Literacy and Longing in L. A. (16 page)

Lost Days and Knights

“You should only read what is
truly good or what is frankly bad.”

~
Gertrude Stein (1874–1946)
~

F
red seems stern and aloof as he walks out of the baggage area lugging his computer bag and a small duffel. His hair is messy, he has a two-day growth of beard, and he’s wearing jeans, a rumpled, untucked linen shirt, and a black leather jacket. When he first catches my eye, he says, “Hey,” with half a wave. But he doesn’t give me the usual warm hug. I can’t really read his expression, it’s remote and closed. I gather things didn’t go well in New York.

We chat about a few innocuous things until we get into the car. “How was the trip? Was the weather okay
in New York?” His answers are clipped, almost snippy. Something’s up.

“Not only were they total assholes but they were all of twenty-two years old. What do they know about what makes a good play? I mean, how can you be in this business and not have read Albee or Strindberg or even Sartre, for god’s sake?” he rants.

This isn’t sounding good.

“Well, they must have liked it. They brought you to New York,” I say, trying to stay upbeat.

“First of all, they didn’t ‘bring’ me, I went. And I don’t know why they said they liked it, because they wanted to change everything.”

“Well, couldn’t you work with them on it?”

“They were impossible. Anyway, they called me the next day and passed. The whole trip was a complete waste.”

“I’m sorry, Fred. At least your family was taken care of…” He nods mechanically and then falls silent.

“Yeah, Bea told me all about it.” He holds my gaze a minute and then looks away.

“And…?” I ask.

“What’s going on here, Dora? What do you think you’re doing?” What is he talking about?

“Well, what I thought I was doing was showing Harper and Bea where the Oz books were written,” I reply, swallowing hard. I am baffled and can feel my stomach tensing up. I know he had a tough time in New York but this is ridiculous.

“That’s not what I mean,” he snaps. “You take them on this lavish trip as if they were your little pet foster
foundlings who come from nothing and you shower them with bullshit, expensive stuff like you’re the fucking good fairy. They’re not your problem, you know?”

“I’m speechless.” I feel as if I’ve been slapped.

“Listen. I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” he says, softening a little, “but I’ve done my bit. They’re not my responsibility. And, frankly, they’re not yours.”

“They’re your family. They need you.”

“Bea can handle it from now on. She knows how I feel. Anyway, I wouldn’t be any good for them. I’d just end up resenting the whole deal. They’re okay now,” he rationalizes, “and I’m not going to disrupt my life anymore.” I am stunned at his selfishness.

“You really feel that they’re okay now? How can you be so cold?”

I am trying hard to control the tangle of wounded feelings and disappointment twisting through me. I look over and catch him giving me an insolent stare. It’s so strange to be totally caught off guard. This has happened to me just a few times in my life and, afterwards, I’m always amazed at the complete lack of understanding and communication. It’s almost like you’re speaking two different languages and neither one of you can make any headway. Sometimes I hear a little voice saying, “Just walk away, Dora,” but you need the other person to understand. Trying to explain yourself just escalates the situation as you get more and more frustrated and angry.

“What’s this all about, anyway? Maybe you just don’t have enough to do. Maybe you’re just bored.”

“Is that what you think? I like Bea and Harper. Anyone would like them. What’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t throw this guilt thing on me. I don’t have to spend my life taking care of my mother and my sister’s kid.”

“You have no heart.” A little dramatic, but that’s how I feel.

“Oh, like you’re Mother Teresa in your fucking Prada dress and your five-hundred-dollar Gucci shoes.”

I pull the car over to a gas station and say, “Get out!”

What was I thinking? Maybe Fred’s right. Just because someone in your family needs help, does that mean you have to drop everything and take over? How much do you have to give? How much does your family deserve to get? I mean, some people end up devoting their lives to someone else out of obligation and guilt. And you only live once. I had an aunt who spent her whole life taking care of a sick husband and then a sick daughter. Well, her husband finally died, her daughter finally got better, and now she’s seventy-five and alone and bitter. Maybe that’s what Fred’s afraid of, looking back on lost opportunities, a half-lived life filled with regrets.

But how can he just abandon them? How can he live with that? And what about the notion of doing something out of love without worrying about the consequences? Just feeling good that you can help them and make them happy.

Okay, maybe I did overdo it with the gifts and the hotel. But that wasn’t the point. He’s had it with them. I understand how these things work. Sometimes you just want to walk away.

Oh damn! I feel it coming. Yes. It’s definitely coming. I turn off my cell phone, turn on my answering machine. Put on my junky sweats. This is going to be an epic binge. I don’t care if I ever emerge.

What to read? I examine my bookshelf. Nothing grabs me. It all looks so depressing and self-important and the print’s too little and the books are too big. I want to be entertained. I want a page-turner. Maybe something to fit my mood…hard-boiled, gritty, something with guns, murder, body parts, and women getting back at selfish, mean, small-time hoods. Okay. I got it. Sam Spade. I go to the mystery section. (Yes, I do have a mystery section. Macdonald, Hammett, and Chandler were great American novelists.) I start out rereading
The Maltese Falcon
. Perfect. Spade has a relationship with a woman but doesn’t think twice about turning her in. People who do bad things deserve what they get. Yes!

I settle myself on the couch and move on to the intellectual—Ross Macdonald. I start to read
The Chill
. Nah, a little too psychoanalytical for my mood. Moving on to, oh yes, my favorite, Raymond Chandler. Where is Philip Marlowe when I need him? A dick with honor. A modern-day knight with a college education. Gray eyes, a hard jaw, listens to classical music. Rescues women from terrible situations.

I curl up, grab my bottle of wine (which I notice is
half gone), and prepare to steep myself in Marlowe’s romantic presence. I read and read and doze and read. When I finish the last one,
The Lady in the Lake,
I am momentarily content. The story is damn good but I’ve had my fill of the genre for now. I’m almost yearning for something gentler, more escapist.

What’s this box on the bottom shelf? Oh. Darlene’s gift. It’s still wrapped in red-and-green-striped paper with goofy Santa Claus faces all over it. Handwritten on the lid: “Dear Dora, Merry Christmas. I know you’re going to love these books! Just try one! You’ll see. Love, Darlene.”

It’s July. Think I can open them now. I rip open the package and pull out the paperbacks. Must be twenty of them. Hmmm. Looks like romances. Fred would be appalled. Well, fuck Fred!
The Paid Companion
by Amanda Quick,
Lady Be Good
by Susan Elizabeth Phillips,
Forbidden
by Elizabeth Lowell,
Paradise
by Judith McNaught.
The Reluctant Suitor
by Kathleen Woodiwiss.
The Heiress
by Jude Deveraux. I read the blurb on the back, something about a majestic knight falling for the beautiful, rich heiress, Axia, who, alas, is betrothed to someone else. Okay. I’ll start with this one. I grab the box and head for the tub.

I throw off my clothes and sink in. Nirvana. I turn on the radio and start the first book. Wow! This shit is good. Why haven’t I ever read this stuff before? A sympathetic heroine. A hero she can love. A crisis they overcome. Torrid love scenes with none of those nasty clinical details of lovemaking. Happy endings (not like
any relationship I’ve ever had). I power through the first one in about an hour. And grab another. Angry young man, passionate artist, virginal heroine, unaware of her intense, sensual nature until miraculously awakened by the man of her dreams. I start the third. Wild woman captures the heart of a fierce warrior. A lingering, unforgettable kiss. A rebirth that brings true love. And then another. Julia is beside herself with rage. She’s fatally attracted to a gorgeous, infuriating man who turns out to be her betrothed. A dark period when things may not work out but then the lovers see the light, climb the mountains of despair, and fling themselves into each other’s arms…all for love. I want more.

I buzz Victor downstairs. Up till now, I’ve been disdainful of tenants who use the guys downstairs to run their dumb errands. But this is important.

“Hey, Victor, could one of the guys run over to Trader Joe’s and pick up a couple bottles of wine and some cocktail nuts?”

“No problem. Having a party?” he says.

“Um, oh yeah. I am.” That’s what I’m having. A fucking party.

I go to the desk to get my credit card, when the phone rings. Damn. My stomach turns over when I hear Fred’s voice on the answering machine.

“Dora, why don’t you give me a call? We can work this out.” He sounds cheerful. That’s weird.

No way.

Okay. It’s been two days and I’ve only scratched the surface. This stuff is like heroin. I can’t get enough. And so distracting. I think I prefer the historical ones with knights and ladies-in-waiting and carriages and kings. It’s all there. Vikings, Saxon warriors, Norsemen, good-hearted trolls, sorcerers, drop-dead gorgeous Robin Hood types, passionate struggles. I’m into it. It’s all fantasy. Fairy tales for the modern woman lusting for people who don’t exist. No one can stop me now.

The phone rings. It’s Palmer on the machine. “Your sister called me. She’s out of town and she’s been calling you for days. She’s worried. I know you’re there, Dora.” He chuckles. “Okay. You want to play that way. I’m coming over.”

I pick up. “Hi!” I say, trying to sound normal and happy.

“Virginia thinks you may be on another one of your benders.”

“Why would she think that…” I don’t sound convincing. I have to sound convincing. It’s Palmer. He knows me. “I’ve just been doing a little spring cleaning.”

“Oh, I know how you love to do that.” He laughs.

“Okay. I’ve been a little down. I’m dealing with it.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Can I take you out and feed you at least?”

“You don’t know what I look like.”

“Oh, I can imagine. It’s the way you always look when I see you.”

“No, it’s really, really bad this time. My hair’s dirty
and I’m seriously sleep deprived, I just couldn’t possibly—”

“I’m downstairs,” he cuts me off.

“Okay.” I look around. My place is a shambles. “I’ll be right down.”

I throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, pull back my hair into a ponytail, and meet Palmer in the lobby. He’s dashing in a dark suit and I feel like the over-the-hill shriveled sister of the lovely and enchanting Lady Victoria who’s been hidden away in a tower for twenty years.

He clutches my shoulders in a bear hug. “You’re trapped,” he laughs.

“I’m starved,” I reply.

“Okay, let’s call your sister, tell her you’re still breathing, and then let’s eat.”

I order two appetizers and a steak, but Palmer doesn’t make any stupid jokes and he doesn’t press me for any information. I can tell he’s trying to keep things light. We talk about my job search. He offers to make some phone calls for me. Then things take a serious turn.

“Dora, I’d like to be your friend. No demands. I’ve missed talking to you.”

Oh. “Really? I mean, thank you. That’s nice of you to say.” What does he mean by this? Does he mean he misses talking to me or does he mean he misses me? I’m not going to make a big deal about this. This is just two people who are talking about how they miss talking to each other. That’s all this is. “I miss talking to you too.”

He smiles. “So, what’s up with you, Dora?”

“Well, if you really want to know, I’ve just broken up with someone and it’s complicated.”

“It’s always complicated.” I noticed he doesn’t offer up any info in the Kimberly department.

“But this is really complicated.” I decide to tell him about Bea and Harper. A couple of times I can tell he is surprised and unprepared to hear what he is hearing. I think he was expecting the “my boyfriend doesn’t treat me well, he’s seeing someone else, he’s noncommittal” kind of story.

“Fred has made a decision about himself, but you can do whatever you want, Dora. If you want to keep on seeing them, you can. He’s not going to stop you. It sounds to me that he just didn’t want the relationship to turn into a foursome.”

“It’s more than that. It really didn’t have much to do with me. He wants them out of his life.”

“That’s too bad. For him. What are they like?”

I think for a moment. It’s hard to explain. A therapist would probably say that Bea is the mother I never had, and Harper? I don’t know.

“You’d like them, Palmer.”

“I’m sure I would.”

Dog Duty

“Outside of a dog, a book is Man’s best friend.
And inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”

~
Groucho Marx (1890–1977)
~

W
hen I get home, I see that I have six messages on my cell phone from Darlene and a dozen roses waiting for me at the front desk.

“I guess they’re not from Bea and Harper,” Palmer says wryly.

I shove the card in my pocket without reading it as Victor catches my eye.

“Someone named Darlene has been trying to reach you. She’s in the hospital. Here’s her number.” He hands me a piece of paper with the number of a hospital in the Valley.

I quickly call her on my cell. “Darlene? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, hiiii. I’m sorry to bother you. Am I bothering you?”

“What’s happened, Darlene?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just collapsed. My neighbor found me and drove me here. They say I have some kind of a monster virus that’s going around and I need to stay on an IV for a few days. Where have you been?”

“Never mind. I’ll come right over.”

“What I really need you to do is bring me a few things and take care of Brawley. He’s been trapped in my apartment for two days and no one has fed him or anything. The neighbors are complaining about the barking and this one guy upstairs who hates me says he’s going to call the cops. God knows what the place looks like.” The place didn’t look so great before.

“Oh, Dora. I hate it here. It’s so awful and the nurses are so mean. As soon as they get me off this thing, I’m going home.”

I look at Palmer, who has overheard the whole thing.

“Do you want me to drive you out there?” he asks.

“It’s okay. Really. You’ve done enough. I’ll call that driver I use.”

“Just let me take you out there.”

“But I need to go to the hospital too. It’s going to be a whole thing.”

“I’m a full-service rescue operation…. It’s no big deal. I know how much you like her.”

We get in the car and just as we’re pulling out I say, “Wait a minute.” I run back in and grab the roses. Darlene will love them. Palmer smiles when I get back in the car. “Don’t tell her,” I say.

When we get to her apartment, I retrieve the key from under the doormat (I’ve told her not to do this) and slowly open the door. Brawley knows me, but I’m wary of just barging in on him. I’m sure he’s hungry and crazed and in a really bad dog mood.

I peer in. He is sleeping on the couch, dog dreaming, his head nestled between his paws. When he sees it’s me, he leaps off the couch, tail wagging wildly, and lunges at me with joy. His two enormous front paws slam on my shoulders and we sort of dance around the room that way. Then he races to the door and sits at attention. He really needs to go out. Palmer and I find his leash and when the dog spots it in my hand he twirls around three times in excitement and then grabs it in his mouth. Palmer laughs and starts roughhousing with him, rushing around his blocky body and swinging the leash over his head. Brawley suddenly bolts around the apartment in a frenzied gallop, upending chairs and lamps in the process. We finally get the leash on him and lunge out the door and down the stairs.

He drags us down the beach boardwalk. It’s a balmy summer’s night and I breathe in the humid saltwater air.

“What luck,” he says as he casually caresses my neck. “This is turning into a great date—dinner, romantic stroll by the ocean, beautiful woman…”

I’m embarrassed and fall into my usual trap of ruining the moment with my weak attempt at humor. “Well, you know what they say about luck, it wasn’t so good for the rabbit.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“You know, the rabbit’s foot…”

“I get the joke, Dora.”

When we get back, I clean up the mess in the corner of the room (I would only do this for Darlene), scrounge around the kitchen looking for dog food, and fill Brawley’s bowl as he drools in front of me. I gather some things to bring to Darlene, but I know what she misses the most is her Vaseline. (Darlene uses this for everything. I once saw her rub it on her face, hands, and feet and then polish the table with it.) There are giant jars of the stuff stacked up like toilet paper under the sink, so I throw one in the bag.

We try to sneak out while Brawley’s eating, but even though he’s starving, he follows us to the door and sits at attention. Palmer stares down at his upturned muzzle and looks at me.

“My apartment doesn’t allow dogs.”

“Well, we can’t leave him here. I’ll take him, and Darlene can pick him up when she’s better.”

“He pees on people, Palmer.”

“Anything else about him you want to tell me?”

I think about telling him that Brawley, like Darlene, is a survivor. She found him several years ago near a gas station, tied to a lamppost with a heavy chain, no collar, no tags. The cashier in the office told her the animal had been sitting there for at least eight hours, so, in a moment of weakness, Darlene took him home. The dog is a big, shaggy version of a Rottweiler mix with hip dysplasia and cataracts. And Darlene was thrilled to discover he had been trained by someone, somewhere, to sit, speak, roll over, and play dead.

His only failing is that he is definitely the alpha when
other dogs are around, which has led to several unfortunate attacks on other dogs, including one where someone’s Lab lost half an ear. (Thus the name, Brawley.) The Lab’s owner sent Darlene a vet bill for five hundred dollars and ever since then she has walked him late at night or at dawn. When she’s not working, the dog goes everywhere with her. She jokes that when he dies, she’ll put on his tombstone, “Here lies Brawley, a bad but beloved dog.”

“No. That’s about it. It’s really nice of you.”

The three of us head for the hospital. The dog is still panting from the walk and his foul, stagnant doggy breath fogs up the windows of the car. Palmer switches on the defrost as Brawley leaps from the backseat into the space between our two front seats and lays his head on Palmer’s lap. Dog hair flies everywhere and he leaves a slobber trail across Palmer’s khakis. Palmer strokes his head affectionately and says, “You’re a real charmer, Brawley.”

We pull into the hospital visitor parking. The place is deserted. What a dump. The waiting room smells of institutional-strength disinfectant and has the humming lights and glaring neon emptiness of a late-night lounge. Palmer looks around and concludes he’d rather wait in the car with Brawley.

“I might be a while, though.”

“That’s okay. I’ll try to find a Starbucks or something.”

I walk down a few stark, empty hallways and find Darlene in a semi-private room with two other beds that have the curtains drawn around them. She is sitting up sound asleep with her glasses slipping off her nose. Her book has dropped onto her lap.

Someone moans from the next bed. Darlene opens her eyes and sees the roses.

“Oh, Dora,” she says in a hoarse, groggy voice. “You didn’t have to. Really. They’re so expensive.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s nothing,” I say. Literally.

There is desolation to this scene. Darlene keeps apologizing profusely for imposing but it’s understood that she has no one else to call. Her mother is in a wheelchair and lives in Fresno and her father is ninety-six with Alzheimer’s. Her sister lives someplace up north, but I don’t think they’re close.

The harsh reality of a single life is painfully evident here. There’s a line from a Jim Harrison book where Dalva, the main character, says, “I’ve always found the term ‘lonely old woman’ appealing.” I used to love that line. It sounded so peaceful and relaxing. But the truth is, as I stare at her fragile figure in the bed, it’s no damn fun being sick and alone.

The moaning gets louder. Darlene whispers and points to the next bed, “I think she’s crazy, she keeps calling 911 and telling them to take her to the hospital.”

“How are you?”

“I was feeling really lousy before; now I’m okay but they won’t release me until I’m on this thing forty-eight hours.” She shakes the IV stand.

“Well, we’ve got Brawley. Palmer says he’ll take him until you feel better.”

“Palmer?” She looks at me, puzzled.

“It’s a long story. He’s waiting outside….”

“Wow.”

“I’ll tell you later, although there is nothing to tell, I mean, nothing about Palmer.”

“If you say so…” She winks.

“I don’t want to get into it.”

I put some of her things away and then tell her I’ll be back tomorrow.

Outside, Palmer, holding a Starbucks cup, is walking the dog in the shrubs by the parking lot. As I approach, Brawley emits a low growl, like an electric toothbrush.

“That’s gratitude for you.” I smile.

“I was getting asphyxiated by his breath, so I thought we’d take another little stroll.”

Brawley’s intelligent brow furrows as he sits down on Palmer’s foot.

“I think he’s in love, Palmer.”

“Well, he’s a good judge of character.”

When we get back to my place, Palmer parks by the valet and walks me inside. Brawley sticks his head out the window and starts to howl as Palmer leaves the car.

“Always a pleasure, Dora.”

I’m about to say something when he leans in and kisses me on the mouth. I’m startled and a bit flustered. Now what…

He casually says, “See ya.” And leaves.