“If I knew the answer to that I’d be getting rich on talk radio.”
She says, “You must have thought about it.”
“When we first split up I hardly thought about anything else. But it’s kind of like trying to go somewhere with one foot nailed to the floor. Lots of motion, no progress.”
“There have to be reasons for everything,” she persists. “Did you just stop loving him? Was there someone else?”
I turn in my chair. “Why on earth would you think that?”
She stops with the glass halfway to her mouth. “Do you know why Kristin moved out?”
“You’d have to ask Kristin.”
“I did. She said it was because he wouldn’t get married.”
“Well, there’s your answer.”
“He didn’t love her,” she says.
I want to tell her she sounds like a romance novel, but that would be unkind, not to mention pointless. After all, she’s twenty-three.
“That’s one of those things you’ll probably never know for sure.”
Her eyes are an angry green flash. “The truth is he couldn’t marry Kristin because he loved you.”
“This is not something we need to speculate about.”
“You just don’t want to think about what you did to him.”
What I did to him.
I don’t know how to defend myself and she appears to take my silence as an admission of guilt.
“I saw how he felt. The way he talked about you. He was devastated that you left.”
“Skye, come on. I know you’re upset, and I am, too. Mac was a really wonderful man and we’ll miss him—”
“Every single day,” she parodies my words, tilting her head back and forth. “Oh, save the memorial speech, can you? God damn it.” She starts to cry.
“Life is messy. People love each other and hurt each other. The truth is, Mac and I had gotten past the divorce. We were close in a different way.”
Her face is flushed and damp and she keeps rubbing her eyes with her dinner napkin. “Too right. He’d have done anything for you. Including pretend to be your friend. Pretend to be happy with Kristin. The truth is, he was lost without you. He didn’t care whether he lived or…not.”
I stare at her, tired beyond rational thought. “You’re out of your mind.”
And then I feel instantly ashamed, because of course she is. It’s been thirty years since my father died, but I have total recall for the insanity of grief, the pain, the anger, the need to lash out at whoever was handy. Most often, my mother.
Since Gillian’s not here, looks like I’m the body double.
She settles back in the chair, quiet for the moment, but I notice her hands trembling.
“Things change,” I say gently. “No matter how much you love someone…sometimes it just doesn’t work. Skye, I’m sorry. I wish—”
She covers her face with both hands, then looks out between the fingers, like a child. “I just want to scream sometimes. I go round doing normal things and then all of a sudden in the midst of it, I think shit…he’s dead.”
“I know—”
“Bloody hell you do.” The words are sharp, but the voice is weary.
She watches me gather up the dishes and take them inside. I pour the wine down the drain, stash the plates and forks in the dishwasher, pull a towel off the rack to dry my hands.
The door slams and I turn around.
“I’ve dropped the goblet.” She looks stricken. “Is there a broom?”
“Leave it. I’ll get it in the morning. I think we both need some sleep.”
“I feel badly.”
I can’t decide if she means about the crystal or about what she said to me.
“What will you do when you get home?”
“What I’ve been doing all along, I expect. Till I sort things out.” She turns away. “Good night, Wyn.”
As she disappears up the stairs with Charles at her heels, I hear her say, “I’ll miss you, little Scruff.”
We’ll miss her, too, Charles and I. In spite of the bumpy road we’ve been on.
Tomorrow she’ll get on a plane and I’ll slip back into my life; no more awkward silences or pointed questions, no accusations or misunderstandings. It will be an immense relief.
Still, I don’t want her to go. I’m afraid the connection, such as it is, will be broken. Afraid she’ll be too busy, too angry, too enmeshed in her tragic romance.
I’m afraid of losing her, which is ridiculous, since I never had her to begin with.
The tin box that holds what the people at the crematory call “the cremains,” which I can’t help thinking sounds like dried cranberries, is still sitting on the counter. I pick it up and carry it out to the garage, reaching around the corner to flip the light switch.
There sits my other bequest from Mac—Elky 2, a cream and turquoise dream under the flickering fluorescent light. CM rode with me when I drove it over from the house—she called it the positioning cruise—and I haven’t driven it since.
Now I open the door and slide in, settling Mac in the passenger seat. The truck smells good, like real car wax and a trace of cigarette smoke. None of those stupid air fresheners shaped like pine trees. I sit for a minute, holding the wheel, tapping my fingernails lightly in response to some old song, teasing my memory.
I look over at the box.
“I’m not doing so well with Skye.”
No response. Not that I was expecting one.
I lean my head back against the head rest. “Damn, I’m glad I’m not young anymore. Remember that song? From Gigi? No, probably not. But, it’s hard. You really need to believe things make sense. Or at least that they will, once you’ve figured out all the secrets. Too bad there aren’t any secrets and nothing ever makes sense…does it?”
I reach down for the seat bar and push back, stretching out my legs.
“Tonight I was sitting there across the table from her at dinner, and I suddenly thought about that time in Seattle. On the ferry going over to Bainbridge. Or was it Vashon? We took so many ferry rides. They sort of run together. This was right after I came back from my mom’s wedding and you were telling me about New Zealand. And Gillian and how you left…of course, you didn’t know about Skye then, but…
“Did you ever imagine it would turn out like this? I didn’t. Not in my wildest imaginings. I had a lot of plans for us, and none of them included talking to your ashes in a tin box.
“You know what? About a week ago I went through all the messages on my cell just to see if maybe there was an old one from you. Just to hear your voice…I must’ve deleted them all.”
I close my eyes for a minute. The air is absolutely still.
“Well… I guess I should get some sleep. I’ll talk to her in the morning.”
I get out of the truck, leaving the box on the passenger seat.
In the morning when I knock on the guest room door, there’s no response. Downstairs I find Charles disconsolate, lying on the foyer rug. Her sheets and towels are piled in the laundry room, and a hastily scribbled note awaits me on the kitchen table.
Got an earlier flight. Thanks. Skye.
PART TWO
THEN
The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make a heaven of Hell and a hell of Heaven.
—John Milton
two
Los Angeles, Y2K
I could be at home right now.
Curled up on the bed with my dog, a glass of good Shiraz, and a Turner Classic movie. Gigi was on tonight. We—by which I mean the Brown Dog and I—are fond of musicals, and anything with Maurice Chevalier. In Gigi, I love his duet with Hermione Gingold, “I Remember It Well.” It’s a song about two former lovers who each have different memories of the end of their affair.
I’ve seen the movie probably a half-dozen times, but I’d rather be watching it for the seventh time than teetering on these ridiculous heels, trying to appear thrilled to be at this party, when the truth is, I’m tired and
my feet hurt. You’d think my husband might have noticed this. That he might have sidled up earlier in the evening, nibbled my ear and said,
Let’s go get a pizza and have dinner in bed.
There was a time when he would have. But not tonight.
Tonight he’s lounging gracefully against the bar, glass of scotch in hand, three women clustered around him like backup singers waiting for their cue.
A white-jacketed waiter appears with a tray, and two of the women reach for little canapés of brown bread with smoked salmon and crème fraîche, dusted with chives. The waiter distributes cocktail napkins and lifts empty glasses from their hands, but their eyes never stray from Mac’s face. I understand the attraction.
Of the four male writers here tonight, one is gay, one is a nineteen-year-old with acne and tongue piercings, and one is a sixty-five-year-old anthropologist, wide of ass and high of trousers. Mac, by contrast, is a rather fit specimen of forty-two, with nice eyes and fair hair going a bit gray at the temples.
Add to that, his novel December Light has just come out in trade paperback. It’s the story of a woman in the 1950’s who gives up love in favor of her career as a photographer and goes off to study and work in London. It’s been selling briskly—at least in L.A.—and suddenly he’s wearing the mantle of the “sensitive man” last seen on the shoulders of Alan Alda.
I watch the little group for a minute, imagining that I’ve just met him tonight, that I never knew the old Mac. Or, as I’ve started thinking of him, First Edition Mac—the guy whose idea of clothes shopping was a trip to REI. Who was happy driving a 1971 Chevy El Camino. Whose drink of choice was a decent pale ale.
Sometimes I still catch a glimpse of his ghost, wandering around the house in jeans and a flannel shirt, but for the most part, I live with New Mac, a man who has more Italian designer labels in his closet than a Miami pimp. Who drinks Macallan single malt scotch and tools around the Palisades in a self-absorbed, arrogantly sexy, black BMW 740, which my best friend has dubbed The Death Star.
I never imagined he’d sell the truck.
He and Elky were together long before I came on the scene, and I always felt like he and the truck were bonded somehow.
I imagined the three of us—Mac, Elky and me—growing old together, driving down Pacific Coast Highway on summer afternoons, Elky’s silver paint flashing in the sun. Alright, so the paint was oxidized white with a few rust spots, the tires bald, the upholstery splitting. That could have all been fixed.
But then Mac comes into the kitchen one day and announces that somebody’s coming over to look at Elky. I’m stunned. He never mentioned that he was thinking of selling it, much less that he’s been running an ad in Auto Trader Classic Trucks. Of course, that’s his M.O. He considers it, decides to do it, does it, and only then tells me.
Actually three somebodies show up to see the truck that afternoon, and the last one wants it. Bad. His name is Kyle, and he looks about seventeen. Tall, lanky, cute and a little shy. Sort of how I’ve imagined Mac at that age.
While I’ve always thought of the Elky as male—a buddy of sorts—Kyle’s pale blue eyes caress the truck as if it were a girl. He goes to get his older brother and two hours later Elky’s backing out of the driveway with my fantasy Mac at the wheel. I have a nearly overpowering urge to run out and jump in the passenger side and ride into the sunset with him.
I flag down the waiter and ask him for a glass of Pellegrino with lime. The pianist at the venerable black Steinway is serving up cocktail party jazz lite and elevator arrangements of Beatles songs. It’s not his fault. Nobody wants anything they actually have to listen to. He’s probably as bored as I am.
I lean against the instrument, stirring a dish of peanuts with a tiny silver spoon. Among all the writers, agents, editors, favored members of the press and one or two P.R. “specialists” at this party, I’m the baker. The one who does manual labor. Quite honestly I’d be happier in the kitchen swapping recipes with the caterer. There are a few trailing spouses besides me, but most of them seem to enjoy basking in the reflected limelight. Either that, or they’re better at faking it than I am.
“Wynter, how are you?” It’s Sylvia, our hostess, looking regal in lavender silk pants and a matching ribbon-knit sweater. Her husband Alan Lear is Mac’s agent. She hugs me, then looks at my face. “I haven’t seen you in…well, since the Stockwell’s dinner. You look lovely for someone who’s about to fall asleep.”
I can’t help laughing. “I’m fine. And I’m off tomorrow, so I can sleep in.”
Sylvia reads people the way some people read books. Probably why she was such a good therapist. She’s retired from private practice now, but she still speaks at conferences and conducts workshops for therapists.
Now her eyes flicker towards Mac and his groupies and she gives me a disconcertingly direct look. “Good. Let him take you out for breakfast.”
Suddenly someone calls from across the room, “Sylvia, come tell Marion about that darling little hotel you and Alan found in Tuscany last year.”
She looks over her shoulder. “One second, Joyce.” Then back to me. “Alan says this project’s been hard on him. That means it’s been hard on you, too.”
I’m not tracking too well, so it takes me a few seconds to figure out that she’s talking about Mac. I love Sylvia, but this is not a conversation I want to have. Fortunately, someone else is calling her name from a different corner of the room.
She sighs and squeezes my hand. “Take care of yourself, Wynter. Let’s try to get together soon. Have lunch or something.” And then she’s gone.
Out in the foyer, the first wave is preparing for take-off, holding their jackets, air kissing, conversation dwindling down to witty exit lines. Alan is a notorious night owl, though, so it could still be an hour or two before we get out of here. I look at my watch.
I’ve been up since 4 A. M. and I’m about to hit the wall.
The dark wood doors of the library click shut behind me, and I sink down on the leather couch, set my glass on the table, and kick off the offending sandals. They’re really nothing more than a sole balanced on a chopstick with a couple of skinny straps over the foot…probably not a good choice for someone who wears clogs to work, but the salesman was very convincing. He said they made my legs look sexy.
A fire sputters fitfully in the broken-tile fireplace, taking the chill off the April night. I love this room. Actually I love the whole house. It’s the kind of house my father used to call an OSD—Old Spanish Dog—built in the twenties, all white stucco, dark wood floors, and some of the most gorgeous Malibu tile I’ve ever seen. The brass doorknobs are burnished from seventy years’ worth of hands. Backing shows through the worn spots on the Persian rugs. The wood floors dip slightly just over the threshold of every door where your first step naturally lands.
The furniture looks as though it’s been well used by a family with children, which it has, and I find it endearing that the Lears have never felt the need to replace everything with new, expensive stuff. Most of the paintings hanging on the walls were done by Sylvia. Every room holds family photographs. It’s the kind of house you don’t so much walk into as pull up around you like a comforter.
For the last fifteen years, my work schedule as a baker has accustomed me to grabbing naps whenever possible. Now, stretched out full length on the couch, I have reason to be grateful for that skill.
“Wynter McLeod.”
My eyelids snap open.
“Darlin’, your husband is becomin’ mighty careless. Leavin’ a gorgeous hunk of woman like you just lyin’ around.” The voice is very Mississippi. Its owner is all Hollywood.
I smile drowsily. “Hi, Gabe.” I start to sit up, but he puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t you move so much as an eyelash. I’ll just sit right down here on the floor and gaze longingly at your supine form.” He arranges his meticulously creased slacks and folds himself down to the rug. “You know you’re the most interesting woman at thi
s soirée.”
I roll onto my stomach, pillowing my head on my arms. “And you’re the best liar. It’s one of my favorite things about you. What are you working on these days?”
“My tan.” He smiles, showing dazzling white veneers. “What are you doing sneakin’ off alone? Is Matthew misbehavin’ himself?”
“He’s talking shop,” I say lightly. “And my feet were killing me. I’m not used to these tea party shoes.”
“Lady, it’s your good fortune that I happened along.” Suddenly he’s kneeling at the other end of the couch massaging the soles of my feet with his thumbs.
“Ohhh. Gabe, don’t. That feels way too good. You better stop it right now.”
He ignores me. “Gabriel K. Cleveland, at your service. I did tell you about my foot fetish?”
“What’s the K stand for?”
“Kenmore. My momma always said it was a family name, but honestly…” His voice sinks to a stage whisper. “I’ve always believed my real daddy was the washing machine repair man.”
I smile. “Maybe you should write a memoir.”
“Bury Me Not was as close to a memoir as this boy’s ever going to get. As it was, my momma sued me for libel…No, really, she did. Honey, you don’t mess with Lydia Landis Cleveland of the Slocum, Mississippi Landises.”
“What part of the book didn’t she like?”
“The part where the protagonist’s mother runs over her husband with his own Cadillac.”
“Your mother didn’t…”
“No, she didn’t kill him, but when he dropped over from a heart attack the first thing she did was take his Patek Phillipe and his diamond ring. Before she called 911.”
He digs a knuckle into my arch.
“Oh, God, yes. Right there.”
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