“Good deal,” Barry said. Having turned in the three pieces on The Child Buyer, to the Daily Bruin, he had started what he called a novella that might stretch into a novel, filching time from sleep and his studies to write.
As the De Soto inched along in the rush-hour traffic, Alicia sat back wearily. All day she had been mentally etching details to describe to Barry—the other extras, the kind makeup woman, the director—however, now she found herself staring at the oncoming headlights in silence and thinking of Hap.
9
Alicia worked on Paris Lovers six more days. Driving home each evening, she deluged Hap with questions about the movie business. She seldom asked questions, having learned in numerous schools that to admit lapses in her education was tantamount to an admission of inferiority, but the adept way Hap handled his small MG, the darkness, their proximity, made it easy to confess ignorance. He told her about the unions, the pay scale, the equipment, what it was like to go on location, the front office. He would park at the shabby apartment court, walking her past the orange-scented pittosporum bushes, coming in to chat with his cousin.
When the Paris Lovers shooting schedule finished with extras, Alicia felt a letdown, almost a depression. She called Central Casting every morning, each day getting a negative response. But she had received her paycheck: even after the deductions there was enough left for the Barry Cordiners to put in a telephone and go to the movies to see Sons and Lovers and dine on spaghetti Bolognese, the cheapest item on the menu at swanky Perino’s.
At the beginning of December she worked on Magnum’s big-budget espionage story, Killing. The spy, played by John Gielgud, wandered in and out of night-clubs where extras danced. Alicia had never danced in her life, but she had watched Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse, she had seen Chubby Checker do his twist. She threw herself around to the beat, or easily followed her partner.
Her assurance was an act. She was still frightened down to the pointed toes of her high-heeled shoes, but she had assigned herself the role of Movie Person, slipping into the part as she entered the Magnum lot. Movie Person was somewhat along the lines of, say, Marilyn Monroe, walking with a bit of a strut, smiling with her head tilted back, wetting her lips to keep them shiny, a desirable, slightly brash young actress in whose vocabulary the words doubt and insecurity had never existed.
Though Hap wasn’t on Killing he drove her home. The third night, he parked and sat gripping the steering wheel.
“I have to work late for a while,” he said. His voice was flattened, and she knew he was lying.
She felt a peculiar tightness, and couldn’t catch her breath.
“I’m sorry,” he added.
“Hey, it’s okay,” the actress in her responded brightly. “And Hap, thanks for the terrific taxi service.”
• • •
Every year the Cordiner family celebrated Christmas en masse at the Desmond Cordiners’ massive, Tudor-style house above Sunset Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Leo’s Florist swagged holly on every wall and decorated the twenty-foot spruce in the hall with twinkling lights and Rosalynd Cordiner’s collection of antique ornaments. Glitteringly wrapped gifts extended for yards around the tree. Caterers prepared three obscenely large turkeys with every conceivable trimming for the mob of relatives, in-laws, in-laws of in-laws.
As December advanced, Barry felt increasingly cut off from his family. With pangs of homesickness he thought of his parents, Beth, his uncles and aunts, Our Own Gang and the younger cousins all gathered together, the men talking shop, the women displaying their new jewelry, the children energetically bouncing around with new toys. Until now he had been able to consider his exile if not with pleasure, at least with equanimity based on pride: like the Duke of Windsor, he had given up everything for the woman he loved. Holiday time, though, memory attacks. He sunk himself into his novella and—though he didn’t intend to—behaved with sullen remoteness toward Alicia.
On December twentieth he received a letter typed on Magnum stationery. Dear Barry, Aunt Rosalynd and I are expecting you for Christmas. It was signed, Uncle Desmond.
Barry made a ceremony of tearing the thick paper into the wastebasket.
“Why not go?” Alicia asked.
“It doesn’t bother you, being excluded?”
“Maybe he meant me, too,” she said, her voice trailing away as she remembered: You are not permitted to use the name Cordiner. “Anyway, why can’t you show up for an hour or so? It’s Christmas.”
“Jesus, what a masochist! Do you enjoy insults and slaps in the face? Can’t you understand? I’m doing this for you!”
She had her period, and this brought her emotions considerably closer to the surface. Her eyes grew wet and she wanted to bawl. Instead, she decorated the apartment. Barry had given her driving lessons in the De Soto, and she went to Van Vliet’s for a poinsettia plant. She taped the few cards she had received from new friends at the studio around the arch to the kitchenette. She had no way of knowing how pitifully her attempts compared with the decor at the Desmond Cordiner home.
• • •
On Christmas morning Barry and Alicia exchanged presents. She had bought him a navy and white checked sport jacket, a good one that she would be paying off until July. He gave her an envelope with a ten-dollar bill. Since the oven didn’t work, she couldn’t even roast a turkey drumstick. She fixed arroz con pollo, angry at the traces of self-pity she discerned within herself. After all, had Alice Hollister celebrated sumptuous Christmases?
They finished the chicken around one. Barry pushed his plate away. “Hon, I need to get out for a bit, okay?”
“Now? Before dessert?”
“I hate myself for being such a killjoy. But Christmas is bad for me. The Jewish side always squares off against the goy. It’s a bloody fight.” His laughter was forced. “I’ll be back before it gets dark.” Grabbing his old windbreaker—not his new jacket—he darted out.
He’s going to the party, Alicia decided. She turned on the small-screen television that came with the apartment. Unable to concentrate on the laughter that brayed from every station, she turned off the set, changing to old clothes. She did the dishes, then embarked on a cleaning spree.
She was using a toothbrush with scouring powder in the shower when she heard the screen door open. Positive her husband had returned earlier than intended, she called out joyously, “Hi, I’m in here!”
“Where?” Hap’s voice called back.
She jumped to her feet, glimpsing her reflection in the door mirror. She’d yanked her hair back with a rubber band and her hand-me-down pink blouse had an old stain down the front.
Hap stood in the middle of the room, his arms clasped around two large, beribboned boxes. The intensity of his stare made her yet more embarrassed by her disheveled appearance. “Ho, ho, ho, and a merry Christmas to you.” She managed a lively, actressy smile.
“I brought by your presents,” he said. “Where’s Barry?”
“Isn’t he at your folks’?”
“No.” He cocked his head at her. “Alicia, you look—”
“A slob,” she supplied.
“No. Without makeup you’re even more beautiful, and the hairdo shows it off.” Reddening, he extended a metallic green and crimson box with a gold Saks label. “For you.”
She sat on the couch, her fingers stiff as she fumbled to untie the green satin ribbon. As she lifted the lid, for the first time she inhaled the luxurious perfume of expensive new clothing. She drew out a royal blue cardigan, touching the soft wool with reverent fingertips—the ultra rich wore sweaters like this. Without thinking, she folded the garment back in its creases.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Aren’t girls wearing cashmeres anymore? Alicia, I thought it matched your eyes, but it’s fine with me if you return it for something you like better.”
He had not only spent a fortune, he had gone to considerable effort. “I’m crazy about it.” She undid the gold buttons, slipping her bare arms into feather-soft sleeves.
“Fits you perfectly,” he said.
“We didn’t get anything for you.”
“Big deal. How was your Christmas?”
“Great. Really nice.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t at our place. Dad was in a foul mood. Uncle Tim arrived at the house already stoked to the gills and then proceeded to have a half dozen more. Aunt Clara barely spoke. Uncle Frank lost a small fortune at the poker table and Aunt Lily got uptight. One of the little kids threw up.”
“Actually it wasn’t much fun here, either,” Alicia admitted. “I’m pretty sure Barry wanted to go to your place, but your father sent a letter that sounded like he wasn’t inviting me?” Her voice rose in a query.
Hap busied himself folding tissue paper back into the box.
“What do you think?” she pressed.
“About Dad inviting you?” He sighed, then said, “Alicia, Dad’s extremely complex, and I never can get a bead on him. But he is big on family, and if Uncle Tim and Aunt Clara didn’t want you—”
“I understand,” she said bleakly.
Hap sat on the couch next to her. She could smell his after-shave and a faint hint of clean soap. “Today must’ve been tougher on you than on any of us,” he said. “You’re absolutely cut off from your family and everything you know. The piñatas, the enormous stars—a friend of mine once described Christmas in El Paso.”
Alicia lowered her eyes. “I’ve never been there,” she whispered.
“Where?”
“Texas.”
His head tilted and his gray eyes questioned her.
“I’ve never been out of California,” she mumbled. “I lied about my name, my family, everything.”
“But why?”
“You don’t know, you just don’t know.” As she spoke, it became imperative that he did know. If he despised her thereafter, so be it.
Hugging the sweater around her, she went to the window and in a low voice began unraveling the story of Alice Hollister. She told of her unknown fathering, of the tramp in the celery field. May Sue’s sudden red death gush on the old plank table. She described Juanita’s nurturing and her dark, beautiful, but weak eyes. She told of the endless hot work in the fields where no toilets were provided so that little girls wet their pants and women workers felt as if their bladders would surely burst. She told about her sporadic schooling and often sleeping with only cardboard protecting her from the bare earth. She mentioned the dingy movie houses that had filled her with dreams. She described Henry’s aggressive forays and why she had come to Los Angeles, and how Juanita had been lost to her. She even told him her true age. Incapable of looking at him as she talked, she faced the overgrown court, watching dusk fall.
When she was finally silent Hap said nothing—he hadn’t spoken during her entire narrative. In another apartment somebody kept playing “Adeste Fideles” over and over. O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant . . . Finally she turned to look at Hap. It was too dark to make out his expression.
“I’m ashamed,” she sighed. “So ashamed.”
“Why?”
“Why? You heard. We lived like animals.”
“It’s everybody else in this country who ought to be ashamed.” He blew his nose. “What does Barry say?”
“I’ve done a terrible thing . . . I . . . He thinks I’m Alicia Lopez from El Paso.”
The confession that she had told him what she feared telling her husband hung between them in the dimness.
O come ye, O come ye to Be-eth-le-hem.
Hap came over to the window. His eyes glittered with moisture and she realized he’d been crying.
“The reason I stopped driving you home,” he said in a low voice, “is I was getting in too deep. Way too deep.”
The recorded carolers exalted during the long minute that Hap and Alicia gazed at each other. Then the blinking Christmas lights strung in the pittosporum came on. Hap shook his head as if arousing himself.
Neither of them spoke as he opened the door and went out.
10
The luminous green hands of their alarm clock showed twelve forty-three when Alicia heard uneven footsteps and the fumbling of the key. As the door opened then closed, the heavy smell of beer reached her, an odor disturbingly reminiscent of Henry Lopez. In the darkness a chair toppled.
She switched on the lamp.
In the sudden light, Barry blinked. “Sorry, hon,” he muttered. “’Pologize for deserting you on Christmas.” He stood with his hands dangling at his sides, his head bent penitently like an overgrown, guilty first grader.
“It’s okay, Barry. Uhh, Hap dropped by with our presents.”
“Just as rotten as Dad.”
“It’s not the crime of the century to have a few.”
“Rotten, rotten. . . .” He fell on the bed, clutching her. “Need you so much, hon.” He fell asleep, still wearing his windbreaker and loafers, his beery breath gusting about her.
She stroked his crinkly, reddish hair. Why should he feel guilty? She was the one who’d been indulging in adulterous reveries. She slipped off his loafers and spent the remainder of the night planning kind ways to explain to Hap that his original impulses to avoid her had been wise.
• • •
As January moved forward Alicia worked steadily in Magnum’s television department. Hap did not call Barry—or her. Once she saw him walking on the studio street, his breeze-tossed fair hair visible above the other heads. A few days later she spotted him driving out the gate with LouLou Rodier, the gorgeous French dancer. Both times she waved. He didn’t wave back although she was positive he’d seen her. With a profound sense of desolation she decided that he had needed no further warnings to stay away from her: Alice Hollister’s life story had repelled him.
Days of Repose went on location in Guatemala without a word of goodbye to the Barry Cordiners from the second assistant cameraman.
• • •
“Okay that I’ve asked Beth, Maxim and PD over for dinner Sunday?” Barry’s freckles were glossed with a light sweat, his eyes were shining. “I’ve promised you’d make your burritos.”
His excitement was a welcome change from the previous week, when he had been sunk in a misery that he refused to share. Alicia hugged him and said, “Sure.”
• • •
Beth arrived first, handing Alicia her hostess gift, a pound box of See’s chocolates. She was followed almost immediately by Maxim and PD, who drove together. Alicia, acutely conscious of the absent cousin, returned to the stove. Barry, who had chilled a bottle of California champagne in the refrigerator, opened it with a loud pop. Pouring the bubbly liquid into their mismatched glasses, he raised his own small tumbler.
“This is a celebration,” he announced. “You’re looking at a man who’s just sold a story to Southwest Review.”
The stove top sizzled as a few drops of Alicia’s wine spilled. The others were all shouting at once. Beth cried, “I’m so proud, Barry!” “Hey-hey-hey Barry-boy!” Maxim laughed. And PD asked, “How much did you get?”
“The pay’s in copies, not cash,” Barry replied rapidly.
“Who said writing’s like prostitution?” Maxim asked. “At first you do it because you love it, then you do it for a few friends—that’s Southwest Review—and in the end you do it for money.”
Laughter.
Alicia stirred the mixture of lamb, refried beans, chilis and tomato. A sentiment that resembled betrayal curled painfully in her throat. Why didn’t he tell me first?
They were at the table when the phone rang. At the loud, seldom-heard jangle, Barry and Alicia exchanged questioning glances over half-eaten burritos.
It was Alicia who went to the phone. “Hello?”
“Is this the Cordiner place?” inquired a vaguely familiar masculine voice.
“Yes.”
“Give me Barry, will you?”
She looked at Barry. “For you,” she said.
He got up. “Dad?” he whispered. He listened silentl
y, blinking, his face going white. “Where is she?” Pause. “We’ll be there right away.”
Hanging up, he stared at Beth. “It’s Mom,” he said. “She’s at Cedars. It’s her heart.”
Beth, her lips trembling, was already opening her purse for her keys.
“No,” PD said, gripping her arm. “Let’s not risk an accident here. I’ll drive.”
“We’re in my car, cousin,” Maxim pointed out.
They were at the doorway. Alicia ran to turn off the stove, reaching for her blue cashmere.
“Hon,” Barry said. “It’ll be best if you stayed home.”
Beth added in a politely placating tone, “They won’t let anyone see her except the immediate family anyway.”
The door closed on the four of them.
Odors of champagne and Mexican food surrounding her, Alicia didn’t move for a full minute. Abruptly she yanked off the soft wool sweater and began clearing the table.
• • •
Maxim and PD dropped the twins off at the bottom of the long flight of steps that fronted Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. It was after visiting hours. Alone in the elevator, Barry gripped Beth’s hand and was still holding it when they emerged.
Footsteps sounded heavily in the empty corridor. Their father came toward them, a tall, thickset man whose burly shoulders were slumped beneath a shabby car coat.
Barry couldn’t speak.
It was Beth who whispered, “How’s Mom?”
He peered at them with bloodshot, frightened eyes; the once handsome, fleshy face seemed collapsed. “Not too good, but she’s resting.”
Beth, who had been fearing to find her mother dead, murmured. “Thank you, God. Sh’ma Ysroel. . . .” Unlike Barry, Beth knew the prayers and could read and speak Hebrew—not only to please her mother but also because her mixed heritage disturbed her and she needed the structure of the sternly traditional religion.
Tim reached out hesitantly to Barry and they hugged with masculine awkwardness.
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