The Girl On The Half Shell

by Susan Ward

  “And you really need to get your fucking face out of my face before I toss you over the patio railing. Len! Get your witless, wetback, limey ass in here and dispose of Cruella.”

  She comes through the terrace doors like a hurricane. Linda’s severely beautiful face turns toward me, locking me in an absolutely diminishing stare.

  “Aha,” she says. She sinks on the chaise beside me. “So that’s it. Manny has a new house cat. Who the fuck are you?”

  I don’t have a chance to answer.

  “Len, get the fuck out here!” she screams. “We’ve been worrying about nothing. He is fine. The band is not breaking up. He is ignoring everyone because he has a new house cat.”

  Her eyes shift back to me. “Well, pretty little kitty, I’m Linda Rowan. Who are you?”

  “I’m nobody.” Oh crap, why did I blurt out the first thing that came into my head?

  Linda laughs. “Is that your name or your vocation? One can never tell with Manny’s girls.” She grabs a cigarette and lights it. She studies me over the smoke. “You’re a smart girl, aren’t you? You keep your mouth shut. That’s good. Don’t trust anyone, that’s my motto.”

  She fixes her intense stare at the terrace doors. Even sitting silently, it feels as if the entire terrace is electrically charged from her.

  I would have considered Linda Rowan a flawless beauty like Rene, if not for the ring through her nose, the ring through her eyebrow, and the ring through her lower lip. The stud in her tongue is something particularly irritating since it clicks against the back of her teeth whenever she speaks. It’s hard to tell how old she is. Anywhere between twenty and thirty. The eyes look a lot older, but her face is fresh and young.

  I focus on the large pansy tattooed on her wrist, as she reaches to pour herself a hefty glass of whiskey.

  “Well, fuck! Don’t just sit there staring at me. Say something.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  Linda laughs a husky laugh that tells me she laughs often. “I like you, little house cat. I’m never wrong about these things. And I like you.”

  I’m really getting irritated at being called the “little house cat” and I’m about to say something when Len Rowan decides to join us. He is a tall, swaggering, and good-humored Britisher. I’d recognize Alan’s bass player anywhere. He is not good looking, but he has an interesting face. Very English features framed by a mane of wavy reddish-blond hair.

  “Len, meet the house cat,” Linda announces. “I can’t give you her name because she won’t tell me. This one is a clam. House kitty, this in my husband, Len Rowan.”

  Len sinks too close to me on the chaise after grabbing a full bottle of Jack Daniels. He’s reclined on one side of me, Linda in front, so I feel surrounded.

  “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you? All fresh and cute like he plucked you from an Iowa corn field. Where do you imagine he picked up this one, Linda?”

  Linda sighs and shakes her head. “She’s too good for him. I can tell that at a glance. And I like her, so stop messing with her Len and stop staring at her tits.”

  Len leans over to kiss his wife. “I only have eyes for you, love. And so long as you like her, that’s all that matters.”

  “So, where is Ugly?”

  Ugly? Does she mean Alan? “I don’t know,” I say cautiously.

  The Rowans laugh.

  “We’re all family here,” Linda says.

  “You’re not exactly catching us at our best,” says Len humorously.

  “Ya think, Len?” Linda shakes her head. She leans forward into me, chin in hands, eyes sharply on me. “Cruella has a way of bringing out the worst in me. I’ve been trying to call Manny since he touched down in New York. Cruella has been running interference and we worry about him. OK?”

  “Haven’t had sight or sound from him in nearly six months,” Len explains. “The only things we hear are from Arnie Arnowitz. How’s a guy supposed to react to finding out his best friend is breaking up the act via a phone call from the accountant? Not even the fucking manager. The fucking accountant. After all that’s gone on, it was time to find out what the hell is going on directly from the source.”

  “We got tired of being shut out, so we barged in,” explains Linda, reaching for another cigarette. “Len and Manny are like this.” She crosses her fingers. “Like brothers, and who the fuck tells their brother to kiss off via the accountant.”

  I try to keep any reaction from surfacing. The phone call in the car from the airport: I knew before they knew that Alan was quitting.

  Linda smiles. “So how long have you been with Manny?”

  “I’m only visiting New York.”

  That brings a sparkle to Linda’s eyes. “Interesting. We’ve had no contact with him since December so we’d very much appreciate a no bullshit, no carefully spun answer. We’re not the fucking press. We’re family. How is he?”

  That question is far from simple, multifaceted, and serious. Linda is worried. Very, very worried. I can feel it underneath everything else.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know Alan well enough to know for sure.”

  Len spits out a full mouth of JD across the chaise. “You call him Alan?”

  “Jesus Christ, Len, it’s nothing to split a gut about. It’s probably part of that Rehab getting to the true, honest self shit. You know how they love to fuck with your mind in Rehab. Pull it together, who gives a fuck what the little house cat calls him. It’s probably therapy.”

  I’m ready to be done with this. I stand up and quickly secure my sarong.

  “Don’t run off, little kitty,” Linda says mockingly. “We’re not done with you.”

  Every muscle in my body tenses and I wonder where the flash of anger so unlike me came from. “Well, I’m done with you,” I say pointedly.

  Linda rolls her eyes. “Not a smart move, little kitty. Not if you plan to stick around. I’m the last person you should make an enemy of.”

  I meet her stare for stare. “No, Linda. I’m the last person you should make an enemy of. So back off.”

  Girl stare. Serious girl stare.

  Len spits out his drink again and then falls laughing on the chaise.

  “Oh lighten up, lighten up, love. She got you good there, Linda. We don’t need a cat fight. Not today.”

  Linda relents. “You don’t have to run off.”

  I lift my chin. “I’m not running.”

  “Then sit down dammit. It’s going to be explosive enough when Manny returns without you being pissed off at us.”

  What the heck does that mean? Is she warning me that things are going to get worse from here? It’s already awful.

  Linda takes a steadying breath. “I’m sorry, and I’d be more than happy to call you something other than little house cat, but you’re the one who won’t tell us your name.”

  Good point. I sit back down. “Chrissie,” I say stiffly.

  Linda smiles, and when she really smiles it’s quite spectacular. “There now, we are friends. I want you to stay here with me. Keep me from doing something stupid. This is not going to go at all well.”

  Holy crap, what does that mean?

  “So, where are you from, Chrissie? Where did Manny find you?”

  I look at Len. “California.”

  Linda crinkles her nose. “You didn’t meet in Rehab did you? You don’t look the type.”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Linda shakes her head in exasperation. “You know, you don’t have to be so cautious about everything. We’re just making idle chitchat until it’s time for the fireworks to go off.”

  “So, what do you do in California,” Len asks.

  “I go to school and I play the cello.”

  The minute I say it I realize how lame that sounds. When do you outgrow these moments of embarrassing conversational awkwardness?

  Len starts to rummage around the remains of my buffet table Jeannette unexpectedly set up for me while I was inside putting on my
swim-suit.

  “Aha.” Linda takes a plate of fruit from Len. “She’s a smart one, Len. All college posh and cello. Maybe the Rehab shit is good. Maybe this one will keep him straight. I like her.”

  I know she means it as a compliment, but for some reason each time Linda announces I like her it’s like nails on a chalkboard. It is incredibly irritating, the self-importance she gives her own opinions.

  Len Rowan’s eyes sharpen on me. “So, you’re the reason he bought the cello.”

  How do they know about the cello?

  Linda and Len lock stares.

  “That means they’ve been together since January,” Linda announces with an air of discovery.

  “I just met him last week,” I say emphatically, though I don’t know why I feel an urgent need to clarify that.

  “Oh, don’t play coy with us,” Linda chides shrewdly. “Quite a retirement fund. Better than the jewelry. I knew you were a smart one. Jewelry always loses its value. But the cello. That was smart. And we know exactly when he bought the cello. Like I could ever forget that day. Remember, Len?”

  Len gives her a sympathetic, heavy nod.

  “I cried into my magazines for nearly a week,” Linda continues gravely. “It is a sad day when the only confirmation you get that your dearest friend is alive and well, since no one will tell you whether he is or where he is, is when he buys a cello for 1.7 million at auction at Christie’s. The Times in January. That was the first time we knew for sure he was OK.”

  Linda starts to cry. I don’t know what to do. She is crying and Len is staring off into space. I inch across the chaise lounge to tentatively put an arm around her. Linda feels so fragile when I touch her. The hurricane is scary on the surface, but fragile within.

  “I can see you care about him,” I whisper.

  She is suddenly buried against me.

  “It’s just been really, really hard. The three of us—Len, Manny and me¬—that’s all there’s been for eight years. The three of us. From London here. Then one day it falls apart. You don’t see it. You don’t prepare. And you are writing letters to your best friend, the guy who’s like your brother, because they won’t let you do anything else. You can’t call. You can’t visit. And he’s not writing back. I’ve been so afraid. Really, really afraid.”

  She’s wrapped around me as if she’s holding on for dear life, and I’m uncomfortable and I can’t figure out why she’s wrapped around me instead of her husband.

  “He has your letters. They’re in a cabinet in his bedroom,” I inform her gently.

  Linda’s face snaps up. “Really? Then why the fuck didn’t he write back?” Linda sits back on her heels. “OK, you’ve seen it. I’m running on my last nerve here.”

  I start to move away. She grabs my arm. “No, stay with me. This is going to get awful. They have history together that even I don’t understand. It’s going to get awful and you need to keep me out of it.”

  Len is reclined on his lounge chair asleep, and Linda and I are laying side by side as though we are the best of friends, waiting, though I don’t know for what. The fireworks?

  “Do you know where I’m from?” Linda asks.

  I shake my head.

  “The Valley. Encino. I’m a Valley Girl. I miss Southern California. I miss the sun.”

  I laugh.

  Linda turns on her side. “How did two California college girls end up with this strange herd of British wetbacks? They only want to marry us for the citizenship and the tax advantage. Take my advice. Finish school. Don’t run off with the first Brit who wants to marry you for a green card.”

  Linda falls asleep. I sit beside her, watching the sun move across the sky, dip in the horizon, and then the expanding swirl of sunset. The hours are punctuated only by the sound of Jeanette’s clicking heels and Len’s snoring. Clearly, the Rowans are not leaving until Alan returns. It’s evening. Good one, Alan, you could have returned when you promised to!

  A sound makes me jump, and the movement of my body jolts Linda awake. There is noise in the foyer. Is Alan back? I start to rise, but Linda latches onto me like a barnacle. “No, stay. This is going to get ugly. Stay with me.”

  Len goes from asleep to turbo-charged in a blink of an eye. He’s through the terrace doors. And then there is shouting, lots of shouting, but it is mostly Len, and shouting and breaking glass.

  After what seems like a monumental amount of time, I shake Linda off and run toward the great room. Inside I find Alan and Len tangled on the floor, and the room is a mess. I start to move to break it up, but Linda stops me.

  “I am not going to fight you, Len,” Alan snaps, trying to break free.

  “I’m the one who fucking found you!” It rings through the room with acid potency. “So, is that what you’re pissed about? You’re pissed I didn’t let you screw things up permanently? I happen to love you. And you let my wife cry. You don’t take her calls. You don’t answer her letters. You just disappear, and then come back to New York, smug as you please all secretive and shit. And then you slap us in the face with Arnie Arnowitz.”

  “I fucking deserve a little time after eight years,” Alan says, shoving Len back and then sitting up.

  “Fine. You can have time. What you can’t do is leave us all hanging around with our cocks in our hand, not knowing what we’re doing, not knowing if you’re all right, and not knowing if there’s a band. Some of us need the fucking work. We don’t have the royalties. Some of us ain’t rich as the Federal Reserve.”

  “So is that where we are? It’s about the money?”

  “No. It’s about you not telling us you’re in trouble. I thought you kicked that shit. Next thing I know, I’m finding you dead on smack, and they’re bringing you back to life. Fuck you! You were dead, you witless bastard.”

  Len pushes back against a sofa, sitting on the floor sprawled and weak, and he is crying.

  I’m frozen at the terrace doors, but Linda is suddenly across the room, with Len in her arms, and he’s crying against her.

  After several minutes, Linda looks at Alan. “How could you think that it was ever about the money, Manny? Not us. Never us. That’s unfair. Len’s just letting all the garbage out. It’s been rough. But don’t ever accuse us of having it be about the money.”

  Alan rakes a hand through his hair. “I never thought it was, Linda.”

  Linda brushes at the tears on her face. “You scared the hell out of us, Manny. You’ve really got to stop this shit.”

  “I’m working on it.” Alan’s eyes find me and his expression changes into something that looks like apprehension. “Why are you staring at me like that, Chrissie?”

  I break free of my thoughts. Alan is still breathing heavy, still trying to calm himself. Before the Rowans, somehow everything managed to remain in my lockboxes. But they are all open again and the mess is here in the room with me, his truth, my truth. I don’t know how I was looking at him and I don’t know what he can see.

  I drop to my knees beside him and Alan pulls me fiercely against him. The room is so heavy with grimness, and my thoughts and emotions are in free fall again.

  Say something quickly, Chrissie. Something funny. It doesn’t matter if Alan hates the playacting. Right now it is all there is to get me through this. I kiss his cheek. I make an exaggerated face. “It’s the bowl, Alan. The Columbian pottery. I wish Len had broken that horrid little piece over there on your head, but the one he broke was exquisite.”

  It’s Linda who laughs, and her laughter, when it flows, is infectious. “I like her. I really do.”

  In a minute, they are all laughing, but what I hear in the room is despair.

  * * *

  I slip quietly from the great room into Alan’s bedroom. The Rowans are hovering in the apartment and somehow I hold it together until I’m alone.

  I shut the door and the tears instantly begin to flow. I lie down on the bed, my emotion-drained limbs almost without sensation, and I curl into a tight ball around Alan’s pillow. What d
o I do? Do I run? Do I stay? I’m so afraid of what being with Alan is doing to me.

  I hear Alan open the door. I don’t move. He crosses to the bed, pulling me into his arms, all warm and compassionate.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathes.

  I want to pull away from Alan. I want to melt into him. I want not to be afraid. I want to know for sure that we are both not totally fucked up. I want him to be all right. I want me to be all right.

  “Don’t hate me, Chrissie. Please. I can stand anything else, but not you hating me.”

  What does he feel inside of me that he would ask me not to hate him? And what is he apologizing for? I don’t understand him.

  Gently, he pulls me full length against him, his face in my hair, and he is kissing my neck. He is sad. Achingly sad. My heart clenches and I cry harder. He kisses me softly across my face, my arms, my chest, and it doesn’t stop until the tears quiet. And he doesn’t pull away.

  We lie quietly together, and I feel myself slowly calming, slowly coming back into comfortable order, slowly melting back into him, into this consuming connection I have felt from the start.

  I turn in his arms to put space between us. His eyes are midnight black and guarded, and he is afraid too.

  “Did you really try to kill yourself?” I whisper.

  He closes his eyes and exhales.

  “Alan, is it true?”

  I need to know this. Know this for sure. So I can figure out later how it fits into me. It is a selfish thing, but I need to know. This is part of who I am, too, in a weird French movie subplot kind of way.

  He opens his eyes.

  “Yes, it is true.”

  “Are you OK now?” I ask cautiously.

  I know the answer. I can see it so clearly now. All the things that he hides behind his male beauty and his charm and his brilliant extremes. Or did I just miss it, being too absorbed in my own shit? He hasn’t come back together yet. Not completely. Jack is right. He shouldn’t be in New York. Not yet.

  “I’m working on it, Chrissie.” His voice is anguished. He exhales a shuddering breath.