold. I just got them back.”
“Where were they?”
He grinned. “Pawned. Sometimes I get drunk and buy drinks for everybody in the place and then the next day I have to pawn something just to get carfare.”
“You mustn’t do that.”
“I’m going to try not to—now.”
“I mean … I don’t want to tell you what to do … but …”
“No, you’re right. I have a woman now. It’s different.”
“Who’s your woman?”
“Who do you think?”
During the next few days he kept going home to get more clothes either “from the cleaner” or “for an appointment,” and soon he had a whole closet of his own and Silky doubled her things up in the other one. He brought shaving cream and deodorant and underwear and socks and a vibrator, which he used for various things the manufacturer had probably not intended it for. He bought whiskey when they finished what Silky had in stock, and she bought the food. She was paying the rent, of course, because he was officially living in his room, where he paid the rent. At the end of two weeks she realized they really were living together without either of them having mentioned it.
She wondered what had happened to her ambition for marriage and respectability. It didn’t seem to matter right now. She knew that when they really fell in love they would know it without making speeches, just as they had begun to live together without a formal decision, and she also knew that someday they would get married, and that when it happened it would be a quiet, natural decision, just like every decision they had ever made since the moment they met.
Then, just when everything was going along beautifully, Mr. Libra reared his ugly head. He made Gerry call and tell Silky to come to the office. She went, carefully dressed as befitted a young star, complete to a little pillbox hat, and walked into the Plaza suite trying not to look frightened. She didn’t like being summoned, but she supposed he had a screen test for her or something. She wished that she could stop being frightened of this man and stop hating him, but just when she thought she could stand him he antagonized her again. Like why didn’t he just talk to her on the phone this morning, instead of having Gerry summon her and make it all so formal?
“What is that thing you have on your head?” Libra greeted her. “Who do you think you are—Jackie Kennedy?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s corny.”
Silky took the hat off and placed it carefully on her lap. She was sitting on the couch, looking at Mr. Libra with big eyes, clenching her teeth, trying to look pleasant.
“I want you to look like a lady, but you don’t have to go too far,” he said. “Coffee?”
“No thank you.”
He deliberately poured a cup for himself. He had sent Gerry out of the room. “All right,” he said. “What’s the story? Do you just want to get laid or are you in love with him?”
“Who?” she said. So that was it!
“Bobby La Fontaine, chorus boy and professional hustler. I know everything you do, you know. I don’t just supervise your contracts. Tell me your little story now.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Her palms were wet; there were big damp blotches on the hat she was holding.
“He’s been living in your apartment for two weeks, that’s chapter one. What’s chapter two?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Silky said.
“You might as well admit he’s living with you because I know it already. I made a few phone calls when I found out and I know a lot more about that boy than you do, Silky. Are you in love with him?”
She wished she could tell him it was none of his f …, none of his business. “Yes,” she said.
“And he’s in love with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know that he’s given up his room?”
That was a shock. She didn’t answer. Her heart was soaring.
“I gather from your silence that you didn’t,” Mr. Libra went on. “Do you know what he did in his spare time before he met you? Aside from dance in a chorus, I mean.”
She shook her head. Given up his room … that meant he wanted to stay with her. She wondered why he hadn’t told her: pride, she imagined.
Mr. Libra stood up. He seemed nervous. “I’ll tell you what he did in his spare time,” he said. “He was a hustler. Men, women, anything the traffic would allow. I have a list of names and dates, which I can show you if you don’t believe me. He was very well provided for by these people. You may have wondered how he had so much money to spend when he made only ninety dollars a week.”
“He pawned things,” Silky said.
“Such things as a pair of gold and sapphire cuff links from Cartier’s, given to him by a very old, very wealthy, and very fruity producer …? Oh, I see you’ve seen the cuff links. Would you like me to list the rest of his jewelry?”
“I never noticed his jewelry,” Silky said. “Can I go now?”
“Sit down! You can go when I’m through with you. You may also have noticed the labels in his clothes. Or perhaps you’re not interested in his clothes. I think not. What I want to know is, is this an indulgence on your part because you’re lonely and you think you deserve a treat, or are you foolish enough to want to marry him?”
“I don’t believe he’s a hustler,” Silky said. “And if he is, I don’t care.”
“You know he is. You may not care, but you know I wouldn’t lie to you. I didn’t pick you out of the gutter and educate you and teach you how to behave like a lady so that you could turn around and behave like a fool. I’m not telling you you’re a tramp or a tart. Everyone’s entitled to find sex where they can. If you want to pick up a little hustler and play with him for a week or two, and you’re discreet about it, then that’s your business. But I know you too well for that. You’re not playing. You never play. I wish you did play. I wish you had more guts.”
“You can’t tell me who to fall in love with,” Silky said.
“I can tell you who not to fall in love with. I can tell you not to fall in love with a hustler who’s going with you because of what he can get out of you, because
you’re a star, because you’re rich, because it’s comfortable for him, because people who marry stars end up getting good jobs in show business and becoming stars themselves just because of the publicity. I’m not saying he doesn’t care for you—he’s given up his other lovers and he evidently thinks this gamble is worth it. You’re not entirely unlovable. If he was a nice boy, he would probably fall in love with you because of what and who you are as a woman. But Bobby La Fontaine is not a nice person.”
He paused, looking at her to see if it was sinking in. She looked back at him with as little expression showing on her face as possible, wanting to claw his eyes out. How dare he make phone calls about her? He had probably hired a detective. She wouldn’t put any low thing past old ape-face Libra, not even that. She was too angry to worry right now about whether or not the information was a he. It didn’t matter! She loved Bobby and he loved her, and she was entitled to some happiness. She’d been unhappy for so long. This wasn’t going to change anything, no matter what else old ape-face Libra pulled out of his hat besides shit.
Libra sighed. “You’ve seen them at ringside tables at the night clubs where you sang, the old, lonely stars with their young men. You might have thought they were pathetic and ridiculous. Famous, aging, pathetically drunk and drugged old stars, clawing at their purchased young men. And the young men, with eyes like snakes, all feelings dead, nothing left but a hard-on that they can’t even get often any more, but it doesn’t matter because the poor old star who keeps them doesn’t care about sex any more either. You never thought in a million years that you would end up like that. But you have, just in a few months. You’re a young girl—you have your life ahead of you, you’re beautiful, you’re going to be even more famous than you are now. Don’t become a satire. It’s not worth it. You’re too good for that, Silky. Leave that to the old bats who went wrong. I won’t let you go wrong. I’ll protect you. Don’t settle for a Bobby La Fontaine.”
Somehow his sweetness angered her even more than his presumption. He had always been able to play her like a fish. He’d get her worked up, then scared, then she’d snivel and cry … What right had he to run her private life? He’d never allowed her even a free thought!
“I’m not saying I’m not grateful to you for all you’ve done for me, Mr. Libra,” Silky said quietly. “But if I’m a satire it’s because you made me one. You tried to change me from the inside out. You changed my thoughts, even the dreams I had at night. You made me act like a puppet. You still do. Every word I say is something you wrote down for me. You tried to destroy my soul. You can’t do that. I won’t let anybody do that. I’ll act like anything you want when I’m working or being interviewed, but when I’m on my own time I want to have my own life. Otherwise none of it is worth it, not even being a star.”
“I can destroy you,” he said. “I made you and I can destroy you.”
“How?”
“If people find out …”
“People will love it!” Silky cried. “They love to hear about scandal! I’ll be a bigger star than ever and you know it.”
“I can drop you.”
“It’s all right. Other agents and managers will have me.”
“I can let you destroy yourself. You’re evidently better at it than I could ever be.”
“All I want is a chance to destroy myself,” Silky said, smiling. “Let me do it my own way and enjoy it.”
Libra shook his head sadly. “You’ve changed and I’m sorry for you. I’m sorry for all your friends who trust you.”
“Uh uh,” Silky said. “I haven’t changed. I’m just doing something human for the first time in my life.”
“Do you know what a hustler is?” he asked, sounding almost pathetic.
“I certainly do. I’ve been around enough of them in my life.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” he said. “You can go now.”
“Thank you. Good-bye.” She got up, went to the mirror, and put the pillbox hat firmly on top of her head. She could see Mr. Libra looking at her and he looked strange. She walked to the door.
“Silky …”
“Yes?”
“If you get in trouble … call me. Day or night.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She went running down the hall, leaping with joy, and ran down the stairs instead of taking the elevator. She had beaten him! She had won! It was worth everything to see that strange look on his face when he was watching her in the mirror. She really was a grown-up now. She had beaten Mr. Libra.
And if Bobby was a hustler and only wanted her for what she could do for him? Her heart pounded. She began to feel afraid. But she would know … She would watch everything he did and she would know. She wouldn’t even mention this little talk to Bobby. It would only make him mad. But she would be watching. And meanwhile, she would be happy. Bobby made her happy, and before she had been unhappy, and that was all that mattered. She deserved some happiness. She had too many wounds that had to heal. Bobby would make them heal, and then she would have scar tissue and be strong again, and then she would think about it. Meanwhile she would be happy. She loved him. She loved him enough to stand up to Mr. Libra, and that was a present Bobby had given her without even knowing it. Everything would be all right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Just before Thanksgiving Lizzie Libra decided to quit her analyst. The main reason was that she no longer had anything to talk to him about. Her sex life had dwindled alarmingly. In fact, it might be described as nonexistent. She sat at home at night watching television, waiting for Sam to come home. One evening, watching her favorite grab bag of stars, she realized that she had slept with each and every one of the men on the panel at one time or another; it was like old home week … no, it was like her past passing before her eyes as she drowned. She might as well face it: she was old.
There was no point to run to Dr. Picker to ask him to explain her exploits when there were no longer any exploits. To tell the truth, she was a little ashamed to admit to the old letch that nobody wanted her any more. Besides, she had gone into analysis in the first place to try to come to grips with her infidelities, and since there were no more infidelities then she was no longer unfaithful, therefore she must be cured. Dr. Picker always said there was a reason for everything. Maybe the reason she had no more lovers was not that she was old after all, but that she was cured.
She informed him, and he was angry. He threatened her. Lizzie looked around his office, at the expensive Oriental rugs, at the authentic objects of pre-Columbian art (Did all analysts furnish their offices at an analyst’s wholesale showroom, or did they just all have the same taste?) and she began to resent the money she had spent. It was really the money Sam had spent, but it was one and the same. Dr. Picker probably had put a down payment on a painting, and that was why he was so bugged at her. She had the temerity to say this to him, and then he really got angry and told her there was a long waiting list of people who were really sick.
“So I’m not really sick?”
“You can get better.”
“But I’m not incapacitated? I’m not suicidal?”
“No one ever said you were.”
“All I am is impetuous, earthy, and unfaithful to my husband.”
“There’s a lot more …”
Lizzie Libra took an ax and gave her doctor forty whacks …
“I no longer feel the urge to cheat. So I think I can handle my marriage from now on.”
“Perhaps you are cured,” he said dubiously. “Stranger things have happened.”
“I came here to be cured. Why do you think it’s strange if you’ve succeeded?”
“It’s such a short time.”
“What short time?”
“You will remember, this is not Freudian analysis. We have not even gotten to the deep root of our problem.”
She wished he would stop being so chummy. It was never “our” problem, it was her problem. She thought of one of Franco’s new dresses that she could buy with the mo
ney she was spending on this old voyeur. It had big puffed sleeves and a peplum and a tiny little waist. She looked surreptitiously at the clock on Dr. Picker’s desk.
“You wish to leave now?” he asked.
“We might as well drag it out since it’s my last session.”
“I have no desire to drag it out. I can use the time to work on my book.”
“Am I in it?”
He smiled.
“If I’m in it I want my money back,” Lizzie said. “I didn’t give you the rights to my life.”
“You are not in it.”
“Oh? I’m not interesting enough?”
“Mrs. Libra, you are in trouble and you should stay and have more treatment.”
“I think you should use my time for the window-jumpers,” Lizzie said. She took out her compact and powdered her nose. Franco’s new vermilion lipstick that went with the Gilda Look made her lips peel. She didn’t like it. “I just have nothing to talk to you about any more.”
“That is because we are getting at the real root of our problem.”
“What is that root?”
“That is for us to investigate.”
“I’d rather investigate my peaceful old age,” Lizzie said. She knew it was a lie; she would go down kicking and screaming before she would give in to a peaceful old age, but she wanted to say something that sounded well-adjusted. He seemed mollified.
“Perhaps you are not so frantic,” he said. “You seem calmer. I see great progress. Would you like to take a sabbatical?”
“Yes,” Lizzie said, just to get rid of him. “I think some time off to digest what I’ve learned would be good for me.”
Dr. Picker looked at the appointment book on his desk. Then he picked up the phone. “Tell Hudson she can have Libra’s appointment times for the next few weeks,” he told the nurse outside.
Lizzie resented being called “Libra.” It was like being a stock on the market. She looked at the creep’s prison pallor and wondered if he had ever seen the light of day. How could he, sitting in here in this air-conditioned womb from eight in the morning till eight at night? When had he ever seen real people with real problems? Everything was out of a textbook for him. He ought to go to one of Sam’s parties. That would teach him a thing or two. She decided to invite him to the next one. Did he really like her? Had he ever really liked her? Did she even exist for him? She felt sad. She didn’t like saying good-bye to anyone.