She covered her eyes with one hand, spoke even more quietly. He doesn’t chase me to my dark corners, doesn’t sit there with me, doesn’t pull me out. She let her hand drop and looked at me, her eyes ineffably sad.
He really just doesn’t want to know, she finished, so low it was nearly inaudible.
I pulled her into my lap again, wrapped my arms around her; she slumped against me, for once not fighting it. On the radio just then, a line that made her tighten her grip on me, till I felt her rib cage trembling.
Who do you love/when you come undone…
—6 june (D-Day); hollywood
Lucci only calls to cancel our increasingly rare meetings (but never before ascertaining if “Miles, you are working and working, please tell me yes”—as if this is his sole duty, to be my chaperone, reducing himself to a kind of nagging muse).
As it turns out, I am working, regardless of the continuing absence of anything I’d call inspiration; I console myself with my tenuous sense that the script has taken on enough life of its own that I just grind the pages out. Most of the plot points (“Christ listen to you,” Maggie would spit) we’ve worked out already. Still, who knew I’d ever miss the fear I felt at first—even the terror. Can’t deny it’s disappointing, this slogging through scenes alone; I finally understand how seductive the whole writing-w/-partner deal is that so many people out here set up; even when nothing gets done, there’s a sense of having met, of having made, obscurely, the effort. False, of course. Still, how much easier it is when there’s someone else to let you off the hook.
It’s not something you can actually ever afford to do, I think, when you work alone. Because once started … where would it end? I can imagine giving myself a couple weeks, then another, which would somehow turn into a month, then six—and suddenly, what, a decade’s gone, the prime of your life, passed, your computer become obsolete, your muse flown.
Reading Ron Sukenick, Thom Jones, one of Lucy’s Cocteau books—one he wrote in a sanatorium, while recovering from an addiction to opium (called just that: Opium: The Illustrated Diary of His Cure).
Reads like—well, I guess in fact it is—a literary journal, an aphorist’s delight, but also blackly comic, gossipy. His treatment, the drawings (a few truly harrowing—at one point, he hadn’t slept for eleven days and eleven nights) are darkly fascinating, its sequence of events tied only by an intuitive, emotional logic. I am envious, especially of the freedom he takes (I mean, drawing pictures throughout a serious piece of literature!).
Thinking, too, of Anaïs Nin’s journals, which I found insufferable, but Maggie loved—they shaped me, she said, when I was still malleable. She claimed Nin taught her how not to feel guilt about her own desires, no matter how malignant, how perverse, convention might have found them.
Remember her saying once that Anaïs Nin had showed her “how you could turn your own life into a thing of beauty, simply through the way you choose to perceive it.”
(Remember my answer, too: Where I come from, they call it rewriting history.)
The strange schizophrenia of writing: work that demands an obsessive privacy, only to later—and only if successful—be distributed as widely as possible.
—10 june, hollywood
Talked to Maggie last week; felt like years since we’d spoken. She called at midnight my time (three A.M. hers—a gap neither of us mentioned).
Thought maybe you were never going to speak to me again, I said (trying for glib, sounding only sour).
I’m sorry.
Hey. “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”
Did you miss me?
While you were in London?
(Only the briefest pause before she copped to it—obviously, that one of us now takes transatlantic flights w/out feeling the need to inform the other before or after is something else we’re not going to discuss; and the list goes on…)
I wanted to leave an obscene message on your machine, she said then (hear the slight slur, realize she’s drunk).
Really, I answered (how easily we fall into our roles, our own unique brand of callous, sexual bantering). That’s so funny, I was going to do the same …!
God knows you haven’t lacked for opportunity, she said, the girl’s nothing if not quick on her feet—but so softly, I knew it was a veiled admission on her part … how far apart we’ve grown (or shrunk)…
A pause then before she rallied, asked, What was it.
What was what?
The message.
Oh, that. Fuck you, I think—yeah, that was it. I speak lightly, but I want her to hear that, too—my own veiled admission.
Don’t make any promises you’re not going to keep, she came back, making me laugh against my will (that goddamn word again!).
Oh, you’re kept, I said. Don’t forget who’s making the big bucks.
Miles! Christ, are you still smoking?
I had made the enormous mistake of exhaling into the phone, having forgotten how acute her hearing is (even while drunk; fucking vampire).
I didn’t answer, which of course was answer enough, and immediately prompted a rant. She went on & on about my health, how I’m compromising the future—as if we had one these days!
She was as upset as if she’d found me cheating on her—her suspicion of my lingering affair with nicotine has always had a jealous sexual overtone—so bizarre to get this reaction from her now … the right reaction, for the wrong reason.
She knows, I think. She must.
—13 june, hollywood
Know now why Lucci’s been so absent. Ran into him at Campanile on La Brea last night, after Lucy’d called to say she couldn’t come, Walter had a cold, a slight fever, she wasn’t going to leave him.
Too restless to work, went out for a drink, thought I’d order some of their excellent food, eat at the bar. Walked in, and there was Lucci, bent over a young woman, tucking her hair behind her ears, murmuring something that made her laugh, nuzzling her neck…
He started when he saw me, recovered quickly.
Ah! he said. It is Hollywood’s finest scrittore!
I plastered a smile on my face (it’s always trouble when he flatters me), nearly lost it when the woman turned to face me—
Hi, Mr. King, she said.
… Bonnie?
Her smile as uneasy as my own.
This lovely signorina was kind enough to accompany a lonely old man for an aperitif, Lucci went on. Please, Miles, join us!
I made a big show of looking around the restaurant, muttering something about not seeing the guy I was supposed to meet, then moved off & pretended to make a quick call on my cell phone before I managed to make my excuses and leave.
Driving down to Santa Monica Blvd (far too disturbed to forgo that drink now), I’m dismayed again at the queasiness I feel, my inner distaste—reflecting the years, years and years, not only of my own marriage, but of much of my life, during which I judged adultery as among the lowest transgressions a man could commit.
I’m walking in those moccasins now, and I’m still the fucking judge? (Who’s sorry now.)
—21 june, hollywood
Four days now since I’ve seen Lucy, feels like a month. She calls two, three times a day, but it’s no substitute for flesh. Walter’s nearly recovered, she said, but still feels “punky.” Can’t even remember the last time she let me see the kid (am always aware of the semi-unconfessed desire to inherit Walter along w/ Lucy); have always wanted more Walter, his conversations, his moods, his sunniness and syntax, his sudden wishes, his dislikes, his favorite things (sitting up front, pushing the button on the elevator first, anything that implies any kind of newly acquired independence—tying his shoes, chanting the alphabet, or losing the training wheels on his bike) … I even miss his tantrums!
Look, I’d said after we got back. Come and live with me, both of you. Live with me.
No, was her instant response. I couldn’t bring Will’s son to live under my lover’s roof.
(Me thinking
why the hell not—this is California, isn’t it?)
Try to fill my time w/ work in the meanwhile, but the truth is, I can only think (as in, write) well for two or three hours at a time—which I try to force myself to do twice a day (on a good one, anyway); if Lucci were here, I know I’d last longer, but alone, my discipline wavers.
Find myself sitting waiting around for Lucy’s next call like some lovestruck chick. Sometimes I know someone else is in the room with her, listening—I hear the censorship in her tone. Other times, it’s clear from her subject matter (him), that she’s alone.
Sometimes I think I’m only coming into myself now—I mean my strength, she said recently, I want to fly away—and yet there’s no doubt that Will—how he loves me—how he’s loved me—is a big part of what’s given me that confidence in the first place…
Biting down the urge to be snide (i.e., “it’d make a great Lifetime miniseries”), I stay quiet, aware that only an irrational jealousy (is there any other kind?) lies behind it.
After so many months (blissful, I think ruefully now) of refusing to so much as acknowledge our spouses (our spice? If only!), Pandora’s box is open; we talk about them all the time.
Lucy especially always pushing for more; while I struggle to remain vague, she peppers me w/ questions—what does she wear, what does she eat, how good was the sex (and how much did we do it, and where, and what was her favorite position, and, and, and …!) Refuse, of course, to answer any of them—especially where the last is concerned (I haven’t gotten this far without learning something).
I made the enormous mistake once of mentioning what I like to call Maggie’s schizophrenia—how she’d alternate (screw that, alternates) between fury and tenderness. That’s all it took for Lucy to pounce:
Of course she’s furious … because you haven’t noticed, she shot back (naturally omitting what, exactly, it is I’m supposed to have “noticed”).
No matter how much we may say it-has-nothing-to-do-with-you, blah blah blah, she went on, every affair is a form of revenge. It’s a kind of LOOK AT ME—see?? I am still wanted!
(Reminds me of that Carly Simon song Maggie used to sing along with—“I’ve got lovin’ eyes of my own, m-y-y-y own…”)
This goes through my head now when she talks about him, but I’m smart enough to just sit on it; to let her wind herself out…
I’m of two minds, she said finally.
We hung up and I couldn’t relax. She still hasn’t said when she’ll see me again. Know it’s stupid, and wrong, and worst of all, a testosterone-fueled fear, but I can’t help wondering if she’s attempting some kind of rapprochement w/ him—who knows, maybe having a sick kid works as a weird kind of aphrodisiac, makes you come together as a pair … makes you remember that you are, in fact, mates…
—25 june, LA
Okay, so my imagination got the better of me (shit, I’ve gotten the better of it these last ten years—had to happen, right?). I started to picture Lucy shopping at the Farmers Market, choosing only the best, most organic, expensive produce, and then at home, mixing a dressing from scratch, opening an old bottle of wine, something they’d been saving, before taking care w/ her toilette, perfuming her elbows, her inner thighs, changing into his favorite blouse…
I imagined her serving him, smoothing the napkin over his lap, smiling at his surprise. I could see her warmth breaking him down (that famous reserve) and I could almost feel how he’d reach out to encircle her wrist, tug her close, kiss her throat, her ears, her lush mouth—
I got up and rummaged around the chaos of my room until I found what I’d been looking for: a crumpled envelope that had fallen out of Lucy’s pocket, an envelope bearing her (their) name and, most important, her (their) address.
Santa Monica. Of course, I knew this by now, too, but I repeated the name of the street like a talisman, told myself its number as if it were the winning combination.
Then I got my Thomas Guide, and mapped my route.
It’s almost July in LA, and driving toward the coast, I felt the full penetration of midsummer, an inexorable heat that faded paint; driving, I was sunscreened, sunbaked; after fifteen minutes in the convertible, I was drenched in, soaked by, sunlight.
Played the radio, sang mindlessly w/ whatever tune I recognized (“… some Puerto Rican girls who’re just dyin to meetchou!”).
Never once considered my actions; didn’t, in fact, think at all. I was wholly preoccupied w/ my route, absorbed by the light and the music, lulled by the 90 mph attainable on the freeway.
It wasn’t until I was actually turning onto her (their) block that my heart began to pound. The neighborhood itself was obviously in a state of transition, with some truly gracious homes alternating with others that were considerably shabbier. Still, it was leafy and litter-free, with children playing outside, boys cruising the sidewalk on skateboards.
I checked my watch. Six-fifty-five. Realized only then that my subconscious had timed this perfectly (Will got home around seven, Lucy had relayed more than once; he was rarely early, almost never late. Mr. Strong-but-Silent, Rock-Solid. Husband material, clearly).
Found the perfect spot to park (lurk) in; just behind the next-door neighbor’s used (I assumed) Beamer, and underneath a particularly large elm (again, another assumption; in fact, all I knew was that it was large enough to have buckled the sidewalk w/ its roots and that its leaves were big enough to provide me w/ at least the illusion of shelter).
I scoured Lucy’s house—a modest but tasteful Spanish-style adobe two-story—covered and surrounded by the fruits of her labor: the bougainvillea she had trained to climb up the walls and spill back down, an untamed profusion of fuchsia, apricot, and lavender, plus a row of sunflowers as tall as Walter himself, lined up like soldiers, fat heads nodding, on either side of the front door. But aside from a tricycle that was turned on its side near the front door, that wealth of flowers was the only real sign of her (of them).
The windows were thrown open, but inside, the shutters were latched. I stared as if staring would produce her, but there was nothing: no visible motion, no voices, no music. I sat in the car for a while before it occurred to me how suspicious it might look: a lone male, sitting in a residential area, doing nothing. I slunk further down in my seat; for the first time in my life, I wished I had a ball cap.
Pulled out my cell phone and started to dial before I realized: I had somehow (hmm!) forgotten to charge it; I had no power whatsoever (hmmm)…
Patted my pockets and felt my cigarettes—ah, the perfect time killer. Got out, trying to infuse every gesture with nonchalance, and stood on the other side so as to keep myself somewhat hidden. I bent my head to light up, and when I looked up again, there she was: standing just inside the doorway, holding one hand over her brow, and staring, I could swear it, straight at me.
I froze. For one long moment, we both stood there—and then, at the exact second I started moving toward her, I heard someone behind me tap their horn, and turned just in time to see a faded yellow Chevy pickup swing into their driveway.
I stepped back, threw my cigarette down, got in the car … and then just sat there, watching as he got out, a tall man (taller, goddamn it, than me) with the broad shoulders of an ex-football player and a head of curly hair (hoped for balding, but no such luck).
I started the car, eyefucking their every move, sure that she’d come out to watch for him (was he late? Was she worried?). Sure that she would fling her arms (and her legs, for that matter) around him, hold his face in her hands while she kissed him—but aside from a brief peck, there was no physical contact.
I was halfway down the block by the time their door swung shut behind them.
She didn’t see me, I kept telling myself. She. Did. Not! See. Me.
But I couldn’t wait to get home before I lit up again, and I couldn’t help noticing how my hands shook. I was shaken, and not just by how close I’d come to giving myself (to giving us!) away. I was jolted by the sense of their domesticity, the
fact of them as a unit, of Will as a solid entity, and Walter as the flesh-and-blood product of their union: they’re a family, I thought, and it struck me like a blow. Realized it as if for the first time.
God, I thought, how blind can a man be?
Got home and made myself a double Scotch; knew there was no way I was gonna settle down to work now.
Two hours later, Lucy showed up. Opened the door, expecting a storm, but all she said was Jesus Christ, Miles, and then she jumped me.
Women.
It wasn’t until afterward, both of us still half-dressed, sprawled against the living room couch, that she propped herself up on one elbow and fixed me with a look.
Did you think I didn’t see you, lurking there?
I don’t know, I muttered, staring fixedly away (every man’s reaction to being ambushed).
Tell me that’s the first time, she said finally. Even though I could hear her smiling, I slung one arm over my eyes, spoke from the sudden gloom.
Now you think I’m a creep. That I skulk.
No, she said. If our situations were reversed, I would. I’d’ve waited till I could see her—and, of course, you. Well shit, I already did, didn’t I?
I let her off the hook wordlessly, shook my head, then said, You did not see me—
Oh, but I most certainly did.
I tried to not so much change as outright derail the subject by pulling her on top of me, hoping to impress her w/ my readiness to go again. Give us a kiss, won’t you then, luv …?
But it was no use.
Miles, she said, wedging an elbow between us, I caught you.
You mean I’ve been exposed. I grimaced, my face felt naked. The spy in me, I said. I punched my own heart. Please don’t think…
Hey, she said. All I think is that you’re better as a lover.
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