Girl in the Moonlight

by Charles Dubow

  Kate nodded. “She was very beautiful. You told me you had a crush on her when you were younger.”

  “That’s right. I did.” It would have been madness for me to confess everything. I had never cheated on Kate. That was the point. No woman wants to know she has a rival. Nor did I think she needed to know I had faced an agonized decision in the kitchen that night in Amagansett. How close it could have gone either way. “The family has always been so good to me. First Lio and now this. They must be going through hell. I feel terribly that I didn’t know.”

  “So give Roger a call in the morning,” she said. “But I’m really not sure what you can do. I mean, wouldn’t it just be nicer to write a letter? Sometimes people don’t want to be bothered—although it can be nice to know that other people care. I mean, unless it was a very close friend, that’s what I’d do.”

  I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “You’re a genius,” I said. I was continually impressed by her clear-eyed approach to life. Few problems were so big they couldn’t be dealt with. Quite often the solutions were surprisingly easy. Like a sailor, she had developed her emotional sea legs early living with such a turbulent father. This bill has to be paid now, that one can wait. Don’t answer the phone. Call the doctor. Make sure there’s food in the fridge. Keep hidden when he’s lost too much at the track.

  “I think I’m going to stay up for a bit,” I said. “You go on to sleep.”

  Kate lay there, her cheek on the pillow, her blue eyes watching me. Was she suspicious of something? Did she know somehow that I was leaving out the most important part of the story? “All right,” she said, turning onto her other side. “Good night. Try to be quiet when you come to bed.”

  I poured myself a whisky and sat for a long time staring out of the window. Trying to imagine what had driven Cesca to such a desperate act. Wondering what, if anything, I should do—or could have done.

  My first instinct was to see her. To reassure myself that she was all right and, most important, that she did not hold me to blame. I was aware of the vanity of this presumption, though, and suspected that she might not want to see me. That having let her down once, there would be no second chances. This was all assuming that I would even be allowed to see her. I had no idea where she was or what condition she was in or what constraints had been placed upon her. I wasn’t family. I wasn’t a husband. I had no legal connection to her. And what would I say to her? What would she want to hear? But selfishly, I knew I needed absolution. I couldn’t imagine what she would want. But I knew I had to try to find out.

  The next morning, after a fitful night, I called Roger from my office.

  “Wylie?” he said, answering. “How are you, young man? To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” He sounded as chipper and full of bonhomie as ever, even if the voice was a bit reedier than it had once been.

  “Good morning, Uncle Roger. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was at a cocktail party last night, and I saw someone who told me that Cesca had tried to kill herself. Is that true?”

  “Ah, yes. Terrible, terrible. She’s all right now, thank God.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “I? No, no. But her mother tells me she is being well looked after.”

  “Do you happen to know where Cesca is? I wanted to write her a letter.”

  “That would be very kind. I am sure she’d appreciate hearing from you.” He then gave me the name of a private institution upstate. “It’s a lovely place, apparently. Caters to a select clientele. Rock stars, actors. That sort of thing. I don’t have the address, but I am sure you can look it up.”

  I thanked Roger, asked him to give my regards to Diana, and hung up the phone. I then removed a box of personal stationery from my desk and wrote a short, cautious note to Cesca:

  Dear Cesca,

  I saw your friend Caro last night at a party and she told me what had happened. I hope you are feeling better now and getting some rest. Today I spoke to your uncle Roger and he told me where to write to you. I hope that’s all right. I feel terribly that the last time we saw each other you were angry at me. I know I let you down and I wish I hadn’t. It is the last thing I would ever want to do. I don’t know if you still are angry, but if you aren’t please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. For that matter, let me know if there’s anything I can do even if you still are angry with me.

  Wylie

  The next week, I received a letter in reply, written in Cesca’s schoolgirlish hand. I had put my office as my return address.

  Dear Tricky Wylie,

  Thank you for your letter. It really cheered me up. Yes, it’s been a rough couple of months since Lio died. I’m in here because they say I tried to kill myself, but it’s really not true. I did think about it, though, but that was only as far as I got. I mean, doesn’t everyone think about it at one point or another? But it’s something else entirely to act on it. Anyway, I’ll tell you the whole story sometime. The point is that everyone seems to think I was and, to be honest, I had been behaving pretty badly so I suppose, deep down, they were right in a way. That I was trying to kill the pain by being self-destructive. And that if I had kept up the way I was living I could have very easily killed myself one way or another. My doctor says it was a cry for help. Isn’t that what they always say? How corny. My God, you’d think I could show a little more originality than that. Anyway, I was being incredibly stupid. I have no intention of doing that sort of thing again. In fact, I haven’t had a drink in three weeks and obviously no drugs either. They let us smoke cigarettes here and I still haven’t been able to kick them yet but then again I am not really sure I want to. How are you, Wylie? Are you still with that pretty girl? If not, you should tell Cosmo because I could tell he really fancied her.

  You know what I’d like more than anything? For you to come up for a visit. Except for Mare, and Carmen and Cosmo when they can make it because they’re both frightfully busy, I’ve had no visitors. I’ve alienated so many people in my life that there really aren’t all that many I’d actually want to see—or who would want to see me. Ironic, isn’t it? I’d like to think that even after everything maybe you’d be one of those people who would want to see me. I know I’d like to see you.

  They’d prefer it if I didn’t leave the grounds yet but maybe we could have a picnic or something if the weather isn’t too foul. As you can imagine, the food here is pretty ghastly. Nothing like Paris, that’s for sure. You remember Paris, Tricky Wylie? We had fun there, didn’t we? I’d love a fresh baguette and maybe some lovely cheeses and a cold chicken. Yum. No wine though, alas.

  Come whenever you can. I’m not going anywhere. Ha ha.

  T’estimo. Adéu.

  C

  P.S.

  Saturdays are best.

  P.P.S.

  Bring cigarettes. They cost a fortune here.

  P.P.P.S.

  Marlboro reds. X

  I reread the letter several times. Cesca’s personality crackled off the page. It was more than I had hoped for. Much more, too much. I had sought absolution and reassurance, but what I got was open, friendly, exculpating. But she was also vulnerable, a side of Cesca I had rarely seen.

  There was no question that I would go and see her. I felt I owed her that much. But I told Kate, although I did not show her the letter.

  “I’m not sure why you need to go up and see her,” she said. She was in the kitchen, chopping onions and garlic. On the stove was a large copper pot. “How close were you?”

  Avoiding the question, I poured us each a glass of white wine and placed one next to her on the counter. “From what I understand, she hasn’t had many visitors. She’s probably lonely. It must be depressing being in one of those places. I can only imagine how important it would be to see a familiar face, to be reminded of the world outside.”

  “Yes, very sad. But why you?”

  “It’s a favor to the family. I’ve known them . . .”

  “Yes, I know. You’ve known them your
whole life. They’re lovely people, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “There’s no need to talk like that.”

  “Isn’t there? I don’t know. It just strikes me as strange that you’d be doing this.”

  “But you won’t stop me?”

  “Stop you?” she said, putting down her knife. “Of course I won’t stop you. You’ll do what you think best.”

  “Thank you,” I said, walking over to her and kissing her. “I love you, you know that? No one else. If you had an old friend who was shut up in a loony bin and you wanted to go see him, I wouldn’t mind one bit.”

  “Not even if he was really sexy?” She smiled.

  “Not even if he was really sexy.”

  That Saturday I was driving up the Taconic in a light drizzle. Shortly after noon, I exited near Claverack and headed east down a succession of country roads. Eventually I spotted a small, discreet sign with the name of the clinic on it. I turned up the driveway and after several moments driving through dense woodland saw ahead of me a large, pleasant-looking, white, Federal-style clapboard house with a gambreled roof surrounded by deciduous and evergreen trees and a smooth expanse of lawn. Another sign read, VISITOR PARKING, and I pulled into the lot.

  Most of the cars were late-model imports, primarily BMWs and Mercedes with New York and Connecticut plates. From the passenger seat, I removed a canvas bag that contained the lunch Kate had helped me make that morning and followed the path to the main building. Still more signs pointed the way to the theater, ceramics studio, community center, gym, and something called Potter Hall. I passed several people, who all greeted me and smiled. By now, the rain had stopped, and the earth had the rich, fecund smell of early spring.

  I walked up the front steps, crossed a long porch with white rocking chairs scattered on it, and entered an airy lobby. To my surprise, it seemed more like a country inn than a psychiatric clinic. There were Oriental rugs on the floors, plants, chintz-covered window seats, and a fire in the hearth. On the walls were landscapes and portraits, I presumed, of the clinic’s founders and former administrators; men with mustaches, earnest-looking women with strands of pearls. I hadn’t been sure what to expect. There were no security doors, no large men in white uniforms. The air smelled vaguely of potpourri and woodsmoke. In the corner a couple sat on a love seat drinking coffee. A man in his forties or so—I couldn’t tell if he was a patient or a visitor—was reading the New York Times. Behind the reception counter stood a short, round, middle-aged woman wearing a blue cardigan. Reading glasses hung from a thin chain over her ample bosom. She smiled and said, “Good morning. How may I help you?”

  “Good morning,” I replied. “I’m here to see Francesca Bonet.”

  “Ah, yes.” She lifted her glasses to her eyes and consulted her ledger. “Mr. Rose, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful. She’s expecting you. She asked you to meet her in the Garden Room. It’s just through there,” she said, nodding her head toward the back of the house.

  I thanked the woman and walked in the direction indicated. There were several other groups in the room. Saturday was visiting day obviously, and there was a low hum of conversation. The far wall was a row of French doors that overlooked a wide terrace and, below, a formal garden. As in the lobby, there were carpets on the floor, oil paintings on the walls, and the room was painted in a reassuring neutral color with white trim on the millwork. Directly in front of me was a trestletable supporting several electric urns labeled COFFEE, DECAFFEINATED, and HOT WATER, as well as rows of white mugs and little baskets containing tea bags, sugar and sweeteners, stirrers, and napkins.

  I found Cesca in the corner on a large striped sofa. She was reading a book, but when she looked up and saw me, she leapt to her feet and smiling widely shouted, “Wylie!” Everyone else in the room stopped talking as she threw her arms around me and hugged me tightly.

  25

  SHE HAD BEEN IN BAD SHAPE. THERE HAD BEEN DRUGS. A lot of drugs. And men. A lot of men. She had sold her store and traveled. She had returned to Barcelona. To reconnect with Lio and walk in his footsteps. But the city had seemed devastatingly empty without him.

  After a week she fled. Morocco was first, but she then returned to the States and went to Los Angeles. She spent the first few weeks at the Beverly Wilshire and later rented an apartment in Santa Monica. Her accountant called to tell her she was spending too much money, but she didn’t care. She remembered wild nights in Palm Springs, driving down in an open car, high on peyote, the warm night air washing over her as she sang into the darkness. There were parties that lasted for days at a producer’s house in Malibu. There were famous movie stars. B-listers. Prostitutes. Drug dealers driving up in Bentleys. Swimming naked, having sex in hot tubs with multiple partners. She would wake up with strange men in strange cities. Once in Las Vegas, another time San Francisco. Her clothes torn. One morning she saw she had a black eye. Other times men would steal her money. She didn’t care. Clothes could be replaced. Bruises healed. Money replenished. And then she’d go back out and do it all over again. All the nightclubs knew her. She spent thousands of dollars. She crashed her car and bought a new one. At some point, nothing seemed to matter much anymore. This is what she told me.

  “There was one night. I was back in New York. I was staying at the Plaza. I had been out with an old friend, but now she had gone, and there were a bunch of people up in my room doing blow. It was late, and I remember looking around and realizing I didn’t know any of them. What’s more I didn’t want to. The whole thing suddenly seemed so vile, so pointless. Suddenly I felt that I had become vile and pointless. I just wanted to sleep, and I asked them to leave. At first they wouldn’t. They just laughed and ignored me and kept on partying. So I started screaming for all of them to get the fuck out. I took off one of my shoes and smashed the mirror that the coke was on. Coke and glass went everywhere. After they left, I found myself staring out the window at the park. I was on the fifteenth floor.”

  She paused.

  “It seemed so obvious. Just lean out a little. You know? It would be so easy. I would be dead, and everything would stop. So I climbed out onto the ledge. The park looked so pretty. I wasn’t scared at all, I remember. But then a woman who had been in my room returned. She had left her purse behind. She saw me on the ledge and started screaming. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Help! Help!” You should have heard her. At first I shouted at her to shut up, but by then it was too late. By then I had come back in. The mood had passed. The thought of falling silently to my death had a kind of elegiac simplicity to it. Other guests came. Hotel security. Finally, of course, the police. But once she started screaming, it became a spectacle, something public and tawdry, which was just exactly what I didn’t want. They took me to Bellevue that night for observation anyway. It didn’t help that the police found traces of coke on the floor. Fortunately, Mare has a good lawyer. A couple of days later, here I was.”

  We were outside at a little table. The weather was cool, and we sat with our hands in our coat pockets. Cesca had gone back inside to get paper towels from one of the bathrooms to wipe off the little puddles of rain that still remained on the chairs.

  She was smoking a cigarette from the carton I had brought. The food sat mostly uneaten in its containers. She nibbled at a piece of the bread and toyed with a drumstick. I asked her if she was hungry and she said she wasn’t, at least not yet. She didn’t have much of an appetite these days. Maybe later. But you go ahead. I told her I’d wait too. There was a slight tremor in her hand. Lines under her eyes. Her cheeks looked thinner. Her lips chapped. Still, she radiated beauty, like a flame burning out through a shadow lantern. Seeing her brought back a flood of memory. Unexpected, unrequested, but unavoidable. The kicked pebble that precipitates an avalanche. Within seconds whole towns can be wiped out, lives changed forever.

  “How are you feeling now?” I asked.

  She looked at me, sighed, and flicked her cigarette into the bushes. “Honestly? Very tire
d. But I don’t feel like killing myself anymore—if I ever really did.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Though there are times when I wouldn’t mind killing a few other people.” She smiled and I laughed. “Some of the people here are full-blown loonies. And that includes the staff. One of my doctors is desperate to sleep with me. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.” She lit another cigarette. “Maybe I’ll let him.” She shrugged. Then, “I haven’t had sex in weeks. I don’t always mind not having the drugs and the booze, but I would like a good screw.”

  I looked away.

  “Oh, Wylie, don’t be bashful. We can go behind the bushes.”

  “I . . .”

  “I’m just kidding. Actually I have almost no libido either. It’s all because of the damn meds,” she said. “They’re supposed to make me feel mellow.”

  “Do they?”

  She shrugged again. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think they just make me boring, but, given the circumstances, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

  “You could never be boring.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Wylie. You always were sweet.”

  “How much longer will you be here?”

  “I can leave anytime I want. It’s an open hospital. No locked doors. I could get in your car with you and go, if I wanted.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Oh sure. In a lot of ways. But I’ve always had a thing about commitment, haven’t I? I mean, I’ve never been very good at it. So I’m trying. My doctor and I have been talking about that. I think I’m going to at least stick things out here. Maybe if I can do that, well, who knows? Maybe when I get out, I’ll get a cat or hamster or something. Start small.” She smiled.

  “That’s good. So when do you think you will leave?”

  “A few more weeks at least. Frankly, I’m in no hurry to leave. It’s nice here. Quiet. You don’t have to think. I spend my days in therapy: talking to my shrink, in groups, weaving, doing tai chi. I’ve made a few friends. If they had wine here, it would be perfect.”