Literacy and Longing in L. A.

by Jennifer Kaufman

  I curl up, grab my bottle of wine (which I notice is half gone), and prepare to steep myself in Marlowe’s romantic presence. I read and read and doze and read. When I finish the last one, The Lady in the Lake, I am momentarily content. The story is damn good but I’ve had my fill of the genre for now. I’m almost yearning for something gentler, more escapist.

  What’s this box on the bottom shelf? Oh. Darlene’s gift. It’s still wrapped in red-and-green-striped paper with goofy Santa Claus faces all over it. Handwritten on the lid: “Dear Dora, Merry Christmas. I know you’re going to love these books! Just try one! You’ll see. Love, Darlene.”

  It’s July. Think I can open them now. I rip open the package and pull out the paperbacks. Must be twenty of them. Hmmm. Looks like romances. Fred would be appalled. Well, fuck Fred! The Paid Companion by Amanda Quick, Lady Be Good by Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Forbidden by Elizabeth Lowell, Paradise by Judith McNaught. The Reluctant Suitor by Kathleen Woodiwiss. The Heiress by Jude Deveraux. I read the blurb on the back, something about a majestic knight falling for the beautiful, rich heiress, Axia, who, alas, is betrothed to someone else. Okay. I’ll start with this one. I grab the box and head for the tub.

  I throw off my clothes and sink in. Nirvana. I turn on the radio and start the first book. Wow! This shit is good. Why haven’t I ever read this stuff before? A sympathetic heroine. A hero she can love. A crisis they overcome. Torrid love scenes with none of those nasty clinical details of lovemaking. Happy endings (not like any relationship I’ve ever had). I power through the first one in about an hour. And grab another. Angry young man, passionate artist, virginal heroine, unaware of her intense, sensual nature until miraculously awakened by the man of her dreams. I start the third. Wild woman captures the heart of a fierce warrior. A lingering, unforgettable kiss. A rebirth that brings true love. And then another. Julia is beside herself with rage. She’s fatally attracted to a gorgeous, infuriating man who turns out to be her betrothed. A dark period when things may not work out but then the lovers see the light, climb the mountains of despair, and fling themselves into each other’s arms…all for love. I want more.

  I buzz Victor downstairs. Up till now, I’ve been disdainful of tenants who use the guys downstairs to run their dumb errands. But this is important.

  “Hey, Victor, could one of the guys run over to Trader Joe’s and pick up a couple bottles of wine and some cocktail nuts?”

  “No problem. Having a party?” he says.

  “Um, oh yeah. I am.” That’s what I’m having. A fucking party.

  I go to the desk to get my credit card, when the phone rings. Damn. My stomach turns over when I hear Fred’s voice on the answering machine.

  “Dora, why don’t you give me a call? We can work this out.” He sounds cheerful. That’s weird.

  No way.

  Okay. It’s been two days and I’ve only scratched the surface. This stuff is like heroin. I can’t get enough. And so distracting. I think I prefer the historical ones with knights and ladies-in-waiting and carriages and kings. It’s all there. Vikings, Saxon warriors, Norsemen, good-hearted trolls, sorcerers, drop-dead gorgeous Robin Hood types, passionate struggles. I’m into it. It’s all fantasy. Fairy tales for the modern woman lusting for people who don’t exist. No one can stop me now.

  The phone rings. It’s Palmer on the machine. “Your sister called me. She’s out of town and she’s been calling you for days. She’s worried. I know you’re there, Dora.” He chuckles. “Okay. You want to play that way. I’m coming over.”

  I pick up. “Hi!” I say, trying to sound normal and happy.

  “Virginia thinks you may be on another one of your benders.”

  “Why would she think that…” I don’t sound convincing. I have to sound convincing. It’s Palmer. He knows me. “I’ve just been doing a little spring cleaning.”

  “Oh, I know how you love to do that.” He laughs.

  “Okay. I’ve been a little down. I’m dealing with it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “Can I take you out and feed you at least?”

  “You don’t know what I look like.”

  “Oh, I can imagine. It’s the way you always look when I see you.”

  “No, it’s really, really bad this time. My hair’s dirty and I’m seriously sleep deprived, I just couldn’t possibly—”

  “I’m downstairs,” he cuts me off.

  “Okay.” I look around. My place is a shambles. “I’ll be right down.”

  I throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, pull back my hair into a ponytail, and meet Palmer in the lobby. He’s dashing in a dark suit and I feel like the over-the-hill shriveled sister of the lovely and enchanting Lady Victoria who’s been hidden away in a tower for twenty years.

  He clutches my shoulders in a bear hug. “You’re trapped,” he laughs.

  “I’m starved,” I reply.

  “Okay, let’s call your sister, tell her you’re still breathing, and then let’s eat.”

  I order two appetizers and a steak, but Palmer doesn’t make any stupid jokes and he doesn’t press me for any information. I can tell he’s trying to keep things light. We talk about my job search. He offers to make some phone calls for me. Then things take a serious turn.

  “Dora, I’d like to be your friend. No demands. I’ve missed talking to you.”

  Oh. “Really? I mean, thank you. That’s nice of you to say.” What does he mean by this? Does he mean he misses talking to me or does he mean he misses me? I’m not going to make a big deal about this. This is just two people who are talking about how they miss talking to each other. That’s all this is. “I miss talking to you too.”

  He smiles. “So, what’s up with you, Dora?”

  “Well, if you really want to know, I’ve just broken up with someone and it’s complicated.”

  “It’s always complicated.” I noticed he doesn’t offer up any info in the Kimberly department.

  “But this is really complicated.” I decide to tell him about Bea and Harper. A couple of times I can tell he is surprised and unprepared to hear what he is hearing. I think he was expecting the “my boyfriend doesn’t treat me well, he’s seeing someone else, he’s noncommittal” kind of story.

  “Fred has made a decision about himself, but you can do whatever you want, Dora. If you want to keep on seeing them, you can. He’s not going to stop you. It sounds to me that he just didn’t want the relationship to turn into a foursome.”

  “It’s more than that. It really didn’t have much to do with me. He wants them out of his life.”

  “That’s too bad. For him. What are they like?”

  I think for a moment. It’s hard to explain. A therapist would probably say that Bea is the mother I never had, and Harper? I don’t know.

  “You’d like them, Palmer.”

  “I’m sure I would.”

  Dog Duty

  “Outside of a dog, a book is Man’s best friend.

  And inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”

  ~ Groucho Marx (1890–1977) ~

  When I get home, I see that I have six messages on my cell phone from Darlene and a dozen roses waiting for me at the front desk.

  “I guess they’re not from Bea and Harper,” Palmer says wryly.

  I shove the card in my pocket without reading it as Victor catches my eye.

  “Someone named Darlene has been trying to reach you. She’s in the hospital. Here’s her number.” He hands me a piece of paper with the number of a hospital in the Valley.

  I quickly call her on my cell. “Darlene? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, hiiii. I’m sorry to bother you. Am I bothering you?”

  “What’s happened, Darlene?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just collapsed. My neighbor found me and drove me here. They say I have some kind of a monster virus that’s going around and I need to stay on an IV for a few days. Where have you been?”

  “Never mind. I’ll
come right over.”

  “What I really need you to do is bring me a few things and take care of Brawley. He’s been trapped in my apartment for two days and no one has fed him or anything. The neighbors are complaining about the barking and this one guy upstairs who hates me says he’s going to call the cops. God knows what the place looks like.” The place didn’t look so great before.

  “Oh, Dora. I hate it here. It’s so awful and the nurses are so mean. As soon as they get me off this thing, I’m going home.”

  I look at Palmer, who has overheard the whole thing.

  “Do you want me to drive you out there?” he asks.

  “It’s okay. Really. You’ve done enough. I’ll call that driver I use.”

  “Just let me take you out there.”

  “But I need to go to the hospital too. It’s going to be a whole thing.”

  “I’m a full-service rescue operation…. It’s no big deal. I know how much you like her.”

  We get in the car and just as we’re pulling out I say, “Wait a minute.” I run back in and grab the roses. Darlene will love them. Palmer smiles when I get back in the car. “Don’t tell her,” I say.

  When we get to her apartment, I retrieve the key from under the doormat (I’ve told her not to do this) and slowly open the door. Brawley knows me, but I’m wary of just barging in on him. I’m sure he’s hungry and crazed and in a really bad dog mood.

  I peer in. He is sleeping on the couch, dog dreaming, his head nestled between his paws. When he sees it’s me, he leaps off the couch, tail wagging wildly, and lunges at me with joy. His two enormous front paws slam on my shoulders and we sort of dance around the room that way. Then he races to the door and sits at attention. He really needs to go out. Palmer and I find his leash and when the dog spots it in my hand he twirls around three times in excitement and then grabs it in his mouth. Palmer laughs and starts roughhousing with him, rushing around his blocky body and swinging the leash over his head. Brawley suddenly bolts around the apartment in a frenzied gallop, upending chairs and lamps in the process. We finally get the leash on him and lunge out the door and down the stairs.

  He drags us down the beach boardwalk. It’s a balmy summer’s night and I breathe in the humid saltwater air.

  “What luck,” he says as he casually caresses my neck. “This is turning into a great date—dinner, romantic stroll by the ocean, beautiful woman…”

  I’m embarrassed and fall into my usual trap of ruining the moment with my weak attempt at humor. “Well, you know what they say about luck, it wasn’t so good for the rabbit.”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “You know, the rabbit’s foot…”

  “I get the joke, Dora.”

  When we get back, I clean up the mess in the corner of the room (I would only do this for Darlene), scrounge around the kitchen looking for dog food, and fill Brawley’s bowl as he drools in front of me. I gather some things to bring to Darlene, but I know what she misses the most is her Vaseline. (Darlene uses this for everything. I once saw her rub it on her face, hands, and feet and then polish the table with it.) There are giant jars of the stuff stacked up like toilet paper under the sink, so I throw one in the bag.

  We try to sneak out while Brawley’s eating, but even though he’s starving, he follows us to the door and sits at attention. Palmer stares down at his upturned muzzle and looks at me.

  “My apartment doesn’t allow dogs.”

  “Well, we can’t leave him here. I’ll take him, and Darlene can pick him up when she’s better.”

  “He pees on people, Palmer.”

  “Anything else about him you want to tell me?”

  I think about telling him that Brawley, like Darlene, is a survivor. She found him several years ago near a gas station, tied to a lamppost with a heavy chain, no collar, no tags. The cashier in the office told her the animal had been sitting there for at least eight hours, so, in a moment of weakness, Darlene took him home. The dog is a big, shaggy version of a Rottweiler mix with hip dysplasia and cataracts. And Darlene was thrilled to discover he had been trained by someone, somewhere, to sit, speak, roll over, and play dead.

  His only failing is that he is definitely the alpha when other dogs are around, which has led to several unfortunate attacks on other dogs, including one where someone’s Lab lost half an ear. (Thus the name, Brawley.) The Lab’s owner sent Darlene a vet bill for five hundred dollars and ever since then she has walked him late at night or at dawn. When she’s not working, the dog goes everywhere with her. She jokes that when he dies, she’ll put on his tombstone, “Here lies Brawley, a bad but beloved dog.”

  “No. That’s about it. It’s really nice of you.”

  The three of us head for the hospital. The dog is still panting from the walk and his foul, stagnant doggy breath fogs up the windows of the car. Palmer switches on the defrost as Brawley leaps from the backseat into the space between our two front seats and lays his head on Palmer’s lap. Dog hair flies everywhere and he leaves a slobber trail across Palmer’s khakis. Palmer strokes his head affectionately and says, “You’re a real charmer, Brawley.”

  We pull into the hospital visitor parking. The place is deserted. What a dump. The waiting room smells of institutional-strength disinfectant and has the humming lights and glaring neon emptiness of a late-night lounge. Palmer looks around and concludes he’d rather wait in the car with Brawley.

  “I might be a while, though.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll try to find a Starbucks or something.”

  I walk down a few stark, empty hallways and find Darlene in a semi-private room with two other beds that have the curtains drawn around them. She is sitting up sound asleep with her glasses slipping off her nose. Her book has dropped onto her lap.

  Someone moans from the next bed. Darlene opens her eyes and sees the roses.

  “Oh, Dora,” she says in a hoarse, groggy voice. “You didn’t have to. Really. They’re so expensive.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s nothing,” I say. Literally.

  There is desolation to this scene. Darlene keeps apologizing profusely for imposing but it’s understood that she has no one else to call. Her mother is in a wheelchair and lives in Fresno and her father is ninety-six with Alzheimer’s. Her sister lives someplace up north, but I don’t think they’re close.

  The harsh reality of a single life is painfully evident here. There’s a line from a Jim Harrison book where Dalva, the main character, says, “I’ve always found the term ‘lonely old woman’ appealing.” I used to love that line. It sounded so peaceful and relaxing. But the truth is, as I stare at her fragile figure in the bed, it’s no damn fun being sick and alone.

  The moaning gets louder. Darlene whispers and points to the next bed, “I think she’s crazy, she keeps calling 911 and telling them to take her to the hospital.”

  “How are you?”

  “I was feeling really lousy before; now I’m okay but they won’t release me until I’m on this thing forty-eight hours.” She shakes the IV stand.

  “Well, we’ve got Brawley. Palmer says he’ll take him until you feel better.”

  “Palmer?” She looks at me, puzzled.

  “It’s a long story. He’s waiting outside….”

  “Wow.”

  “I’ll tell you later, although there is nothing to tell, I mean, nothing about Palmer.”

  “If you say so…” She winks.

  “I don’t want to get into it.”

  I put some of her things away and then tell her I’ll be back tomorrow.

  Outside, Palmer, holding a Starbucks cup, is walking the dog in the shrubs by the parking lot. As I approach, Brawley emits a low growl, like an electric toothbrush.

  “That’s gratitude for you.” I smile.

  “I was getting asphyxiated by his breath, so I thought we’d take another little stroll.”

  Brawley’s intelligent brow furrows as he sits down on Palmer’s foot.

  “I think he’s in love, Palm
er.”

  “Well, he’s a good judge of character.”

  When we get back to my place, Palmer parks by the valet and walks me inside. Brawley sticks his head out the window and starts to howl as Palmer leaves the car.

  “Always a pleasure, Dora.”

  I’m about to say something when he leans in and kisses me on the mouth. I’m startled and a bit flustered. Now what…

  He casually says, “See ya.” And leaves.

  A Christmas Carol

  “A Merry Christmas, Uncle! God save you!” cried a

  cheerful voice…

  “Bah!” said Scrooge, “Humbug!”

  ~ Charles Dickens (1812–1870), A Christmas Carol ~

  I watch Palmer drive away. How did we get to this point? I remember the last straw—a formal YPO Christmas party held at a ranch near Santa Barbara. Palmer and I had been arguing about it for weeks and, I must say, I tried my best to back out. But I finally agreed to go, on the condition that we take our own car and leave shortly after dinner.

  I can safely say that the evening was a total disaster from the word go. As we were headed for the hotel parking lot that fateful night, Palmer in a designer tux, me in a holly-green satin suit, we were whisked into a sleek chartered bus by a group of already half-ripped YPOers. Palmer looked at me and shrugged. He just couldn’t let on that I was a closet party pooper who didn’t want to join in all the fa la la la la. I shot him one last desperate look before we were herded on the bus, but he didn’t respond.

  Now, I always get carsick in the back of a bus, a holdover from my schooldays. So I ended up sitting in the front row next to Nan Price, a diminutive woman with too much Eau de Joy and a pained look on her face. Palmer caught my eye and winked as he strode to the rear, where the Mistletoe Bar was surrounded by a bunch of beefy-faced men with very loud voices. I was just about to order a drink when a buxom elf with black patent-leather boots passed around giant mugs of caramel-colored eggnog so strong that the “egg” was beside the point. A few sips of that and good ole Nan started pouring out her heart to me. Seems that at the pre-pre-cocktail party back at the hotel, a woman named Marge (the wife of the ex-YPO president) announced that two seasons ago she bought the same sparkly St. John knit that Nan was wearing and it was now in storage. Nan further confided that her husband was going bankrupt and she couldn’t even pay her son’s private school tuition. She continued with her sad, sad story, as Palmer’s happy, animated voice boomed from the back. I held her limp, damp hand as she confided she wished she were dead.