The Astral (8 page)

And she toyed seriously with the question of what dinner plans Jack might or might not have.

* * * *

In the end, though, she thought after all that it might be too soon to call him. He might be gun-shy, and she might not get more than one spin of the wheel.

She called her mother instead, who was delighted to join her for dinner. “I've been craving pastrami,” Catherine said. “Let's make it Nate's.”

They had barely settled into one of the deli's leather banquettes before she made her announcement.

“I've moved out,” she said. “I've told Walter I want a divorce.”

“I hope you're not asking my advice,” Sandra said. “I rarely offer it, for two very good reasons. One, people don't want to hear it, and two, people
really
don't want to hear it.”

“Put me down for number two. No, I'm sure. I should have done it long ago, I suspect. Maybe if I had....” She left that unfinished.

“And Jack McKenzie?”

The waitress saved her from answering, handing them both enormous menus. “I could eat a horse,” Catherine said, glad for the reprieve. She wasn't sure that she was ready to discuss the subject of Jack McKenzie with anyone. Wasn't sure, in fact, what she wanted to say to herself on that score. Her eyes moved down the familiar list of offerings.

“Something to drink?” the waitress asked, pencil hovering.

“A Dos Equis,” Catherine said. “And a pastrami on rye, potato salad on the side.” She closed the menu and slapped it down on the tabletop with a hearty thump.

Sandra said, her eyes studiously regarding her menu, “A green salad, hold the dressing. And an Evian.”

Catherine glowered across the table. “What kind of meal is that?”

Sandra smiled sweetly back at her. “I've picked up a couple of unwanted pounds,” she said.

“And I suppose you're hinting that I might have as well,” Catherine said on a defensive note. She remembered those five pounds her scales had so rudely displayed, which she had since put down to the age of the scales, which surely needed replacing.

“I really hadn't noticed.” Another affectionate smile. Which meant that she had indeed noticed.

“Two green salads, hold the dressing,” Catherine snapped.

“You still want the Dos Equis?” the waitress asked, biting back a smile.

“Make it two Evians.”

“And Jack McKenzie,” Sandra said.

Catherine wolfed down her salad and sat watching her mother make her way slowly through her own. Sandra was right, of course, she could stand to take off a pound or two, but a salad just couldn't satisfy the soul the way a good pastrami could, in her opinion.

Nevertheless, she managed to wave away the waitress's suggestion of dessert. “I never have dessert,” she said airily, pretending she hadn't been admiring the piece of lemon-topped cheesecake that had just appeared on a neighboring table.

To take her mind off food, she asked, “Do you think Walter has secrets?”

Sandra looked appropriately surprised. “I think everyone has secrets. What makes you ask?”

“A secret life, I suppose is what I mean. You know, a mistress stashed somewhere—though I guess now that's no longer any of my business.”

“Mr. Adams explained to me one day about drug use in school,” Sandra said, in what Catherine thought was rather an odd tangent.

“Isn't that a bit of a
non sequitur
?” She thought for a moment while her mother smiled obliquely at her. “Are you suggesting Walter does drugs?”

“Mr. Adams said, you could tell the cocaine users because their noses get red and runny, and they sniffle a lot.”

Catherine sipped the last of her Evian and gave that some consideration. Walter's nose had been reddish lately, and he certainly had been sniffling. “I just imagined it was a grief thing, you know.”

“And it may well be. It's just something that occurred to me. Are there any large amounts of money missing, from your bank account, for instance? That would be another indication. Drugs do cost money. Apparently quite a lot of it.”

“No. Well, actually, I don't know. We both have our own bank accounts, so I wouldn't know what kind of shape his is in. And there's a joint account, but he's always handled that. The house payments, cars, all the big stuff, he pays them out of that account. I know, I sound like one of those silly helpless women who can't look after themselves, but really, I just wasn't interested and certainly I've always trusted Walter. I haven't even looked at that checkbook in ages.”

They regarded one another across the table for a few seconds. “No,” Catherine said determinedly. “I'm not going there. If he has issues with drugs, that's his concern now. When I get settled, we'll divide things up, and after that, he can do whatever he likes with his life. Or his money—for which he works hard, I have to give him that.”

Of their own accord, however, her thoughts circled back to that little hidey-hole in Walter's office. She pushed those thoughts determinedly aside.

Mind your own business
, she told herself....

CHAPTER EIGHT

By Tuesday she had found an apartment, in what she would have regarded as the least likely of all places.

It started when Bill, her young assistant, paused in her doorway to say, “I understand you're looking for a place to live?”

“Word gets around quickly, doesn't it?” She looked up from the mountain of work covering her desk.

“Oh—I wasn't gossiping, if that's what you mean, I just....” He fumbled for words.

She took pity on his embarrassment. “It's all right, it's one of those things where you sort of hope word does get around, isn't it? Someone may know of a place, I mean.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Exactly,” he said, relieved. “Which is what I stopped to tell you. There's this apartment in my building. I took the liberty of checking it out. I wouldn't have wanted to recommend some dump to you.”

“And?”

He grinned. “It's really cute, actually. I'd snatch it up myself, except it's out of my range.” His grin faded a little. “Of course, you can't always tell what someone else will like. It may not suit you at all. But, if you want, I'll call Jan, that's my landlord. He's pretty particular about who he takes in, so he hasn't actually advertised the place yet. He prefers word of mouth.”

Catherine cast a dubious eye at the pile of galleys scattered across her desk. On the other hand, she did need to find an apartment, and the sooner the better. And Bill's remark had been rather in the nature of a compliment, hadn't it?

“Do, please,” she said. “This afternoon if it's convenient.”

* * * *

She had not thought to ask, until after Bill had made the appointment with his landlord, just where this little gem was. And should have asked, she thought when she looked at the address he had written down for her. Smack dab in the middle of West Hollywood.

West Hollywood was best known as L.A.'s gay neighborhood. She was reminded of that as she parked her car a bit later and watched a mating dance going on between two attractive young men eyeing one another from opposite corners. Not just in West Hollywood, either, this apartment, but right on Santa Monica Boulevard, the main thoroughfare, the Champs Élysées, the Fifth Avenue of what the locals called “Boys' Town.”

She might have known, she reminded herself. Aside from the obvious, that he was black and quite handsome, almost the only personal thing she did know about Bill was that he was gay, and that only because he had never made any secret of the fact.

It wasn't a neighborhood she would even have considered, and she would have skipped it altogether and gone her way without bothering to check out the apartment, were it not for embarrassing a truly capable assistant whose private life she had always considered none of her business. She sighed and got out of her car, locking it and giving one of the mating dance participants a sideways glance. He noticed her not at all. It was a neighborhood that could be hell on a woman's ego, she thought grimly.

She almost changed her mind and got back into the car, but, she reminded herself, Bill had taken the trouble to make an appointment with his apparently quite particular landlord.

Who turned out to be a tall, spare man of fifty something, wearing a billowing silver caftan and one dangly brass earring. He was olive-skinned and had a large nose—a classical nose, Fermin would call it. Arabic, she thought, or perhaps Greek. Jan. Janos?

“It's the top floor, and no elevator,” Jan said in a whisky baritone, leading the way up steep, narrow stairs that creaked in faint concert with the swish of his caftan. “My legs resent it, but my butt is grateful.”

He opened the door for her and stepped aside to let her enter first. She came directly into a small living room whose high, beamed ceiling made it seem larger than it was. Huge windows welcomed in every ray of the pale winter sunlight. There was a well-used fireplace in the wall facing her, and a one-person balcony in front, overlooking Santa Monica Boulevard—one and a half persons if they were on very friendly terms.

It was love at first sight. She strolled into the smallish bedroom, the even smaller but efficient looking kitchen, and the surprisingly enormous bathroom. “Part of the master bedroom at one time,” Jan explained when she commented on the odd disparity in room size. “They made these old places over sometimes in imaginative ways.”

It was not a lot of space overall, but that just meant she would have less furniture to buy. Back in the living room, she indicated an expensive-looking leather sofa that sat alone against one wall. “Bill didn't mention furnishings.”

“The previous tenant's. She needed money for airfare, so I gave her cash for it, in the hopes that the next person might want it. If not, I'll have it hauled away.”

“Why did she leave?”

“Oh, you know, the usual story. You come to Hollywood to conquer the movies. You knock on all the right doors, but nobody answers them. The nights are longer and colder than you expected and you end up sleeping alone, or with the wrong guy just to keep the night away. The money runs out, the dreams fade, and Mr. Touchdown back in Eaton, Ohio begins to look a lot more attractive to you.” He sighed. “Two hundred for the sofa. I'll throw in the dreams.”

“Sold.” She wrote a check, he gave her a set of keys, and they shook hands.

“I hope you'll be happy here,” he said with a grin that flashed a sea of white teeth, and left her standing in the middle of her new home. She turned around slowly, wondering for a second or two if she had been too quick, and deciding that she was entirely happy with her decision.

The little balcony overlooked Santa Monica Boulevard itself, where those two young men were now having a conversation, but on the top of three floors it was high enough to escape much of the noise and the smell of auto fumes, and the bedroom was to the back, which meant it should be quiet enough for sleeping.

And those stairs would be good for her butt, too, she thought with grim satisfaction.

She checked out of the Lodge and went shopping. She bought a lamp and a mini stereo for the living room, and ordered a bed and dresser delivered, and a small television for the bedroom. She imagined herself lying abed watching Jack on the TV, though why she should be lying abed at four in the afternoon she hadn't yet worked out.

She called Rose to have the Hanukah bush delivered to her new address instead of the house, and thought about ordering a second one for Walter, but decided he probably wouldn't care. Probably wouldn't even notice, truth to tell.

Some linen, a coffee maker and some fresh ground coffee—her idea of roughing it was a morning without coffee. Some juice and some cereal and some milk.

Wheeling her cart through Gelson's, she had a last-minute inspiration and added some Beefeaters, a bottle of Noilly Prat and some olives to her cart. By five o'clock that evening she was standing on her little balcony sipping a martini and watching a drooping sun trying to cast its evening colors on an uncooperatively gray sky and managing only a pallid mauve for its troubles.

A light rain had begun, really nothing more than a mist, which she chose to ignore. The wet wind blew a wisp of cloud overhead, its underbelly touched with a faint glow. A river of rain-glittered cars and trucks filled the damp street below, reflected the red and green and orange light from traffic signals; though if it was a river, it was a crowded and sluggishly moving one.

A parade of young men—and fewer young women, though more of them than she might have expected—crowded the sidewalks. Voices drifted up to her, snatches of conversation: “If you do, I will never...what do you buy a boyfriend's ex-wife...so over Christmas....” All punctuated by the occasional toot of a horn, the squeal of tires braked too suddenly, a siren wailing in the distance and a cacophony of music that spilled from the bars.

She liked the bustle, the sound and light and color. Her drink finished, she went down and walked till she found a stylish little eatery. She looked longingly at a mountain of French-fries, crisp and greasy, that a waiter carried by practically under her nose, and ordered the steamed fish with vegetables.

Strolling home—and already it did feel like home, she was pleased to realize—she saw that her preconceptions about the neighborhood hadn't been altogether right, or even fair.

Yes, there were a great many slim-hipped colorfully dressed young men out for the evening, in the latest fashion, and hip hop, and cowboy regalia, and leather, and almost every other look one might imagine.

They were only part of the picture, however. A pair of elderly Jewish ladies came out of a small market just ahead of her, arguing vehemently over some private subject. There were punk types with tattoos and multiple piercings and hair the color and style of which suggested an alien species. Here and there a clearly straight couple strolled hand in hand, the men a bit too indifferent, their women not. What surely must be suburban housewives took advantage of the area's clever stores for some Christmas shopping, and from time to time, the obvious tourist strolled and rubbernecked.

A kaleidoscope of types and cultures and ethnicities, running together to create a varied and lively street scene which she found delightfully exhilarating. She let the tide of pedestrians carry her along and blushed a little when a pretty young woman in a mannish jacket smiled rather too welcomingly at her.

A stray dog gave her a hopeful look, then trudged on by, his tail in a dispirited slump. If she'd had anything she would gladly have shared it with him. She felt utterly expansive, but she was empty handed. A pair of rose-gray pigeons fought over a tag end of a bagel someone had tossed aside and glowered and fluttered at the interruption of her passage.

A roar of music and male voices spilled from the open door of a bar. She was tempted to go in, not so much for a drink as for the camaraderie. They did seem to be having such fun. She realized with a shock how long it had been, far too long, since she'd had fun. Really had fun.

Only, she was sure she would stand out in this bar like a sore thumb. She went on by, humming along with Janis Joplin: “Me and Bobby McGee....” Goodness, she hadn't imagined anyone but her even remembered that song.

Jan was just coming out the apartment building's door, wearing what looked suspiciously like pajamas and a patent leather coat thrown about his shoulders, the dangly brass earring swapped for a dangly silver one—dressier, she wondered? She could see that she had much to learn. They nodded and exchanged quick smiles, like long time neighbors.

Upstairs, she kicked off her shoes and made a bed of sorts on the leather sofa. She toyed with Jack's business card for a moment before putting it back in her purse. The light off, she took a final breath of air on her balcony, and thought of his description of his apartment: if you leaned out far enough, you had a glimpse of the ocean before you fell.

Santa Monica was to the west. She looked in that direction as though, if she leaned out far enough and looked hard enough, she might get a glimpse of him. There was nothing more pathetic than those foolish souls who lived altogether in the past, wasting their todays in pursuit of their yesterdays. It was a very human folly, to wish that something is, that is not, and sadly, there were those who lived their entire lives in pursuit of what would never be.

Yet she truly felt as if fortune had handed her a second go-round, with Jack. He had walked mysteriously, miraculously back into her life at the very time when she was most prepared to realize the emptiness of her marriage to Walter.

She could not blame Walter. He had probably been a better husband than she had been a wife, and he had given her Becky. For that she owed him her gratitude. However painful it had been to lose her, the years that Becky had graced her life had been an incomparable gift.

It was not until she lost Becky, though, that she had finally seen her marriage to Walter in the light of honesty. They had lived together all those years without ever making that essential connection that made a real marriage of what was otherwise just a legal contract. Becky had been the one bright spot, the one thing that allowed her to keep her loneliness at bay. Without her, marriage to Walter had become unthinkable, unbearable.

Walter was gone, though. There was room now for Jack, a space she very much wanted him to fill in her life. Besides, there had been that moment when she was dying and he had called her name. What could that be, if not a sign, an omen?

She went in, carefully locking the balcony door, and settled herself on the sofa for her first night in her new home.