The Lonely Lady (49 page)

“Oh.”

“Is there anything else I can do, sir?”

“No, thanks, Officer.”

***

The detective closed his small black notebook and put it back in his pocket. “That’s it, Dr. Sloan. You got it all.”

“I never bought her story about her sister.”

“Neither did I.”

“She wasn’t trying to kill herself. What she really wanted to do was kill her dreams. Somehow she began to feel that whatever talent she had made it impossible for her to live in the same world as other people. Society tried to force her into its mold and she couldn’t make it. The only thing left for her to do was to kill JeriLee. Then she would be all right.”

“You’ve passed me, Doc,” Millstein said. “What happens to her now?”

“She’ll get out,” he said somberly. “We have no real reason to hold her anymore; she’s no danger to anyone. She’s off drugs, which was why she was sent here. We’ve done all we can. We’re not equipped to give her what she needs now.”

“What if she falls back?”

“Then she’ll be back here.”

“But she could kill herself this time.”

“It’s possible. But like I said, there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s too bad that there isn’t anyone who cares enough to keep an eye on her. She needs friends more than anything else. But she’s cut herself off from everyone.” He was silent for a moment looking at the detective. “Except you.”

Millstein felt himself flush. “What do you expect me to do about it?” he demanded almost belligerently. “I scarcely know the girl.”

“That was last week. This week you probably know more about her than she does herself.”

“I still don’t know what I can do,” the detective said stubbornly.

“You might make the difference between life and death for her.”

Millstein was silent.

“It won’t take much. Just give her a secure base where she can find herself again.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Not so crazy. There has to be something between the two of you. She wrote you. And you came. You didn’t have to. You could have sent a letter or done nothing at all. Right now you’re probably the one person in the world she completely trusts.”

“Doctor, I’m beginning to think one of us should be committed.” He paused for a moment, shaking his head. “Or maybe both.”

Chapter 24

Millstein came into the house after his four o’clock tour of duty. He paused in the small hallway listening for the familiar sound of the clicking typewriter. Hearing nothing, he went into the living room, where his daughter was reading a book. “Where’s JeriLee?” he asked.

“At the shrink’s.”

He looked puzzled. “I thought it was Tuesdays and Fridays.”

“This is something special.”

“Something wrong?”

“No, Daddy. Something good. She heard from the attorney in New York that the shrink suggested she send her novel to. He has a publisher interested in the book and they went to send her the car to come in and talk to them about it.”

“Hmph,” her father growled. “I know about those New York shysters. I better run a check on him. What’s his name?”

Susan laughed. “Paul Gitlin. And stop being so overprotective, Daddy. She told me he only represents biggies, like Irving Wallace and Gay Talese.”

“I’m not being overprotective. It’s only six months since she’s been out of the hospital.”

“And look what she’s done in that six months. A month after she was here she got a job nights as an operator at the answering service so that she could write and see her shrink during the day. She’s written two original screen stories, one of which Universal bought, and now she’s almost completely finished with a novel. You got to give her some credit, Daddy.”

“I’m not taking anything away from her. I just don’t want her to run herself down.”

“She’s fine, Daddy. She’s not the same woman you brought home. She’s beautiful, Daddy. Inside and out.”

“You really like her?”

Susan nodded.

“I’m glad. I was worried about how you would feel.”

“I have to admit I was jealous at first. But then I saw how much she needed us. Like a child needing approval. Then before my eyes I watched her grow. I watched the woman emerge. It blew my mind. It was like one of those stop motion films where the rose buds and opens in a few seconds. She’s a very special lady, Daddy. And you’re a very special man to have seen that in her.”

“I could use a drink.”

“I’ll fix it for you.” In a moment she was back with a whiskey on the rocks.

“That helps.”

“Rough day?”

“The usual. Just long.”

She watched him sink into his favorite chair. “You know she’s going to leave soon, don’t you, Daddy?” she asked softly.

He nodded without speaking.

“You did what you said you’d do. You gave her back herself. She’s strong now. She’s learned to walk. Now she wants to fly. You can support a child walking, but flying is something they must do on their own. You’ll have to get used to the idea, Daddy. Someday it will be my turn.”

“I know that,” he said, his voice husky.

“You love her, don’t you, Daddy?”

“I guess so.”

“Strange. I felt that the moment you told me you were flying East to see her. You know she loves you too, Daddy. But not the same way.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” There were tears in the corners of her eyes. “I don’t know if it will help but there’s something I think you should understand. JeriLee isn’t like the rest of us. She’s very special and apart. She’ll never be able to love the same way we do. She has her eye on another star. But for her it’s something inside herself, while the rest of us may look for it in another person.”

She was kneeling on the floor in front of his chair and he pressed his lips to her forehead. “What makes you so smart, Daughter?” he whispered.

“I’m not so smart, Daddy. Maybe it’s just because I’m a woman.”

***

Sunlight filtered to a soft glow by bamboo drapes warmed the yellows, oranges and browns of the office. The two women sat in comfortable easy chairs near the window, a triangular table between them. The doctor’s chair had a small writing arm not unlike the old schoolroom chairs.

“Excited?” Dr. Martinez asked.

“Yes. Very. But I’m also afraid.”

The doctor was silent.

“I didn’t do so well the last time I went back East,” JeriLee said.

“Circumstances were different then.”

“Yes. I suppose so. But what about me? Was I different too?”

“Yes and no. What you have to remember is that you were living under different pressures then. Those pressures are no longer valid. In that respect, you are different.”

“But I’m still me.”

“You are more you now than you were then. And that’s good. As you learn to accept yourself, you grow stronger.”

“I called my mother. She wants me to come and stay with her while I’m working on the book. She wants me to see her new husband. I’ve never met him.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“You know how I feel about my mother. She’s okay in small doses. But after a while we go at each other like cats and dogs.”

“And you think it will be like that this time?”

“I don’t know. She’s usually okay if I’m not laying any problems on her.”

“It could be that you’re both more mature now. Maybe she’s learned just as you have.”

“Then you think I should stay with her?”

“I think you should think about it. It could be a very important part of your coming to terms with yourself.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“How long do you think you’ll be there finishing the book?”

“At least three months. Maybe more. That’s another thing that’s been troubling me. I won’t have you to talk to.”

“I can refer you to a couple of good doctors there.”

“Men?”

“Does it make a difference?”

“I know it shouldn’t. But it does. Both doctors I went to before I came to you seemed to treat me as if I were a child to be cajoled into being reasonable and behaving myself. I could be wrong but I think sex had a lot to do with it.”

“I’m not clear what you mean.”

“If I were a housewife with the kind of problems they’re used to hearing they could probably deal with me. But I’m not. When I tell them I don’t want to marry or have children, that what I really want is to be able to take care of myself without having to depend on anyone, they just don’t understand. I don’t want to settle for a second-place existence. I want to make my own choices.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Theoretically we all have that right.”

“Theoretically. But you know better, and so do I. One of the doctors told me jokingly that a good fuck would straighten me out. Only I had the feeling that he wasn’t joking. If I’d given him any encouragement I think he would have volunteered his services. The other kept trying to convince me that what he called the old-fashioned virtues were best—marriage, home and family. According to him that is the true purpose of women.”

“You’ll find many women who go along with that.”

“Okay. But that’s their bag. They made their choice. I want to make mine. I don’t suppose I’ve said anything you haven’t heard before.”

“I’ve heard similar things.”

“I even have it in business. I almost sold my second screen original until I met the producer. Somehow things got mixed up in his head and he thought the purchase price included me. When I told him a fuck wasn’t included in the sale of a story he said he liked and wanted, he dropped the whole thing. That never would have happened if a man had written it.”

“I know of one woman you would like,” she said. “It would all depend on how busy she is. She’s an active feminist and I think she would like you too.”

“I’d like to see her if I can.”

“When you have a departure date let me know and I’ll try to arrange it.”

“Thank you. There’s one other thing I want to talk to you about.”

“Yes?”

“It’s Al. Detective Millstein. I owe him a lot. Much more than money. I don’t know how to tell him that I’ll be leaving.”

“Don’t you think he knows?”

“I think he knew I’d be going sometime. I just think he never thought it would be this soon. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“He’s in love with you?”

“Yes, but he’s never said anything. Never made a move toward me.”

“How do you feel about him?”

“Grateful. Loving. As if he were my father or my brother.”

“Does he know how you feel?”

“We never really talked about it.”

“Then tell him. I’m sure he’d prefer to hear your true feelings rather than any polite evasions. At least this way he will know that you really do care about him.”

***

Millstein heard the sound of her car in the driveway, then her footsteps stop outside the front door as she searched for her key. He looked up as the door opened.

Her sun-tinted hair fell to her shoulders. She smiled and her face was flushed beneath her tan. “You’re home early,” she said.

“I had the eight to four today.” He could feel the excitement in her. It was difficult for him to believe that she was the same pale frightened girl that he brought from New York. “I heard the good news.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?”

“I’m very happy for you.”

“I can’t believe it. It’s like a dream come true.”

“Believe it. You worked very hard for it. You deserve it.”

“You made it possible, Al. Nothing would have happened if it weren’t for you.”

“It would have happened. It just might have taken a little longer.”

“No. I was heading for the sewer and you know it.”

“You’ll never get me to believe that. If I had ever thought that, I wouldn’t have brought you with me. There’s something special about you. I saw that the first time we met.”

“I’ll never understand how you could see anything through all the shit I had pulled over me.”

“When do you plan to go?”

“I don’t know. They said they would let me know next week when they want me to come in. I may stay at my mother’s.”

He didn’t speak.

“I spoke to the shrink about it. She thinks it might be good for me if I could handle it.”

“And when the book is finished, what do you plan to do then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would you come back out here?”

“Probably. I like living in California. Besides, this is where it’s at for me. Screenplays, television, work.”

His voice was suddenly husky. “You always have a home here with us, if you should want it.”

She sank to her knees in front of him and put her hands over his. “You’ve done enough, Al. I can’t lay any more on you.”

“You’re not laying anything on us. We love you.”

“And I love you both. You’re like family to me. Even more than family. Maybe the only other person I knew that would have done what you did was my father. You have the same gentleness that he did. Mixed up as I was at the time, I knew that. Maybe that was why I wrote you.”

He understood what she was telling him. And though there was a feeling of deep disappointment, there was also the great satisfaction of knowing that she cared enough to let him know how she felt. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “We’ll miss you,” he said.

Her arm went around his neck and she held her cheek against his. “I won’t give you the chance. We’ll always be very close.”

He was very still for a moment, then he drew back. He smiled. “Hey! Are you going to give me a chance to read that book they’re all making such a fuss about?”

She laughed, “Of course. I thought you’d never ask.” A moment later she laid the boxed manuscript on his lap. “Promise you won’t read it until you go to bed. I couldn’t stand watching you read it.”

“Okay,” he said. But he didn’t really know why she wanted him to wait until after he picked up the manuscript:
Nice Girls Go to Hell
, a novel by JeriLee Randall.

Beneath that was a short paragraph.

“This book is dedicated to Al Millstein—with gratitude and affection for being the Loveliest Man I Know.”

His eyes blurred with tears and it was several minutes before he turned to page one.