I would not give him the satisfaction of a scene. If he was tired of me, bored, I couldn’t change that. I couldn’t make him love me.
If he did love me, meant everything he said, but couldn’t pay the price, loss of his home, threat to his career, I couldn’t change that, either.
And I could not stay on this seesaw.
“April, talk to me.”
I whispered, “It’s cold here. Please take me home.”
By the time I reached home, my teeth were chattering. Graham pulled up in front of the building and I didn’t try to say goodbye to him. I just hit the car door handle, tumbled out, reached back and slammed the door behind me.
He said my name.
I didn’t answer. I ran up the walk, fumbled with my lobby key, slammed that door, fumbled with my apartment key, slammed that door.
From the kitchen Cyd called, “Hi, April. Come see what I’m fixing.”
If I could have said a word, I would have answered her, but I was shaking so hard, all I could do was rush into the bedroom and fall on my bed face down. I didn’t know who I was any more.
The present was chronological, my affair with Graham, built from meeting him to falling in love to losing him, was all in order, days and weeks on a calendar.
The past was jumbled, out of sequence. My first memory was of a car crash. If that was destined to happen again in the present, it would be the last memory. When? I was never going to see him again, so when?
I must have sobbed enough of my misery aloud for Cyd to sort out. With my face buried in the pillow, I told her snatches of thoughts through tears, sometimes whispering, sometimes screaming.
She patted my shoulder, rubbed my back, tucked a blanket around me. “It’s all right, April. You’ll be all right.”
“No, I will never be all right. I don’t know who I am any more.”
I sobbed myself to sleep and into a nightmare.
CHAPTER 36
Finding Mabel Clara’s house was no big trick. Everybody knew where the stars lived. I used my rent money to pay for a cab. He let me out a block from her place and then I hoofed it down the sidewalk and up the circular drive. She had a swell place, iron gates that probably got closed at night but this was afternoon.
Three palm trees stuck up taller than the house, skinny brown poles topped with round umbrellas of green leaves. The pale adobe house had iron balconies sticking out below the upstairs windows and there was a red tile roof and red tile trim everywhere. No cheap oleanders here. Roses grew in pots and there were beds of bright flowers that never grew back home in Minnesota.
Marching up to the door, I knocked. Laurence was dumping me anyway. My life couldn’t get worse.
A girl in a black dress and one of those useless little white aprons opened the door.
“May I help you, madam?”
She spoke slowly with careful enunciation. Foreigner, I wondered, and then saw how it was. She was just like me, trying to get into acting, taking lessons, and earning a living at whatever job she could find. Maybe she hoped to go from Hollywood to Broadway.
“Yes,” I said. “Is Miss Mabel Clara home?”
Because if she was, I was going to go on in and ask her about getting cast in her next moving picture. I knew that wasn’t how to get work, and she would think I was nuts, but it was an excuse to see inside her house.
“No, I’m sorry,” the maid said. “Did you have an appointment?”
Of course Miss Mabel Clara wouldn’t see me. I wasn’t thinking clearly at all. And then it hit me, this idea. I said, “No, I don’t but someone told me she was looking for, uh, help, you know? I can do almost anything, mend, iron, help in the kitchen.”
The maid dropped her shoulders and her accent. “Don’t know about that, could be, but you have to talk to the housekeeper. She’s the one who does the hiring.”
I brushed perspiration from my forehead and tried to be casual. “Is the housekeeper here?”
The maid leaned out of the doorway and squinted in the sunlight. “Your face has gone all red. Way too hot to stand outside. Come on in.”
And to my surprise, she turned and led me into this wide foyer. It had a curving staircase with a black iron bannister, and the floor was more of those red tiles.
I stood in the sudden coolness and looked around.
“This is Mrs. Cleeve’s day off. Sorry you came all this way for nothing. You could telephone her tomorrow and make an appointment. You look real hot, kiddo. Wait here, I’ll get you a glass of water.”
When she went through a doorway toward the back of the foyer, I ran my hands over my hair to try to smooth it out a bit. There was a large painting of Mabel Clara on the side wall, hung above a table with a bowl of flowers, almost like a painting of the madonna above an altar.
Kind of gave me the creeps. In the portrait, Mabel Clara wore her hair combed back in waves and then it came forward over her shoulders, long corkscrew curls. Her hair was chestnut brown, dark with a red tint. Her white dress looked like organdy. It had tiny pleats in front and lacy ruffles all around the neckline, real old fashioned.
His Sunday Sweetheart, that was it, that was the name of the picture where she’d worn that dress. I’d seen it back in Minnesota four or five years ago when I went to the matinee with my brother Dion. We had to sneak out because my parents thought going to moving pictures was a sin. Dion worked as a delivery boy for the grocer then. He gave most of his pay to our parents but he kept a little for himself and he was always good about treating me to a movie.
Dion was the only thing I missed about Minnesota. I wrote to the family as soon as I arrived in California because I never meant to make them worry. They never wrote back. Except for Dion. He wrote to me three or four times a year and he gave me the name and address of a friend who kept my letters for him.
What would Dion think of me now, standing in the fancy home of Miss Mabel Clara? I’d tell him all about it, next time I wrote.
A couple of dark carved chairs with red leather seats were closer to the door, and one of those freestanding hat racks with curved metal hooks. I caught my lip between my teeth to keep from letting out a screech.
There was a hat on the hook and a white linen jacket on the chair and I knew their owner. I walked over to make sure, almost afraid to breathe. What if he walked out of one of the several doorways that opened into the foyer? If Laurence caught me here, I might as well get on the next train and head back to Minnesota. He would never ever forgive me.
I lifted down the hat and saw his initials in the band. There was no need to check the coat.
Not waiting for the maid or the glass of water, I turned and fled out the front door and down the gravel curve of drive and past the tall hedge and the fancy iron gate. I ran until my breath burned so hot in my chest I had to stop.
My dress was ruined, perspiration soaking through it. My eyes were so full of tears, I couldn’t see the runners in my stockings. But I could feel the blisters on my feet.
Esther was right. Whatever had happened to Laurence’s wife, it gave him a chance to be famous.
His name would move from the headlines to the theater marquees. He had something going with Mabel Clara.
“She picks her leading men,” Esther had said.
So now Mabel Clara picked Laurence. Were they up that curved staircase in her bedroom? Was he whispering to her while he undid the buttons on the back of her dress? Would he pick her up and carry her to the bed and wrap her in the bedspread? If that’s what it took to become a star, he’d get there in no time. And I would die of heartbreak.
CHAPTER 37
My first thought when I woke was, “I am as crazy as Millie.” The blanket clung to me like a shroud. I was still dressed in my jeans and sweater. The streetlight cast leaf shadows on the far wall of the bedroom. In the moving patterns I imagined Graham’s face. I closed my eyes and listened, heard my friends talking. Someone walked into the room and sat down beside me on the bed.
Fingers stroked my forehe
ad. I didn’t open my eyes.
“Stay here as long as you want,” Tom whispered. “I’ll get Macbeth out as soon as we finish supper.”
I kept my eyes closed, didn’t answer him.
“You can call me any time,” he said.
I lay very quiet, hardly breathing. He leaned over me, ran his fingers slowly through my hair to comb it back from the side of my face. As I had my nose pushed into the pillow, that’s all he could see. He kissed the outer edge of my closed eye and must have tasted the tears.
And then he left and softly shut the door.
From the kitchen I could hear Macbeth’s voice rising. “She can’t go on like this.”
Something blurred from Tom.
“No, she’s getting worse. We need to...” and then Mac’s voice fell like volume turned down on a radio. Maybe he’d turned away or walked to the far side of the kitchen. The words were indistinct.
I could smell coffee. The two guys must have been in the apartment for some time, standing in the kitchen discussing me with Cyd, but why? Had she phoned them? What had I said to her when I’d returned home to make her think she needed to call for both Tom and Macbeth? How long ago had it been? The sky outside was black.
When had Graham dropped me off? Five? Six? Not much later. I’d felt so sick, so overwhelmed with what had happened, as though my very soul was weeping.
No, damn. That was a stupid Graham poetical phrase, fuck no, I was weeping, all right, but not my soul. I’d dropped into bed exhausted, without changing out of my jeans, brushing away Cyd’s attempts to comfort me until finally she gave up and left me alone.
I remembered that much.
Graham was so clear in my mind. I’d curled up under the blanket Cyd had smoothed over me and then I’d waited for the door to close behind her. And then I’d let his image possess me, the light hair, the bright smile, the jaunty walk. I could hear him and feel him and even smell him.
But there was something missing, some clue to his personality that I had overlooked. It nagged at the boundaries of my mind like a light flicker. Somewhere there had to be another truth, a path past my suspicious conclusions that would lead me back to the Graham I loved.
There was the weird scene at Mabel Clara’s house. Was I confusing Graham with Laurence? Graham wasn’t Laurence and somehow I had to find a way to put us back together. Nothing else mattered to me.
If I couldn’t have Graham, there wasn’t anything else I wanted. Now I had loved to the point of oneness, I was no more than half a person without Graham. I couldn’t go through that again.
The refrigerator door made its dull thud.
“Go ahead and put the rest away for her. I can heat it whenever she wakes up,” I heard Cyd say.
I had to think past the grief that was suffocating me. I had to find someplace where I could breathe, where I could think without Cyd or the guys popping in to ask how I felt.
That or I’d end up screaming at them, “How the hell should I know and fuck off, okay?”
Which they didn’t deserve.
I had to sort out my memories of Graham. Had he really stopped loving me? Had he ever loved me at all? Had his wife lied?
All right, I didn’t believe him completely. Macbeth had told Cyd that Graham had a reputation of affairs. His wife had said the same. Graham never actually denied it, so maybe the truth was in between. All those years of an unhappy marriage, maybe he’d had a few affairs. A few. And they hadn’t worked because the women hadn’t loved him enough to try to help him.
Was that what happened? Was it possible he really did love me, did have to give me up, didn’t want to? Or was I doing my usual thing, lying to myself?
And making life hell for my friends.
I was acting like a teenager rebelling against her parents and oh God, the three of them must be sick of trying to turn me into an adult.
Moving quietly, I struggled free of the blanket, then picked up my shoes and walked barefoot to the door. I opened it, stood with my forehead pressed against the door frame, and waited. They didn’t hear me. The argument continued.
“If you hadn’t gotten her involved in that damn reincarnation group!” Macbeth shouted.
“Shh.” Cyd’s voice. “I didn’t start this.”
I heard Tommy’s voice, low, soothing, but I couldn’t catch the words. He would come into the bedroom again soon to check on me. I couldn’t keep pretending to be asleep. And I couldn’t talk to him. I didn’t want to hurt any of them.
I grabbed my jacket and let myself out of the apartment, pressing the door closed, my hand on the knob to keep the latch from clicking. In the outer hallway I slipped on my shoes. I’d left my purse in the front room by the couch, out of reach. No way to get it. They would have heard me. I hadn’t any money, not even bus fare in my pockets.
Never mind, I’d walk, I decided, until I found someplace where I could be alone to think.
The outdoors met me with wind and light rain.
At the curb were two familiar cars, Tom’s and Macbeth’s. So they hadn’t come together. I could imagine Cyd phoning them, and each of them driving over immediately. Easy for Macbeth, still difficult for Tom with his bad knee.
In a few short weeks how had I managed to mess up our lives so completely?
Maybe if I sat in one of the cars for a while, I would be able to sort my thoughts. At least that would get me out of the rain.
I tried the doors. Macbeth’s car was locked. It would be.
The driver side door of Tom’s car was unlocked. Never mind that this was the city and car theft a major crime statistic. I opened the door and leaned in to get a clear view. Dear old Tom had left his keys in the ignition. Nice of him to help this thief.
Remembering Tom’s bum knee, I wondered if that was the reason. He had enough trouble getting in and out of his car. And he had to loosen the brace so that he could bend his knee enough to drive, then strap it back up before he tried to walk. He’d had other things to think about than locking his car.
True, if things were reversed and it was Mac’s door that was unlocked, that would be better. Bet on Macbeth to have a full tank of gas. But thieves can’t be picky. I slid behind Tom’s wheel, turned the key, listened to the engine sputter. The dial showed a half a tank of gas, more than enough.
Could I do this? I had never driven a car with only me in the car. All of my driving to date included Mac or Tom at my elbow telling me what to do.
Curling my hands around the wheel, I leaned my forehead against it, let fear tighten my throat. I didn’t have a license. What if I got stopped? Okay, if I drove carefully, stayed within the speed limit, kept up with traffic, concentrated, watched every light, didn’t think about anything except driving, I could do it. And if I couldn’t? I’d pull over someplace and wait for my keepers to find me.
The engine settled into an uneven but continuous thumping and I pulled away from the curb.
At least there was consolation in knowing, poor driver that I was, there was little damage I could inflict on Tom’s car. Or that’s what I thought then.
I drove along familiar streets, now almost invisible in the night mist, turning by habit at familiar corners. My thoughts were all Graham, the ones that weren’t focused on the road ahead. He would be home now, getting ready for his trip. As well as I had thought I knew him, I had no idea what he did at home.
Was his wife there, too? Gracious Barbara, paragon of the nonprofit volunteers, was she folding his shirts for him? Fitting them into his suitcase? Tightening those little ribbon things that held clothes in place? He’d have a suitcase, one with wheels, and it might even be leather. Sure as hell he didn’t travel with a canvas backpack.
That first picnic at the cottage, he’d brought a proper wicker picnic basket filled with bone china and crystal glasses and cloth napkins. No, he wasn’t a backpack guy. He was rustic cottage with antique quilts and oriental rugs and a waterfront view. He wore suede jackets to hike the beach. Yeah, he’d have a designer suitcase.
>
Did he and his nonalcoholic wife share a nightcap? Had they laughed together and discussed the evening news? Had they sat around the table for dinner, Graham, his wife, their son? Or did they eat at the granite island in the kitchen, sharing the cooking?
Was she the paragon she’d made out? Or was she a mild alcoholic, not as self-destructive as Graham had said, but at least dependent on him. Not financially. Emotionally. Easy to believe because I was so overwhelmed by him. He was charming, enchanting, an addiction, and I had only known him for a few weeks.
If there was an answer anywhere, it must be at the cottage. Streetlights and traffic lights and tail lights turned the nighttime darkness into a sparkle of holiday, backlighting my image of the cottage. It was on a steep slope on a hillside above the Sound, high enough that the path wove on down past another three or maybe four other cottages. I wasn’t sure about the fourth. A narrow trail led from the footpath into the trees and a glimpse of a roof line, but it could have been a storage building.
I was sure the cottages were seldom used in the winter. There had never been any car but Graham’s in the parking circle. There had never been smoke rising from other chimneys, and when we went down the path to the beach, I had never seen any other people, not even a sleeping dog on a porch. The only life was wildlife, water birds and small creatures who rustled in the underbrush. Occasionally I had seen the flick of a fluffy tail as a squirrel rounded a tree trunk.
I could hide away there for a day or two while I decided what to do. With Graham on his way to Spokane, the cottage would be empty for a few days. I knew where all the lamps and matches and firewood were stashed.
So that’s where I would go. As soon as I got to the cottage, I’d phone Tom, tell him I’d borrowed his car. He wouldn’t mind and if he did, I would remind him that he borrowed my couch all the time.
I could probably find a grocery store close by. Oh damn, I didn’t have my purse. No money. No credit card. I’d figure that out later. There was always a bottle of wine under the sink. Crackers in the cabinet. Coffee beans in the fridge. Sometimes cheese.
My Deja Vu Lover Page 19