“Another time, Buddy," Jack said. His eyes and attention were on Lorraine.
“Sure," Buddy said, and did too large a farewell wave, saying, “See you guys."
“So long, Buddy," Jack said, smiling at Lorraine.
Buddy left, his lips twitching, and Lorraine crossed to the butcher-block island, saying with some amusement, “A peanut butter sandwich, darling?"
With an easy laugh, Jack said, “We can't be intellectual all the time, darling."
With an easy laugh, Lorraine said, “I only meant, darling, you didn't offer one to me”
“Would you like one?" Jack asked her. “Be delighted to make it for you."
“Thank you, darling," Lorraine said, and leaned on the butcher block to watch.
Jack started another sandwich, absorbed and happy in his work. Lorraine watched for a moment, and then said, “Darling?"
Still concentrating on the job at hand, Jack said, “Yes, darling?"
“There's something I don't understand, darling."
“What's that, darling?"
Lorraine hesitated, then went ahead: “Buddy, darling."
With a quizzical laugh, Jack glanced at her, then back at his sandwich-making. “Buddy, darling." he echoed. “What's not to understand about Buddy?"
“His place in your life, darling." Lorraine said, her manner firm.
“Darling," Jack said, “he's my oldest friend in all the world."
“Yes, I know," Lorraine said dryly, “you ate sand together."
Cheered by the memory, Jack said, “Oh, did I tell you about that, darling?"
“Yes, you did, darling." Lorraine took a deep breath, then plunged ahead, saying, “But your relationship with Buddy must have changed since then. You aren't in that sandbox anymore."
“Well, of course not," Jack said, chuckling as though she were making jokes.
“And to a recent arrival on the scene, darling," Lorraine persisted, “it does look awfully as though Buddy is a mere sponge."
“Oh, darling!" Jack said, reproachful.
“A sponge," Lorraine repeated, inexorable. “A wastrel. A parasite. He lives on you, darling, borrows money he never repays, treats your possessions ... as though he owns them."
“Is it wrong, darling," Jack asked, pleading prettily for understanding, “to be generous to an old friend?"
“It goes beyond generosity," Lorraine insisted. “It's almost as though Buddy had some hold over you, some—"
Quick, urgent, Jack said, “Why do you say that?" And added, as an afterthought, “Darling?"
Casual, not noticing the force of his reaction, she said, “Oh, I don't mean anything as melodramatic as blackmail, darling, as though you'd committed a murder or something—" She broke off and looked with some surprise at the sandwich Jack had been making. "Why, darling," she said. “You've stuck the knife right through the bread."
Jack held up the knife, the pumpernickel slice impaled on it. His voice hoarse, he said, “I'll start another sandwich . . . darling."
27
“But all unknown to all of us, a cloud was hanging over our heads, completely unsuspected. A cloud named Rubelle Kallikak.”
FLASHBACK 18
The courtroom, a large traditional place of gleaming dark wood benches and railings, high pale ceiling, large side windows, judge seated on a tall impressive banc flanked by the flags of the United States of America and the state of California, was crowded with onlookers but was almost perfectly still. The six jurors sat in somber intensity, deeply aware of the solemnity and import of their work here. The judge, whitehaired, stocky, fatherly, fondled his gavel and gave his full attention to the questioning of the witness.
That witness. The plaintiff, in fact: Rubelle Kallikak. A filthy slattern of seventeen, already spreading in hip and thigh, dressed in cast-off garments a year from their last cleaning, her hair a mare's nest, her nose snot-smeared, her dull eyes a monument to a lifetime of improper diet, she sprawled in the witness chair with a filthy baby shlurping at her sagging breast. Before her was spread the courtroom: in the seats on one side of the aisle her family, dozens of Kallikaks (of whom Rubelle was the beauty), and on the other side the media, eyes and ears wide open.
To her left stood her attorney, a slick-haired sleazeball in a maroon leisure suit and bright blue wide tie. Seated at the defense table were Jack and Lorraine, hand in hand, with their battery of brilliant and expensive lawyers all in pinstripes.
The sleazeball attorney spoke: "And do you, Rubelle Kallikak," he demanded, in a voice which would have been thrilling were it not so nasal, "do you see in this courtroom the man who lavished such promises upon you, ravished you, and left you with child?”
Rubelle waited a moment to be sure the flood of words had spent itself, and then she nodded and smeerped the back of her hand across her nose and nodded again and said, "Uh-huh.”
The sleazeball attorney nodded. His worst fears, it seemed, had been realized. "And would, you Rubelle Kallikak, point out to this court and the jury that deceiver?”
Snot glinted from the back of the hand Rubelle raised. Her finger pointed directly at Jack.
The baby started to snivel. Lorraine gave Jack an I'm-with-you pat on the shoulder. Jack smiled at the jury. The jury did not smile back.
28
I am still irritated, years later. “This defective little bitch,” I tell O'Connor, “swore she and I spent three days and nights in a riverside cabin up by Stockton. Buddy swore he and I were deer hunting in Colorado all that time. But we didn't have any witnesses—any more than she had, the bitch—and Ru- belle's lawyer made a big point of Buddy being my closest friend in all the world."
“I vaguely remember that case," O'Connor says, tapping his pen against the notebook. “Several years ago, wasn't it?"
“Fame is fleeting," I point out, this being a sentiment of more than passing interest—fleeting interest?—for me, as you might imagine.
“I don't remember how it came out," O'Connor says.
“I do," I say. “Rubelle had three things going for her. Ignorance, poverty, and the general assumption that in all such matters it's the man who's lying. On the other hand, I was encumbered by money, brains, talent, good looks, and the finest legal talent money could buy. I couldn't pretend to be poor or stupid or ugly, and I couldn't very well go out and deliberately hire second-rate attorneys. As you can see, things looked pretty black for me for a while."
"So she won the case?”
"Wait for it, Michael," I say, waving a finger at him. "The fact is, I could see for myself how badly things were going. I could see the way the jury looked at Rubelle, and the way they looked at me. I could read the write-ups in the papers and watch the news reports on television. I saw the slippery slope I was on, and I knew where it ended. So, when it came my turn to testify, I decided on a desperate gamble."
FLASHBACK 18A
The courtroom was just as full as ever, the judge as fatherly as ever, the Kallikaks as numerous and ill-favored as ever, but now it was Jack who sat in the witness box while Rubelle sprawled behind the plaintiff's table, baby vomiting on her heedless breast. One of Jack's highly polished attorneys had just finished leading him through one irrelevant thicket of testimony, was preparing for another similar canter, and had paused beside the defense table, gazing downward, studying his notes with the frown they deserved. Into the little silence thus created, Jack interposed himself, turning his most open and guileless and innocent smile upon the judge, saying, “Your Honor, may I beg the court's indulgence for just a moment?''
The look the judge lowered upon Jack was not fatherly at all, but was truculent, hostile, and terminally unsympathetic. “And just what, Mr. Pine," he wanted to know, “do you and your expensive attorneys have in mind?"
“This is all my idea, Your Honor," Jack said, as his expensive attorney approached the bench, looking worried. “May I proceed?"
“Just a minute, Your Honor," the expensive attorney said, and he turned his unbelievin
g and disapproving frown upon Jack, saying, “Jack? What are you up to?"
“This won't take long," Jack assured both the judge and the expensive attorney. He turned on the judge his most winning smile, saying, “May I, Your Honor, take just a minute? My own idea."
“His own idea, whatever it is," the expensive attorney confirmed, in a voice of doom.
The judge considered. He didn't believe Jack's winning smile for a second, but he had to believe the expensive attorney's disapproving frown. “You may proceed," he told Jack, giving the fellow enough rope, and sat back to enjoy the results, whatever they might be.
“Thank you, Your Honor," Jack said, with simple sincerity. Facing the courtroom, raising his voice just a bit, projecting like the stage actor he'd been trained to be, he said, “Lorraine, would you rise, please?"
Lorraine, not knowing what was going on, bewildered that Jack would have come to a plan of action without having first talked it to death with her, uncertainly and with an obvious reluctance got to her feet.
“Thank you," Jack said, and called a bit louder: “Marcia, would you mind, please? Would you rise and come forward and stand next to Lorraine?"
Everyone in the courtroom watched as Marcia Callahan stood from the midst of the spectators—on the media side, not the Kallikak side, which was why she hadn't been noticed before, she could have been just another blond news co-anchor—and walked forward down the aisle. A bailiff opened the gate in the railing, and Marcia stepped through, turning toward Lorraine. Although her career had faltered in the last few years, she was still well enough known to be recognized by just about everybody in court.
Lorraine, watching Marcia approach, did what's up? semaphores with her eyebrows, but Marcia merely shrugged and shook her head; she didn't know what was going on, either.
Meanwhile, Jack was nodding, reassuring his expensive attorney with little smiles and pats of the hand, and now he spoke up again, calling, "Denise. Angelica. Simone. Would you all come up with Lorraine and Marcia? Just come up and stand beside them."
Three incredibly beautiful women rose from their places in different parts of the courtroom—but all on the media side—and made their way forward. The bailiff's hand shook as he held the gate in the railing open for them, and they passed through, looking about with some curiosity, at one another, at Marcia and Lorraine, and over at Jack, who nodded and smiled and encouraged them with little hand gestures to line up in a row, all five of them.
Once all five were in position, Jack rose and turned to face the jury, which looked at him with hostility and suspicion. Pretending to see nothing but cheery faces, Jack gestured to the five women standing there and said, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that is my present wife, Lorraine, and that is my former wife, the well-known actress, Marcia Callahan."
Expressionless now, the two ladies and four gentlemen of the jury looked at Lorraine and Marcia, and then looked back at Jack.
Who smiled and gestured at the other three women, saying, "Denise and Angelica and Simone are just three of the many attractive and highly intelligent women with whom I have had deliciously satisfying affairs over the last several years on various continents."
Everyone in the room gazed with close concentration on Denise and Angelica and Simone, all three of whom looked startled but game, standing there under all that surveillance. Lorraine and Marcia gave these three new women very measuring looks.
Jack's smile now was pitying. He gestured toward the plaintiff's table. "And there” he said, "is Miss, uh, Kallikak."
Rubelle removed her infant from one flopping breast with a moist pop sound and attached it to the other.
The jury looked at Rubelle. The jury looked at Lorraine and Marcia and Denise and Angelica and Simone.
Jack spread his hands. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury/' he said, "... I ask you."
29
"But, I don't know," I tell O'Connor, shaking my head at the memory, "sometimes you can't win for losing."
FLASHBACK 17C
Into the booklined airy living room of the Malibu house came Jack and Lorraine, arguing, she coldly furious, he bewildered but beginning to get sore. ''Darling," he said, as they entered the room, “we won.”
“But despicably, darling," Lorraine said through clenched teeth. “I've never seen such utter and total male-chauvinist piggery in my entire life."
“Would you rather we had lost?” Jack demanded. “Would you have liked that no-doubt brain-damaged infant to have been a part of our lives from now on? Would you have liked it to live with us?"
“We have to live with ourselves, darling," Lorraine said, cold and furious, her face dead-white except for two high splotches of color.
Buddy entered the room from deeper in the house before Jack could think of the proper response. Grinning from ear to ear, Buddy spread his arms wide and marched across the room toward Jack as to a conquering hero. “Congratulations, Dad!" he cried. “It was on the radio."
"Thanks, Buddy," Jack said, beginning to smile, turning with relief to this evidence of approval:
Buddy wrapped his arms around Jack and gave him a bear hug, grinning over Jack's shoulder at Lorraine, saying, "What do you think of our boy, Lorraine?"
Lorraine didn't answer. Buddy's grin became knowing, while Jack's shoulder blades tightened as he became aware of the lengthening silence. At last, he disengaged himself from Buddy and turned to see Lorraine studying them both, her expression enigmatic, thoughtful, calculating. "Darling?" Jack said, unable to keep the anxiety out of his voice. "What are you thinking, darling?"
"I'm thinking, darling,” Lorraine said slowly but emphatically, "that you two probably do deserve each other, but I don't deserve either of you."
Thunderstruck, Jack cried, "Darling! You aren't leaving me!"
"Oh, but I am, darling," Lorraine said, with the calm confidence of someone whose mind is made up at last. "But before I go, there's just one thing—"
Jack ducked and leaped over the nearest sofa. He stood behind it, alert, ready for anything. Lorraine ignored this odd behavior, ignored everything except her own exit line: "Just one thing I want to tell you," she said. "Buddy Pal, your oldest friend in all the world, several times in the course of our marriage tried to rape me. Fortunately, I minored in judo."
Having delivered her exit line, she turned about, squareshouldered, and made her exit. Jack, staring at her back, coming out from behind the sofa, shrillness in his voice, cried, "You're just trying to make trouble!"
Lorraine kept going. A door closed, not forcefully. Jack turned his wide-eyed stare on Buddy, who shrugged and grinned, completely at his ease. "That bag of bones?" Buddy said. "Not my type, Dad, you know me."
Jack continued to stare at him, not responding, not changing in any way. Buddy crossed to him, the same crooked confident grin on his face, and gave Jack a light but meaningful tap on the arm, saying, “You do know me, Dad, remember? From the very first girl. Remember?"
Jack was slow to answer, his breathing strained, muscles jumping in his cheeks, but at last he sagged, and his face lost its tension, and he said, “I remember, Buddy."
Buddy nodded, secure, and tapped Jack's arm again. Then he turned away, crossing toward the liquor cabinet, saying, “You won a big case today, Dad. Want a little drink to celebrate?"
“Yes," Jack said. He hadn't yet moved.
Buddy opened the liquor cabinet and held up a bottle of Jack Daniel's. “On the rocks, or straight up?"
At last Jack moved. He crossed the room, saying, “Don't wrap it, I'll drink it here." Taking the bottle from Buddy's hand, he removed the top, threw it away behind himself, put the bottle to his mouth, leaned his head back, and chugalugged.
30
"That was when I started hitting the bottle pretty heavy."
O'Connor looks at me, as though not sure whether to believe what I'm saying. "You mean," he asks, "you weren't a drinker before your second marriage broke up?"
"I was a social drinker," I tell him, and shr
ug. "Like anybody else." (Hey, I just shrugged there and didn't fall over! I'm getting better, health is returning, I can feel it. Once again, I survive the Temple of Doom.) "But after Lorraine left," I continue, "I wasn't a social drinker, I was a drinker. And it was beginning to affect my work."
FLASHBACK 19
The antiques-store set was wide but shallow with an old glass-paned door leading to a minimal sidewalk set at the right end, and smaller, darker wooden door leading out of the left end to nowhere but the rest of the soundstage. The effect in the film would be of a deep narrow dark shop, crammed with all sorts of curios.
Facing this set broadside were the usual crew and equipment. The director, a florid stocky bald man in a bush jacket, sat on a tall canvas-backed stool beside the camera. "Quiet," he said, quietly.
"Quiet!" called an AD.
“Quiet!” called a further-off AD.
"Rolling," murmured the director.
"Rolling!" called the first AD.
"Rolling!" screamed the further-off AD.
Nothing happened.
The director looked sardonic and long-suffering. Shifting position on his stool, he raised his voice a bit and called, "We're rolling, Jack. That's your cue."
Still nothing happened.
The director looked as sardonic, but even more long- suffering. Speaking generally, to ADs, grips, best boys, gaffers, script girls, whoever might know anything of use, he said, “Jack? Is he back there?”
No one spoke. A general awful embarrassment rose from the assembled company like shimmering heat waves. The director, masterfully combining deference with irritation in his voice, called, “Jack? We are rolling now, Jack.”
Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 Page 11