by Bel Mooney
“Well, no wonder you had to stop being a photographer, if you could get things as wrong as that,” I said.
Something about him, an intelligence that was attractive yet predatory, made me want to run from the room. But I knew I must not show it. I was shocked by the sudden reversion to the crudeness most people would expect from someone in that organisation; for I did not expect it, and my own surprise was humiliating. Face value, I thought. That is what I have come to accept, my standard of truth compressed, a single lens reflex.
I shrugged, made him a little ironic bow, and turned to leave the room. However, the effect of my cool departure was spoiled. In the doorway I bumped into the person entering, and found myself torpedoed by an extremely large and hard bosom, against which a thin shirt fought a losing battle. “Babs! Oh hi, honey, gee it’s good to see you again. You remember lil ol’ me?”
Her voice was higher-pitched than I remembered: brittle and over-emphatic. I held out my hand, trying not to stare at her figure, remembering the exercises. Embarrassed, aware of Luenbach behind me, I made my voice formal and distant. “Of course I remember you, Annelisa, how are you?”
“Fine, I’m just fine! Isn’t this gonna be just great?”
She required no reply, but looked across the room, squeaked at the sight of Luenbach, and fluttered over to him immediately, lifting her face for a kiss like a child. He draped an arm possessively around her shoulders, enquiring dryly, “So how’s the boyfriend?”
“Oh, he’s just fine. Pining for me now, you know?”
“I gather Anthony wasn’t too pleased.”
She shrugged in an exaggerated manner, “Oh, he always gets over things. I guess he’s forgotten what Love Story was about. Anyways, Sam, it’s all over now, between me and that guy. Gone. Fini.” She laughed shrilly, drawing in her breath at the end with that little hiccough I remembered, sounding (or was it my fancy?) more discordant now.
It was hard at first to identify the change with any precision. There were those breasts of course; my first response to the thought of the silicone implants was revulsion, mingled with a pity I soon quelled. Annelisa looked bigger, heavier, as a result, although her waist was still small and her wrists and ankles, I noticed, even thin. Faces tell their story, Luenbach had been telling me, with astounding originality, and I searched hers for … what? Hardening, I suppose; for the corruption I knew must have taken place, for her to have gone off and abused her own body like that.
I saw nothing. Around the eyes was an emaciation that was at odds with the rest of her, as if the bones were scrabbling through that too-abundant flesh, asserting supremacy. But her lower face, with its broad, smooth jawline and full mouth, was bland, and shut off. What was missing, despite her apparent friendliness and those reiterated “just fine”s, was the almost schoolgirlish openness of Florida. The red hair was the same, and I knew that beneath it her own head would be cropped and brown. As before she wore heavy make-up despite the time and season, and her long legs were deeply tanned. Yet she was different; something was at odds with my memory of her, so that I felt vaguely irritated.
Luenbach still rested his arm heavily across her shoulders, looking at me all the time. “Did you tell Barbara that you’re about to be a big movie star, honey?” he asked.
Annelisa’s face changed. She pulled away from him, babbling, “Well, I only just saw her, Sam. I didn’t get to talk about old times, yet. Listen, Babs, why don’t we go outside and take in some sun …”
Luenbach looked at his watch and said mockingly, “So soon? And anyway, it’s gonna be cloudy today. They forecast.”
“Cloudy? On a July Fourth weekend? I don’t believe it.” Annelisa had regained her brittle vivacity. She grinned broadly, seeming relaxed again, but her right hand fingered the little initialled pendant round her neck, tugging it to and fro on its chain.
Indeed, the sky was overcast – a thin blue-grey sheet which pinned the morning warmth to that strange, marshy coastline, with its mix of cheap little boardwalks, burger joints, and exclusive strips of housing with private beaches. During the weekend I thought how ersatz was its air of away-from-it-all: a giant ball-player’s throw from Philadelphia and the Brooklyn Bridge, and the teeming millions who cram that part of the East Coast. But I also had a sense of personal dislocation; because of that sleep in the car, and because I possessed no map of the coast and had never been there before, I had lost any real sense of place. New York was north, Atlantic City somewhat further to the south, I knew that, but I was afflicted, even that morning, by an illusion that I was on an island on the edge of an uncharted continent. And – here was the odd thing – that any pictures I took would be beyond my control.
By nine Tony Carl, Miranda, Lace and Marylinne, and Peter Corelli were lounging in a small semi-circle close to the television, watching live coverage of the Women’s Singles Final from Wimbledon. It made me smile. I always avoid Wimbledon when at home, and yet it followed me here to New Jersey. The restful sound of ball and commentary was interrupted at regular intervals by Tony’s guttural exclamations: “C’mon, Chrissie baby, c’mon, Chrissie, show that old dyke whatcha can do … Geddit, Chrissie, c’mon, Chrissie … Ain’t she sumthin’ else? … All right!” Then Navratilova would take Mrs Lloyd across the court with a beautifully-placed lob, and Tony would smash the arm of his chair with disgust: “Shi-i-it!”
I watched for a few moments, standing behind them, feeling that terrible houseparty lassitude, when the weather is disappointing and you do not know what to do; a paradox of isolation yet lack of privacy. Luenbach had disappeared, Annelisa was in the kitchen still, and there was no sign of Anthony Carl or Zandra. With sun it would have been easy, sunbathing an instant brake on thought. I felt cheated.
Emmeline Carl sat on the terrace, her feet up, reading. Something about her pose, the angle of the head, reminded me of Whistler’s mother, and the incongruity of the comparison cheered me. “Not a very nice day, honey,” she said, looking up as I approached. “But they say it’s going to be hot and sunny tomorrow. That’s what we all want – for the fireworks. Did you read the New York Times yesterday?” I shook my head, and she gestured towards the crumpled Weekend section that lay on the white cane sofa. I picked it up. “Three-State Guide to a Yankee Doodle Dandy Weekend,” the front page announced, with a simplified map of the whole area and times of events: Sunday 10.30 am – 50-gun salute by Veterans in Battery Park, Sunday noon – more cannon salute from Liberty State Park in Jersey City, and so on. And the fireworks, with names like New Golden Trumpets and Green Leaves, supplied by Macy’s, bigger, higher, brighter, noisier than ever this year (the story promised) to dazzle Miss Liberty herself.
“Does it really mean that much? Really?” I asked.
“What, dear?”
“July the Fourth. I’ve never quite understood it.”
Emmeline’s brow creased. “Well, dear, it’s our big day, you know? Americans celebrate … um …” She paused; I could not resist pursuing her.
“Of course, Mrs Carl. But what are you celebrating – exactly?”
“Why, it’s America’s Independence, Barbara.”
“From us?”
She smiled with a hint of embarrassment. “I really am sorry that doesn’t sound a little more polite, honey, but I guess it’s the plain truth.”
“So the fireworks, and the parties and all the gun salutes are all to wave a fist at Britain, still after all these years. Oh, don’t worry about it. I don’t blame you at all. It just makes me think that all this talk of special relationships is so much rubbish. Most British people are irritated by Americans and make fun of them, yet spend their lives eating hamburgers and listening to American music served up by DJs who put on American accents. It works the other way too. I’m always meeting Americans in London who’ve spent a fortune visiting Bath and York or wherever, then complain about the food and the people in general. I suppose the truth is – there’s been an armed truce ever since 1786, or whenever it was.” I fumbled the d
ate to irritate her. She was nodding gently, not listening, her lips pursed as though she felt sorry for me yet was trying to understand.
“1776.”
I didn’t have to turn round to know it was Luenbach, and found myself tensing, waiting for that hand in the small of my back. It did not come. He lounged against the door into the sitting room, just behind me, hands in pockets, and went on, “And I’d say it’s not so much an armed truce, Barbara, as a charmed rout.”
“Meaning?” I said coldly.
He lounged away from the doorpost, propelled himself towards me, and slid one arm round my shoulders. “Oh, just that you British are beaten by us at every turn, and yet you love us, and you do whatever we say. That’s in private as well as in public.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze, pressing the heel of his hand sharply into my shoulder.
Emmeline’s laughter tinkled.
Though I felt suddenly helpless, I drew in a sharp breath: “The trouble with you Americans, Sam, is that you believe your own mythology. It probably started with your revolution. I mean, when we did it at school I remember our teacher saying that Paul Revere actually did nothing except get sanctified in a song. And it’s the same now with your foreign policy: because Reagan’s told you all you’re the great white hope, it means you believe it’s morally okay to support any tinpot dictator or crook in South America, just as long as it keeps the baddies out.”
I felt unreasonably angry now; more with myself than him, for being foolish enough to rise, to be drawn in.
Luenbach said softly, “Well, it would surprise us all if you supported those baddies, Barbara …” but Emmeline interrupted him, reaching out a hand to pat my arm, and crooning, “I do just love to see a young woman stand her own ground. But I guess we always lose, talking politics with men, mmm, dear?”
Anthony Carl had emerged from his room and was barking into the telephone in the hall, his voice echoing slightly, only a few words audible. From these I deduced that the saga of his film was continuing. With a mumbled excuse about going to say good morning, I left Luenbach and the matriarch, and made my way back to the kitchen, pausing for just a moment to hear, “Yeah, sure … But lemme tell you, if Spiegleman doesn’t deliver he’s finished. I don’t care how much it costs … and it’ll cost … Sure, she’s here … No, all she cares about is being a star …” At that he laughed loudly, and for a long time.
Zandra Carl was making coffee. Annelisa sat at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal and reading Cosmopolitan, uttering little exclamations now and then, as if impressed by the article. Once again I was reminded of a big teenage girl, something in the engrossed hunch of her shoulders and the way her large glossy head moved imperceptibly from side to side, following the words. She looked up and saw me, and called out “Hey, Babs, will you listen to this?”
“What?”
“This chick’s writing … uh … ‘I’d been miserably aware of my over-ample measurements since seventh grade. While other adolescents raced to display newly nubile bodies in halters and gauzy blouses, I was amassing the largest collection of peasant dresses and extra-large T-shirts in Rosslyn High …’ The article’s called ‘I Had Breast Reduction Surgery’. You heard that? Reduction!”
“What happened?” I asked.
She paused, and flicked over a page. “Says … uh … it changed her life, bein’ smaller – people take her more seriously … She used to be a 36DD cup, same as me now …”
She looked up at me and grinned. “Crazy ladies, all wantin’ to be the same as each other …”
“Wanting to be each other,” I said.
“You wouldn’t wanna be me, Babs, you just fine as you.”
Zandra Carl stood by her, looking down. Her voice was thin, slicing through Annelisa’s chatter. “What’s that on your arm, kid?” Annelisa’s hand flew to her right arm, covering the upper part protectively as if to shield a scar. “Nothing,” she said.
“Let me see, come on, Annelisa …” The grasp that pulled the girl’s hand away was not gentle, and there was triumph as well as a question mark in Zandra’s voice when she said, “That’s not nothing, that’s a real king-size bruise. Where’d you get it?”
I could see the yellow and purple mottling on the upper arm, revealed only by her posture at the table, pulling up her short shirt sleeves. Anyone can be bruised … but Annelisa behaved as if she had committed a crime.
“Oh yeah, well that was real stupid, you know? I left my closet door open, and I was packing to come here, you know? Wham crash I went, and boy, did it hurt! It hurt real bad, real bad, and it sure doesn’t look too pretty either.” She was nodding her head vigorously to emphasise the point; the performance was poor but given added pathos by the fact that she clearly didn’t know it.
Zandra’s thin voice again. “Well, I don’t know what you keep in your closet, Annelisa, but that sure looks like a handprint to me.”
Annelisa shook back her hair, and looked obliquely at her boss’s wife. “Shit, Zandra, I didn’t realise you were such an expert on them.” It was the other woman’s turn to flush, and for a second her face looked pinched and mean. “Well now, it’s a lucky thing Anthony isn’t down here with us. You know how he feels about ladies swearing. It’s just not nice, Annelisa. It gives a real bad impression for the corporation.” She paused for a fraction of a second. “And, from what I remember you telling me, I don’t think your Momma would like it, and that’s for sure.”
Zandra gestured questioningly with the coffee pot after Annelisa had slammed the door behind her, and I nodded. Her face and voice were back to normal, anxious to please, as she pushed a cup towards me. “Gee, she’s hard to get along with, that girl.” I asked why. “Oh, she’s changed a lot, Babs, since you knew her. How many years ago was that now?” I told her, adding that I hardly “knew” Annelisa even then. “Oh, but you remember what a lovely girl she was? She’d do anything for anybody. Now she’s spoiled, I guess. Too much success, Babs. Made her really difficult … And after all Carl and I have done for her.” She was shaking her head mournfully, inviting my complicity.
“Why did you mention her mother?” I asked.
She laughed shortly, making a brushing-aside motion with one hand, “Oh, you know what these girls are.”
“No, I don’t really,” I replied.
She rose quickly from the table, resting a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Let me tell you, honey, when you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you get to know. They want everything, these girls, and then when they’ve got it they turn round and yell at you for giving it to them.”
There was silence for a few moments, as she stared from the window at the leafy garden, under that neutral sky. Then she said, in a faraway, almost absent-minded voice, “I’ll talk to Anthony You should go on a trip today. See something of New Jersey.”’
“But why her mother?” I persisted.
She turned and smiled distantly at me. “Why, no reason at all, honey, except that no mother likes to think of her daughter coming on like a truck driver, now does she?”
It was true, I supposed. My mother hated it when I first affected that tough-talking conformity which manifests itself in swearwords and cynicism. They were retired by then, living in Cheltenham of all places, too tired now to fight, worn out each by the other. I went more and more infrequently, telling them that I had so much work, that newspaper and magazine jobs ate up even the weekends; thinking I was perfectly justified in sparing myself the sight of their vacant disappointed eyes, each side of the fireplace. I don’t know what they wanted exactly: marriage for me, and a steady job for James? He was drinking too much and selling second-hand cars, and never visited them either.
So – each side of the fire, a truce. See my parents and you see me. Both thin, average height, but with such contrasting expressions. My father’s face is weak, with pale blue eyes, full lips and a ready smile which has etched lines deeply into the sides of his mouth. It ingratiates; it begs to be kicked. He has thin white hair, though it
was once sandy-blond and fell over one eye. My mother, on the other hand, is dark: piercing eyes which seem to search for something you can’t give, a narrow tight mouth pursed into permanent discontent, hair turned steel-grey as wiry as a brillo pad. She rarely smiles.
Why am I using the present tense? I used to wish for their death, so that I would receive no more reminders of them on the doormat, suffer no more guilt at my neglect. Of course, I did not rationalise it that way. I told myself that because of their “niceness”, their semi-detached existence in Cheltenham, I could not be free to take pictures, draw and write things that were “me”. The voice inside me would shock them, and so it had to be gagged. Of course, sometimes late at night I would pour myself a brandy and whisper into it that it was all balls: no Diane Arbus, no Egon Schiele, no D.H. Lawrence – me. Just a woman with a soul as ordinary as their little streets, a smile as insinuating as his, and a restlessness that matched hers in futility. A professional person turning tricks for money like the most skilled 42nd Street hooker. Like Annelisa Kaye.
Thinking of Annelisa always brings them to my mind too, yet the connexion is tenuous. They died a long time ago, he first of heart disease, she a year or so later, they said of cancer but I think she was tired, and bored too, with no one to hate any more. She left me her jewellery, which did not amount to much: a few necklaces, a heavy silver slave bracelet, and several pairs of earrings, including the dark mourning ones I wore in New Jersey that weekend. Oh, and her rings – the engagement, the wedding, the eternity. Still with me, on my fingers every day. A good reason for using the present tense.
Miranda came into the kitchen, and started to pull things from the fridge. “I’m going to make a huge salad for everybody for lunch,” she said to Zandra. “Dad says there’s chicken and plenty of mayonnaise, and we’re to eat early because they’re going to Atlantic City.”
“Who is?”
She looked at me. “Oh, didn’t he tell anyone? He says that, as there’s no sun, David’s to drive Barbara and the girls to Atantic City for the afternoon. He wants to talk business here with Peter and Sam.”