The lot seemed eerily quiet. There didn’t seem to be any planes taking off. No people around either. It was the weekend; you’d think it would be crowded, but it wasn’t crowded at all. He had decided that, this time, he was going to save her. He was going to open the trunk and get her out. But as he drove around the lot again, retracing his steps, it occurred to him that the car wasn’t there. He drove around a second time. There was no mistake. The car had moved. It was gone.
Perhaps she had actually gotten out, he thought. Perhaps, by some stroke of incredible luck, she’d freed her hands and pulled the tape off her mouth. Perhaps someone had heard her cries and been determined to save her. It had been one of her complaints with the scene—the woman screaming in a crowded parking lot without being saved—she’d said she didn’t buy it, but now that her mouth was taped there would be no crying for help. There would be no chance of anyone hearing her. And the car would be stolen by some unassuming thief. Problem solved, he thought. With a few simple modifications, he had addressed her complaints. He had to admit, she’d been right; the scene was far more convincing now.
Still, strange things happened. Everyday miracles like the ones in those supermarket newspapers.
This time he got a woman at the gate. More interested in her cell phone conversation than in his strangely brief visit to the long-term parking lot, she let him through without even looking at him. Hugh drove back to Los Feliz, foolishly challenging the speed limits, and turned onto Lomita Avenue. The street was quiet, lit with the old gas lamps. He parked at the curb across the street from her house. To his surprise, a light burned in the tall arched window. Was it possible? His heart began to beat—perhaps it was true—he felt almost giddy with relief. She had survived his cruel joke—that’s what it had been—a joke—no real harm intended! The gun hadn’t even been loaded! He had only wanted to teach her a lesson. And she’d been victorious after all—miraculously, someone had heard her cries and freed her—kind soul!
And yet, as he crossed the street and approached the house, he grew increasingly uncertain. He saw a man inside her living room, his shadow looming monstrously on the wall. It was Chase’s boyfriend—the filmmaker—pacing and shouting into a cell phone. Hugh dropped back into the shadows and walked down the driveway, hearing a rattling salsa in the house next door. Through a gap in the curtains he could see the neighbor dancing with one of his lady friends in his undershorts, the woman in her bra and panties.
The boyfriend’s jeep was parked in the garage. Chase’s car was nowhere in sight.
Hugh deliberated his options. It was possible that she was there—that perhaps the car had been left somewhere. Perhaps she hadn’t been able to drive, he thought. He pictured her tucked into bed, recovering from her ordeal, a cup of tea at her side. The boyfriend on the phone with the police. And yet her bedroom was dark. It seemed unlikely that she was there.
“Who is it?” the man said from behind the door.
“I must have the wrong address,” Hugh said.
The door opened and the boyfriend stood there, taller than Hugh had anticipated, and bigger, but he did not really look like a fighter, his eyes were too kind. “Who do you want?”
“I’m looking for Hedda Chase.”
The man just stood there.
“I know it’s late. Forgive me, is this—” Hugh took an old receipt out of his pocket and glanced at it. “Thirty-one Lomita?”
“You got the right address.” The man had a slight Southern accent. “And you’re right, it’s late. Very late, in fact. What do you want?”
“She told me to stop by tonight.”
“Really? When did you speak to her?”
“This morning.”
The man looked surprised. “You spoke to her this morning?”
“She called my hotel and left a message. We’ve been playing phone tag.”
“That’s one of Hedda’s favorite games. Who are you?”
Hugh considered giving a false name, but then thought better of it. The man looked smart, intuitive; he might sense Hugh was lying. “My name’s Hugh. Hugh Waters.” Saying it aloud felt like an accomplishment and he felt himself blushing. He extended his hand; they shook. The man looked over Hugh’s shoulder at the Mercedes across the street. “I’m from New York. We knew each other a long time ago. I’m here on business.”
“She’s never mentioned you. Not that it matters, there are lots of things she doesn’t tell me.”
“I’m only in town a few days,” Hugh said. “I was having dinner near here with some friends.” He mentioned the name of a Japanese restaurant he had passed on Vermont Avenue, one with a bold neon sign. “I was driving by and saw the lights. I figured I’d give it a shot.”
“She’s not here. I’m waiting for her myself.”
“I’m sorry I missed her.”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Tell her I stopped by.” Hugh turned to leave.
“I was just about to have a drink if you want to join me. Maybe she’ll show up.”
“No, I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble.” The man opened the door wider, inviting him in. “Whiskey all right?”
It wasn’t a good idea, but Hugh said, “All right. Sure, why not?” He stepped inside.
“New York, huh? Circa when?”
“Just after college. We worked for the same company,” he said, retrieving the information he’d found on Wikipedia. For a brief period of time Chase had worked in an advertising agency. “Rollins and Beck. It was a long time ago.”
The man led him into the living room. “I seem to remember something about that. What was she like back then?”
“Popular,” Hugh said meaningfully, and smiled.
“She does have that talent for celebrity.”
Hugh nodded and tried to swallow. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“It’s Tom. Tom Foster.” He glanced at Hugh to see if he recognized it.
“Why does that sound familiar?” Hugh said, even though it didn’t.
“I make documentaries.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Used to be interesting. Now it’s complicated and expensive.”
Hugh was suddenly desperate for that drink.
“Hedda calls it my Sullivan’s Travels phase.” He looked at Hugh to see if he understood.
“Preston Sturges,” Hugh said. “He was a genius.”
“I suppose, after three films, it’s no longer a phase.”
The liquor was set up on a little cart. While Tom fixed him a drink, Hugh began to wonder if perhaps it was a trick—he scanned the room, the dark rectangle of her bedroom doorway, but saw nothing, and when Tom turned with the whiskey he smiled at Hugh and the smile seemed genuine. Hugh tried to relax. He took the glass with his left hand, knowing that the presence of his wedding ring might suggest some aspect of normalcy and stability, when in reality it was more a symbol, at least to Hugh, of everything that was wrong in his life.
“Thanks,” Hugh said.
“Cheers.”
Hugh raised his glass in a silent toast and took a sip. The whiskey was bitter; it burned his throat.
“Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” Hugh sat down on Chase’s couch, in the same spot where she had lain the night before. It was hard not to picture her there, the way she’d looked after the pills kicked in, totally motionless, her eyes stuck on the ceiling. At one point he had touched her forehead to make sure she was warm, the way you’re supposed to be when you’re alive.
“What are you working on now?”
Tom poured himself a drink and took a seat across from him. “I just finished a film about a shelter in Hollywood. In fact,” he reached into his pocket and produced a postcard, “there’s a screening tomorrow night if you’re still around.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to make it.” Hugh put the postcard into his pocket.
They sat there a moment, drinking. There was the possibility that she�
�d show up, he thought, although it seemed unlikely. The car was gone; someone had taken it.
“Where do you suppose she is?” Hugh asked.
“I don’t really know. It’s not unusual, really, she’s done this before.”
“Done what?”
“Disappears for a few days. Usually means she’s pissed off. Mature, huh? Probably gone off to Sparta for a few days to brush up on her ashtanga. It’s out in the desert, no cell phones—I tried calling her office, but everybody was already gone for the weekend and Harold’s on his way to Cannes.”
“Harold?”
“Her boss. Where are you staying?”
“In Beverly Hills,” Hugh managed to lie. “At the Hilton. I live in New York,” he emphasized. “I’m a writer.”
“Ah,” Tom said. “Good for you.” Apparently satisfied with Hugh’s biography, he stretched out his legs on the coffee table and relaxed. He had the expansive body language of a king or a rock star. At the moment, Hugh was playing the loyal servant.
“What do you write?”
“Screenplays,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at it.”
Tom laughed. “Well, then, you’ve come to the right place.” He raised his glass. “May you be paid handsomely for your humble efforts,” he said in a King Arthur voice.
“I guess it’s not all crap,” Hugh said, thinking of Ida. “Some of it’s pretty good.”
“You’re starting to sound like Hedda. She’s unbearably optimistic.” Tom finished his drink and got up and brought the bottle over and poured more whiskey into their glasses then set the bottle down on the coffee table.
They drank intently. Tom was sitting on a wood chair that had been covered in cowhide. It didn’t look very comfortable, too small for his long, lanky build. His loose trousers and wrinkled blazer made him look as though he had suffered a lengthy illness. The dark circles around his eyes were those of a chronic insomniac’s. He lit a cigarette and tossed down the pack, then leaned back and again stretched out his legs on the coffee table.
“This is a nice place,” Hugh said.
“This? It’s a dump. It’s only temporary, of course.”
“What do you mean?”
“Until the house is ready.” Tom looked at Hugh. “She told you about the villa?”
“Oh, yes, right,” Hugh said. “The villa.”
“Although I sometimes get the feeling that she has second thoughts. Buyer’s remorse.”
“I had that with my house.”
“I thought you were in the city?”
“My wife wanted a house in New Jersey. It was a mistake to move out of the city,” he said, suddenly clear on what had happened to his marriage over the several months inside that house. “It destroyed our marriage.”
“Wives have a knack for sabotage. It’s Freudian, actually.” Tom dragged on his cigarette with obvious pleasure. “They can’t help themselves.”
The house in Montclair was blue clapboard with plastic shutters upon which a horse and carriage had been replicated. When they’d gone to look at it for the first time, there were plastic pansies in the window box. The fake flowers had dared Marion, the purist, to save the pathetic Colonial from terminal kitsch. After they’d moved in, she’d replaced the plastic pansies with real geraniums and pulled out the colossal shrubs and lilac bushes surrounding the house. Hugh had tried to be happy about moving out of New York, but it wasn’t easy for him. Unlike the suburbs, the city presented small opportunities for escape. He could get out for a walk, or run a suddenly essential errand, grateful for a few minutes to himself. He found Marion’s silence oppressive. “And we had squirrels in our attic.”
“Suburbia plus,” Tom said knowingly. “All the comforts of home.”
It occurred to Hugh that, at the moment, sitting there in Hedda Chase’s living room with Tom Foster felt like the most natural thing in the world, as if they were old friends, as if what he’d done to her last night had been nothing more than a bizarre fabrication in his mind. Now he wished it had been. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if she walked in here.
“It’s getting late.” Hugh stood up. “Look, I should go. Say hello to Hedda for me.”
Tom glanced at his watch. “Here, let me try to call her again.” He opened his cell phone and pressed send. He shook his head. “She’s not picking up. I’ve been calling her all day. It’s pretty obvious she doesn’t want to talk to me. For a woman with such big balls she’s pretty goddamn histrionic.”
Hugh held up his hand as if he didn’t need to hear it—it wasn’t any of his business.
But Tom confided, “She wants me to leave my wife.”
Hugh tried to hide his surprise. “You’re married?”
“Of course I’m married.”
“Does your wife know?”
“Of course she knows. This isn’t a town where people are particularly skilled at keeping secrets. Discretion isn’t exactly a virtue here.”
“Oh. Well. I’m sorry.”
Tom shook his head. “It’s my own fault. Lucia is very emotional.”
“Your wife?”
“Here, you try. Let’s have your phone.”
It wasn’t smart to take out his cell phone, but Hugh handed it to Tom and watched him punch in the number. He put on the speakerphone. They sat there listening to it ring. Just minutes after putting her in the trunk, Hugh had set her pocketbook on the front seat of the car. The phone had continued to vibrate and, out of frustration, he’d dug it out and tossed it into the glove box. He pictured it there now, vibrating. Stupidly, he hadn’t turned it off, but perhaps it had been deliberate. He had thought, perhaps, that someone might be able to locate her; an open door that invited in the world.
Sweat prickled his skin as he waited in anticipation of Hedda’s agitated voice, but it was someone else who picked up—a man. “Yeah?” The voice gritty, tentative. “What?”
“Who the fuck is this?” Tom shouted.
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Where is she?”
“She’s not here,” the stranger said.
“Look, I know she’s fucking there.”
“Nobody here but me,” the man said.
“You put her on the phone—right fucking now!”
“Hey, go fuck yourself.” The line went dead.
Tom checked the phone to make sure he’d dialed right. He hit the send button again, but this time her voice mail picked up. Now they heard the voice of Hedda Chase identifying herself, the characteristic inflections of condescension as it requested the caller to leave a message—she’d call you back, her tone seemed to suggest, if you were important enough.
Tom sat there shaking his head and muttered, “I don’t fucking believe this.”
“What? Who was that?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
The queasy feeling Hugh had had before came back. A sour taste coated his tongue. He washed it down with some more scotch. Tom sat there with his head in his hands. He looked at Hugh. “Could she be fucking somebody?”
Hugh shrugged.
“I didn’t recognize his voice.” Again, he looked at Hugh as if waiting for his answer. “This is her getting back at me. I guess it really is over.” He shook his head and conceded, “She should be with someone else; I can’t give her what she wants.”
“What does she want?”
“What do any of them fucking want?”
Hugh thought about Marion. Before they were married, she’d been livelier, more convincing about her love for him. Once they’d gotten married, she’d become secretive, remote. It occurred to him now that he didn’t have the slightest idea what she wanted.
“Truth is, I’ve never had much luck with women and I’ve had no shortage of opportunities, I can tell you that. But with Hedda it was different. It makes me feel hollow to admit it, but I’m in love with her—and I’ve never had the decency to tell her. I think about her and I get a stomachache. It’s not the same with my wife. There’s som
ething about Hedda that makes me—” He stopped himself and shrugged it off.
“What?”
He shook his head. He looked upset. “Whole, I guess.”
“Whole?”
Tom nodded. Hugh had been in love only once. The girl had worked in the billing department. Once they’d ridden up on the elevator together. She’d been crying over something, her face turned away. Her lips were pale, chapped—it was winter—and her cheeks were rosy, burned by the wind. Around her neck was a scarf the color of cornflowers. If she were a painting, he had thought, her surface would be cracked and yet it was exactly the damaged nature of her features that intrigued him. He’d put his hand on her shoulder and said, “It’s going to be all right.” She’d smiled, briefly, her eyes glassy, and nodded appreciatively, and then the elevator doors opened and she walked out. He never saw her again because she never came back to Equitable Life. He tracked down her address, a walk-up apartment on 43rd Street, but the apartment was empty and the superintendent would not supply her forwarding address. Still, for a period of time, the memory of that day in the elevator remained fresh in his mind, and he would think of her from time to time, grieving over the life they’d never had together.
“She makes me feel complete,” Tom added.
“My wife is just the opposite,” Hugh admitted. “I’m like rejected merchandise. I think if she could she’d return me with a whole list of complaints. Not only would she want her money back, she’d want to speak to the store manager.”
“Sounds to me like you need to get back on the shelf.” Tom stood up and staggered into the bathroom to take a piss. The sound of his urine hitting the toilet seemed alarmingly loud. When he came out he was holding something—an empty soap dish. His face was pale, and his hand trembled slightly. “May it please the court,” he said gravely, presenting the empty soap dish to an imaginary jury. “Apart from me, she has one single obsession: her skin. It’s one of her few vanities—uses this terribly expensive black soap—never goes anywhere without it—it’s a soap for fucking witches, looks like charcoal, never misses a night, and where is it?”
A Stranger Like You Page 6