Prizes (17 page)

She broached the subject as delicately as possible.

“I know the Berkeley fashion is for women to let it all hang out, so to speak. But don’t you think you could do with a training bra?”

“Sure, Mom. Thanks for asking.”

After helping Isabel to locate the appropriate item, Muriel left her trying on some bright new spring blouses and darted across the street to buy an inexpensive
cassette player. When she returned, she was delighted at the change in her daughter’s mood. The two of them began to giggle, and Isabel was in absolutely no hurry to leave the store.

Unfortunately, when they returned home, Ray’s spirit was still hovering in every corner. Yet the conversations earlier in the day had equipped Muriel with an inner radar that kept her from striking shoals of dangerous topics.

After dinner, they went back to the hospital. Raymond had now been moved out of Intensive Care. Mother and daughter spent an hour making small talk, competing for his attention with a basketball game on television. When they had come to the mutual conclusion that Raymond would be just as happy on his own watching the college hoopsters slam dunk, Isabel kissed him good night and they returned to the apartment.

It was a rare moment of equilibrium for Isabel. She seemed to be resting precisely at the midpoint of the magnetic force between her father and mother. Muriel knew this was a propitious time to produce the cassette player, which Isabel greeted with excitement.

“Oh, Mom, you should visit more often.”

Her mother smiled. “Try and keep me away. Now, shall we try the Mendelssohn?”

“Why not?” her daughter responded.

Muriel immediately went to her luggage, withdrew her own violin and tuning fork, and the two of them savored the unique experience of playing a violin solo as a duet.

The next day, Isabel took her mother to classes with her.

Muriel enjoyed Professor Rosenmeyer’s lecture on Greek tragedy, but was lost in “Introduction to Physical Chemistry.”

Moreover, she could not fail to notice that Isabel’s presence was unique not only for her age. She was one of only two girls taking the course.

As they were leaving the lecture hall, one of Isabel’s classmates called out, “Hey, da Costa, your new bodyguard’s a lot cuter than your old one.”

After an alfresco lunch followed by another cheerful shopping expedition, they returned to the apartment to find Raymond leafing through a copy of
Science.

“My, I was beginning to wonder if something had happened to you,” he remarked with a perceptible edge of disapproval.

There was an uneasy silence. Muriel knew full well that the halcyon days were over.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Ray,” she remarked with as much conviction as she could muster.

“Yeah,” he replied, “I checked myself out. Actually, I’m fit as a fiddle.”

“Was that intended to be a pun?” Muriel asked wearily.

Raymond glanced at the sheet music propped up against a pile of books on the dining table.

“No,” he answered somberly. “It was more like a slip of the tongue.”

Muriel suddenly had an awkward realization. “I guess I’d better call and see about flights this evening,” she volunteered.

“Can’t you stay, Mom?” Isabel asked with genuine disappointment. “We could all have dinner.” A further thought tumbled out. “Like the good old days.”

“By all means,” Raymond added, “Isabel would really enjoy that.”

“But then I’d have to stay over,” Muriel explained as delicately as possible. “And you don’t seem to have a guest room.”

“There’s always the couch,” Raymond suggested.

Was he aware, she wondered, of how cruel he sounded?

“No, I’m afraid I’ve never been a very good camper,” she said, declining with a smile. “It’ll only
take me a few seconds to pack. I know I can get a flight to San Diego without any problem.”

By the time she was in the taxi, speeding along Route 101 to the airport, Muriel was shaking with rage.

Had Ray been totally insensitive to the horrendous example of a married couple they had presented to their daughter?

With this precedent, Isabel could never hope to form a normal relationship in her later life.

But then, maybe that was precisely what Ray wanted.

16
 

“Are you still a virgin, kid?”

Sidney Raven’s question caught his son off guard. Sandy did not know how to reply. Although he wanted to stand high in his father’s esteem, he was desperate to surrender his celibacy.

He hesitated. “Gee, Dad, that’s a tough one.”

“No, sonny boy, it’s easy. And you’ve just answered it. And that’s why I’ve booked a table for you and Gloria at Scandia.”

“Who’s Gloria?” Sandy asked, confused.

“Your date,” Sidney responded with a mischievous wink. “She’s a nice kid—anxious to break into movies, and who happens also to be friendly—and generous with her body.”

“Oh,” Sandy said, suddenly growing nervous. “And who am I supposed to be?”

“Just who you are,” his father stated, with a touch of pride. “Sidney Raven’s son. I think you’ll like her. She’s got a college degree in something or other. When the bill comes at the restaurant, all you have to do is add a fifteen percent tip and sign my name. I’ve got an account there.”

“What about Gloria?”

“What about her?”

“How do I—settle with her?”

“Are you kidding?” Sidney reacted with mock indignation. “She’s not a hooker or anything. She’s a clean-cut kid like yourself.”

Sandy was at a complete loss. “But, Dad,” he confessed, “I haven’t got the vaguest idea what to do.”

“Don’t worry, son, leave it all to her.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Sandy was stricken with high anxiety. Suppose—like the fastidious Margie—Gloria found him unappealing? The wound from that terrible rejection was still fresh and painful.

And even if the girl were commercially bound to grin and bear him, he wondered nervously if he would have the courage to initiate the action—or whatever it was called out here in L.A.

To optimize his appearance, he spent four hours in the sun, hoping a tan would make his face look a little less like the surface of the moon. After cutting himself three times shaving, he was so nervous that he had to take another shower. He spent eternities going through his father’s wardrobe, trying to decide which tie he should wear.

Sidney was still sitting by the pool sipping a martini as the late afternoon sun filtered through the huge fir trees casting long ithyphallic—or so it seemed to Sandy—shadows on the lawn.

“Have a good time, sonny boy,” the elder Raven called. “Be sure to try the
gravlaks,
it’s great.”

Sandy nodded, went out into the crescent courtyard and climbed into his father’s leased Jaguar XJ 12. He cruised down Stone Canyon and turned east at Sunset Boulevard.

To say the least, Sandy was driving below the speed limit, cautioning himself that the police were severe with speeders. In fact, all day long he had been reminding himself to be cool and casual in everything he did.

Sunset Boulevard was precisely as it appeared on film. The vast lawns of the mansions he passed seemed as if they had been trimmed that morning with cuticle scissors by legions of Disney dwarves.

In addition to his panic, Sandy was vertiginous with a sense of déjà vu. It felt as if he had been there a million times. And yet at this moment he felt like a stranger from another planet.

In less than five minutes he was pulling up at Scandia and a red-vested, blond and tanned parking valet hurried to relieve him of his car.

Sandy somehow felt naked without the four walls of automotive metal that had been insulating him from the dreamlike realities of Hollywood.

When he entered the restaurant, he marveled at its elegant decor and the strangely mellifluous hum of its sedate diners.

The moment Sandy gave his name, the head waiter replied with unctuous deference, “Ah yes, Mr. Raven. I’ve already shown your guest to the table.”

First they moved through the luxuriantly carpeted cocktail area, and then into a bright, cheery dining room.

Preoccupied though he was, Sandy could not keep from staring at a titian-haired young woman in a light tan suit and frilly white blouse, sitting all alone. As they drew closer, he had the uncanny feeling that she was smiling at him.

Surely this could not be Gloria. It was an angel-faced Aurora, Goddess of the Dawn.

“Hello, Sandy.” She smiled, politely offering her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” Her accent was East Coast posh.

As he sat down in the deep-cushioned chair, all he could manage as a response was, “Uh, it’s nice to meet you too.”

The maitre d’ bowed and offered them menus, at the same time asking Sandy, “Aperitif?”

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a Kir Royale,” Gloria said, with what seemed like respectful deference.

Why did she seem so in awe of him?

“Then I’ll have the same,” Sandy responded.

The captain nodded and evanesced.

Now
at last, Sandy thought, a legitimate topic of conversation. He looked straight at Gloria, trying to overcome his bedazzlement at her natural beauty: “What exactly did I order?”

“Champagne and cassis,” she said with a smile.

“Oh, I know a lot about champagne,” he volunteered, leaping with enthusiasm on a topic he knew something about. “Mostly from a scientific standpoint. I guess it would bore you.”

“On the contrary.” The young woman reached over to touch his hand. “I’m fascinated by science, even though I only had to take one course for distribution at Radcliffe.”

Jesus, Sandy thought to himself, this … professional went to Harvard! And then he responded out loud, “Uh, what did you major in?”

“Art history,” she replied. “In fact, I’m just finishing a master’s thesis at UCLA on the engravings of Albrecht Durer.”

Sandy breathed an inward sigh of relief: she’s doing this to support her education. I’m actually helping subsidize her studies. The fact that she was so widely educated was a great relief. He had wondered how they would pass the time before the critical moment.

When the moment came to order, Gloria proved
knowledgeable about the restaurant’s Scandinavian fare. And, when the wine waiter came, she did not usurp his initiative, but merely whispered, “Try number one hundred twelve. But be sure it’s very chilled.”

Sandy relayed her suggestion in a louder voice, and after noting it was an excellent choice, the sommelier retreated.

Suddenly Sandy’s jaw went slack. His eyes bulged.

Gloria’s instinct made her think that he had just seen someone he was dodging. She came to the logical conclusion and whispered, “Is it your wife?”

Sandy shook his head wordlessly.

Gloria turned discreetly to follow the direction of his gaze. His attention seemed to have been caught by a table in the far corner which, to the best of her knowledge, at least, was currently being peopled by a quartet of nonentities—three men and a woman.

“You’ve got Hollywooditis,” she whispered solicitously.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s a kind of delusion you suffer from during the first few days you’re here. I had it when I arrived. You sort of hallucinate that everyone you see—the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker—is actually someone like Robert Redford or Jane Fonda. The truth is, the major plebeian preoccupation out here is
trying
to look like the real thing.”

“No,” Sandy protested, still in a semitrance. “I’m sure I know this person. We went to grade school together.”

Gloria took another discreet look.

“Surely you don’t mean Kim Tower?” she asked disparagingly.

“Yes,” Sandy insisted. “But I know her, I really do.”

“That’s nothing unusual,” she answered dismissively. “I mean, everybody in the town does.”

Sandy deliberately chose to ignore Gloria’s remark.
He asked, as a child would a parent, “Do you think it would be all right if I went over and said hello?”

“If it’ll make you any happier,” Gloria answered. “But in your parlance, I’d say she has a molecule for a brain.”

Sandy’s defense was instinctive. “She’s very smart, actually,” he said sternly.

“Well,” Gloria surrendered sweetly, “I guess clever women have to keep their minds in check. In any case, she does a good job hiding it.”

Unaffected by Gloria’s derision, Sandy rose, still in the semitrance that had been induced by the appearance of his personal goddess. He tentatively approached Rochelle’s table.

The closer he came, the more refulgent his idol seemed—flawless skin, perfect teeth, sparkling everything. When he was as near as he dared, he said shyly, “Hello, Rochelle, fancy meeting you here.”

A look of puzzlement crossed her face. Simultaneously, her three escorts whirled around to deal with what they assumed was some out-of-town autograph seeker.

Her sudden smile deterred them.

“It’s not Sandy, is it?”

“For a moment, I thought you had forgotten me,” he confessed.

“How could I?” she answered with a flourish. She stood and held out her arms. “Come here, so I can give you a big hug.”