Della

by Julie Michele Gettys

He nodded and left.

  So much for straight and sober. She had gotten hoity-toity for a lofty moment and dumped her precious stash down the sink. What the hell had she been thinking? She’d just have to break open the well-stocked bar in the room.

  Lillian had a great seat in the corner, overlooking the main room and the entrance Wes would use. He’d have to walk all the way along the bar to get to her table. She relished the idea of staring him down like some of her johns used to do to her. If this wasn’t such a bummer of a trip, it might’ve been fun.

  Her drink arrived. She promised herself she’d nurse this one drink through the entire meeting. A tinge of joy swept through her sitting here, soaking up the atmosphere like regular folks. The happy hour crowd hadn’t arrived yet. A few people were scattered throughout. The room was quiet, except for “Summertime” oozing out of the speakers in the background. She hummed, people-watching, thinking about how she’d break the news to Wes. He would die; she just knew it. He’d be dumfounded and probably feel more guilty than she did. Just goes to show you how lies can screw up your life. She used to pride herself on telling the truth, except for those rare times when a good lie was the only thing to get you through a tough spot. Never had one backfire like this before.

  Wes arrived, stood at the entrance surveying the room. He spied her and smiled. As old and haggard as he looked, there was something about him that still gave her a thrill. If she’d come from better stock, she would have chased him down. He had gone completely gray, and he had a set of jowls that nearly did the hula when he walked. He’d thickened around the middle, but the man did know how to dress. He wore a tailored suit that fit him to a tee, his white shirt starched, his shoes shined like the black glass on the Universal Tower.

  He slid in beside her, poised, frowning. “You look fine, Lillian. Aging agrees with you.”

  She flicked a wrist. “You still lie like a rug, old man.”

  He laughed, breaking the ice, then surprised her by pulling her to him and giving her a generous hug. “It must be something monumental to bring you to see me.” He drew in a breath. “You still wear my favorite, Tabu.”

  Ignoring his comment about the perfume, she said, “It’s more than monumental. It’s a disaster.” She grabbed her drink and took a healthy swig.

  He flagged the waiter and ordered one for himself.

  “I think you’ll need a coupla swallows before I tell you why I’m here,” she said.

  He leaned back. “I’m staying in one of these bungalows. We’re neighbors.”

  “What happened to the fancy house in the Hills?”

  “Carrie threw me out. She’s thinking things over.”

  “I thought you two were the perfect lovers.”

  “Were is right. I told her about Della.”

  “Took you long enough! Shoulda’ told her years ago. You can’t make a marriage work based on lies.”

  “Is that why you never married?”

  “A low blow.” She shrugged. “I never married because I never met a man who was good enough for me.”

  “You always were a haughty lady.”

  His drink arrived. He took her recommended couple of sips. “Now, I’m ready. What’s the news?”

  “Why didn’t you tell Della you were her father? Telling her was up to you, you know.”

  “I wanted to. But when she came to me for a job–which is the first time I had an opportunity–she whipped out a whole life story that didn’t include you or me. I couldn’t bring myself to make a liar out of her. Then, there was Carrie. She’d have divorced me and taken me for a ride. She and Della have something in common. They’re both insecure and jealous. Carrie hates abortion. No matter which way I turned, the truth spelled disaster. I thought in time, a door would open and I’d be able to tell them both.”

  “The door’s open, honey.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Della and Steven are having an affair.”

  He seemed frozen, like one of those salt statues in a Biblical movie she saw in the sixties. His skin paled to a frosty white, his steel gray eyes glazed over. The hand surrounding his glass squeezed so tightly, Lillian thought it would burst into a million pieces. His other hand trembled.

  “We have to do something fast.” She laid a hand on his. “Are you okay?”

  His look frightened her. She’d heard he wasn’t well. “Wes, talk to me.” She shook his hand gently. “Tell me you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay.” He reached into his breast pocket and removed a small brown bottle, emptied a pill into his palm, then slipped it under his tongue.

  “You’re not okay. I can tell. Jesus, what can I do?”

  He patted her hand. “Nothing. Just sit still for a moment. As soon as I get my bearings, I’ll be all right.”

  She held onto her glass, dying for a slug, but ashamed to drink at a moment like this. What if he croaked, right here in the Polo Lounge? She’d heard of people crashing because of some shocking news.

  “How do you know this?” His voice calmed, the color returned to his face.

  “They came to visit me at my house in San Francisco. Della wanted me to meet him. She’s never brought anyone home before. Not after she left for good. She told Steven the truth about her life. They plan to move in together, and God only knows what else. We’ve got to stop them.” She paused. “Steven is your son, isn’t he?”

  “Of course.”

  “How’re we going to handle this?”

  He looked like a little boy with a big problem, turning to his mama for an answer. This wasn’t the Wes Lillian remembered.

  “Shall we tell them together? We are her parents.” He straightened, seemed more in control. “I’ll call her back from New York. She can be here tomorrow. I’ll have Steven come. They might as well hear the news at the same time.”

  Lillian leaned in. “You never noticed anything between them?”

  “Never. They work extraordinarily well together, but they’re all business. In our office, surely there would have been gossip.” He laid an arm on the backrest. “I wasn’t looking for anything.”

  “For chrissake, love is written all over them. How they kept their feelings from you is a mystery.”

  “I would have told Della I was her father if I’d suspected anything between the two of them.”

  The waiter came with menus. Wes waved him away. “Sorry,” he said to Lillian. “Did you want something?”

  “I couldn’t put a morsel in my mouth. Might have another of these.” She lifted her empty glass. Jeez. What the hell, this was an occasion crying out for drinks, a way to remain calm.

  They talked for another hour, discussing how they’d break the news. Lillian was happy Wes wanted her there, too.

  “I’m very tired, Lillian. I think I need some rest. Why don’t you meet me in my bungalow for breakfast at seven? We can plan our strategy before the kids arrive.”

  He drew a small map to his bungalow on a napkin. He got up, leaned down and touched her cheek. A sad look filled his sunken eyes. Even with all his money and success, she felt pity for him. He trudged away, his shoulders stooped in defeat.

  20

  Lillian felt as if she’d awakened from the dead. The bourbon, no doubt. Today’s agenda had given her no choice but to knock herself out. She wouldn’t have slept a wink without some help from her “friend.” She got up and dragged herself into the shower, fearing what lay ahead. At least she’d put in a good night on the pillow–more than she expected under the circumstances.

  If Wes ordered Della home last night as he promised, she was in town this minute, probably showering and dressing just like her. The big difference was, Della would be singing in the shower, whereas she was crying tears of regret.

  She dried off, ran a comb through her hair, applied a little makeup. She sighed, went to the closet and took out the same suit she’d worn yesterday. Her original plan had her on a plane this morning, returning home.

  She wondered just how they’d tell Della
and Steven. Would Della hate her and Wes? Had he done enough to help Della along in her career that she could forgive him for trying, in his own way, to make things up to her?

  On her five-minute trek to Wes’s bungalow through the courtyard, birds sang as if the world was right. All sorts of beautiful tropical flowers bloomed; their heady scent filled the air. What did they care if her world fell apart? All they had to do was open their petals, release their scent, flop around in the breeze for a bit, and croak. She wasn’t far from following their final act.

  This peaceful morning, she could hear the bees gathering pollen for their queen. Such an uncomplicated life. She reveled in the warmth of the L.A. air.

  Following Wes’s map, she found his bungalow. She knocked, waited, then knocked again. Had he forgotten their plans and left for his office? He would never leave without telling her. She knocked a third time, nervously thumping her foot. She gave up, frowned, returned to the front desk in the main hotel and asked the clerk if Mr. Gates had left already this morning.

  “No, ma’am. He calls for his car first. I’ve been on duty since six.”

  “Will you ring his room? I was to meet him for breakfast. There was no answer.”

  The clerk, all tidy uniform and short-cropped blond hair, picked up the desk phone and made the call. The length of time he waited told her what she already knew.

  “No answer,” he said, a blank expression on his face.

  “Then, I think we should go in.”

  “Not unless there’s an emergency.”

  “There’s an emergency. I know Wes Gates. If he says breakfast at seven, that’s exactly what he means.” Her heart pumped hard from fear. She broke out in a cold sweat. He hadn’t looked well at all last night. Could her terrible news have–? “Hurry,” she said, “I want his room checked. Now!”

  The man jumped. “Yes, ma’am.” An employee with keys took her to Wes’s room. All the way down the walkway, she tried to shut out what she suspected. What if something terrible had happened to him? What if he were dead? She’d never forgive herself for bringing him this terrible news. Please, dear God–if there was one, which she seriously doubted–don’t let anything be wrong with Wes. Eddie used to say there were no atheists in foxholes. He was right.

  The bellboy slowly unlocked the door, slid it open and peeked inside. He looked back at her, his eyes bugged out. He swung the door open and ran into the room. Adrenaline pounding, Lillian followed. Wes lay on the floor, pale as a ghost. She ran to him, knelt down and lifted his wrist, searching for a pulse. She couldn’t find one. “Call 911!” she shouted at the flustered boy. “I don’t know how to do CPR.”

  “I do,” he said. “You call 911.”

  She scrambled for the phone, remembering the code to get a direct line. She punched the four numbers, then “911.”

  The bellboy had straightened Wes’s body, straddled his chest and begun pumping.

  “Don’t break his ribs,” Lillian cried out.

  Within moments, three EMTs–she had learned about Emergency Medical Technicians on CNN–clattered into the room, loaded down with equipment. Two young men and a woman, all strong-looking, clean cut and efficient. Lillian stood back and watched a sight she’d only seen on television.

  “I’ve got a stable pulse,” one paramedic said. “Get him on the gurney.”

  They worked with precision. As soon as they attached the oxygen the color returned to Wes’s face. Lillian giggled self-consciously out of relief. He was alive. They wheeled him out of his bungalow, Lillian following, past the lobby to the waiting ambulance in front of the hotel.

  “Where are you taking him?” They closed the doors to the back of the ambulance.

  “Cedars. Will you contact his family?”

  She nodded, stunned. The weight of it dropped on her back like a sledgehammer.

  Lillian wandered to a string of phones in the ladies’s room off the lobby, took Wes’s office number from her purse and called. She told the secretary there was an emergency concerning Wes Gates. The woman patched her through to Iris Hartman. Lillian remembered Della talking about this Iris woman. Della admired her.

  Audibly shaken by Lillian’s news, Iris told her she’d notify Carrie and Steven. “Does Della know?”

  “No,” Lillian said. “She’s due here shortly. I was under the impression Steven was also coming here this morning to meet with us.”

  With no more to say, Lillian said good-bye and hung up the phone. She started for the bank of elevators, turned back to the desk and asked the young man to tell anyone who came around asking for Wes Gates to contact her in her room.

  * * *

  Della, exhausted from her all-night flight, drove up in front the Beverly Hills Hotel. She pulled in behind the departing ambulance and thought, somebody must have bought the farm. The parking valet opened her car door. The siren blared and lights flashed. “Must be bad?” she said to the young man, concern in her voice.

  “Heart attack, I think.”

  She sauntered into the lush lobby, breathed in the aroma of expensive coffee and other breakfast goodies being hustled off to various rooms. The ambulance reminded her how good it felt to be healthy and alive.

  “Della.” Her mother stood at the elevator, gussied up nicer than she’d ever seen her. What was Lillian doing in the Beverly Hills Hotel? She felt the blood slowly drain from her face, watching Lillian make her way across the lobby. Lillian grabbed her and squeezed so tight, she thought the air was being sucked from her lungs. Lillian stood back, her face streaked with tears and she was shaking.

  “What’s going on?” Della said, alarmed now.

  Lillian took her by the arm. “Let’s go to my room. It’s better we have privacy.”

  She was so tired, she could barely think. The elevator doors whooshed open. They stepped in. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get to my room.”

  “Ma, you look a wreck. Why have you been crying?”

  On the second floor, Lillian took her arm and led her down the dimly lit, quiet corridor. In the room, Della took a seat at the table next to the window. From the chrome pot of lukewarm coffee, she filled the already used cup. She gulped down the tepid liquid and winced.

  Lillian sat across from her, arms on the table, fingers laced. “You saw the ambulance out front?”

  She nodded, refilled her cup.

  “That was Wes.” Lillian’s voice shook.

  She dropped the cup. It hit the saucer and broke apart, coffee running like a river across the table and down onto her white linen skirt and the carpet. “What are you talking about?” she yelled, fear coursing through her. “I talked to him an hour ago. He sounded disturbed, but okay.”

  “His heart. He’s still alive, but unconscious.”

  She bolted from her seat. “What happened? Why are you here?”

  “I think you’d better sit down, honey. We have a lot to talk about.”

  She blotted the coffee on her skirt, eased herself back down.

  “I hope you don’t hate me for this. I should have told you long ago.” She concentrated on her trembling hands “When I saw you with Steven, I knew I had to stop this lie we’re all living.” She fell silent for a moment, looked up and said, “Wes Gates is your father.”

  She gasped. “What? That can’t be.”

  “He’s been following your life since you were in high school.” Lillian twined her fingers, back and forth.

  “Steven, my God.” She felt dizzy, as if she were going to faint. “He’s my brother!” Her stomach lurched and she felt nauseous. She stared at her mother, rage rising from her core. Lillian’s lies had led her into this dark place she wasn’t prepared to go. Why had she ever craved Lillian’s approval? She was no good, selfish, had pushed Della away for as long as she could remember. And like a needy puppy, she came back for more. She deserved what she got. Never again! This was the end. The fear she had of turning out like her mother vanished like the coastal fog burning
off at noon. She couldn’t imagine ever doing anything like this to a child of hers.

  “You told me my father was too young to marry you. You said he didn’t want the responsibility. What was that all about? He was an old man, and rich.”

  “For crying out loud. I raised you, didn’t I? You had a tough life, but you survived and made something of yourself. You would have succeeded without Wes, too, I bet.”

  “Why didn’t you say something the day Steven and I were there?”

  “I didn’t know until you were at the door and he said his last name. I was too shocked. Took me three days to get up the courage to call Wes and come meet with him.”

  Amazed, Della stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head in disbelief. Wes could have helped her sooner–he was a coward. “You both deprived me of my birthright. I’ve been floundering around, making a fool of myself. If you’d told me the truth, none of this would be happening.” She slammed her hand on the table, rattling the broken china and sending the remaining coffee rolling onto the floor. “This whole bloody mess is all your fault! Even when I wanted to tell the world the truth, you insisted I lie. Now I know why.”

  Lillian’s face was a mask of pain. “I know, I know. I did everything wrong. I should have told who your father was when you were young, given you a chance to meet him. If I had, everything would have turned out okay for all of you. He only told Carrie a few days ago. She threw him out of the house. He was staying here in a bungalow until they could straighten everything out.”

  “Does Steven know?”

  Lillian shrugged. “I don’t think so, unless Carrie told him. Wes asked him to come here this morning.”

  “So, why isn’t he here?”

  “I’ve notified the family. Maybe he’s at the hospital.”

  This was a scenario impossible for even Della to have imagined. Wes was her father. No wonder he gave her so many chances, promoted her ahead of others more deserving! The confidence he instilled in her was slowly trickling away. She wasn’t the talented young woman everyone thought she was. She was the daughter of the man who owned the company. Her hysterical laugh sounded strange to her ears, as if her laugh were coming from someone else. “I guess I’m just like I was before, a nobody.”