Til the Real Thing Comes Along (53 page)

Sometimes she would get home and play a game with herself, trying not to look at the message pad right away. Making deals
with herself that maybe if she sat down and paid some bills first, or maybe if she did a little homework on tomorrow’s assignment
for the writers, that when she went into the kitchen after that, a message from David would be there.

Dinah, who hated animals, had been fixed up with a veterinarian, and they had had several dates.

“Hey,” Dinah said, “my mother wanted me to find a nice surgeon. So what if he operates on canaries? I like him, and it proves
that there is life after assholes walk out on you.” As if that would be of great reassurance to R.J., that she too could eventually
let go of the past and move on to greener pastures.

Tonight she put on her yellow robe and walked into the kitchen. She was wide-awake. It was two-fifteen in the morning. She
had to be back in the office in six hours. She poured herself a glass of milk and stood in the dark room, leaning against
the counter, drinking it from what she realized now was a McDonald’s glass with a picture of the Hamburgiar on it. The only
sound was the hum of the refrigerator. The kitchen was spotless. All that was sitting on the counter were a few Hershey’s
Kisses.
Silver tops
was what her mother used to call them when she sold them to the children who came into Uncle Shulke’s grocery store. Jeffie
must have left them there. R.J. remembered when she was a little girl that she used to think a silver top was the best bite
of chocolate there was. Maybe she would eat one with her milk. After all, she hardly ever treated herself to sweets. And besides,
both she and the Hershey’s Kiss were from Pennsylvania, she thought to herself, and smiled.

“The Keystone State,” she said out loud as she unwrapped the candy, pulling at the paper strip that said
HERSHEY
on it which in turn released the thin foil wrapping. Then she put the tiny brown acorn-shaped candy into her mouth. Stale,
she thought as she bit into it. Or something. Not the taste she remembered as the best bite of chocolate she’d ever had. Probably
left over from last Halloween. She walked back to her bathroom and brushed her teeth. David. She remembered their long walks
together through the streets of Paris. Holding hands. Stopping sometimes just to look in each other’s eyes, filled with the
wonder of their love for each other. Their visit to the Maison du Chocolat. How they’d fed one another the exquisite bites
of chocolate. Chocolate. Kisses. That’s what it was. That’s what was wrong with the candy tonight. She had gone too far ever
to come back to Hershey’s Kisses. She had tasted the most delicious, and there was no turning back. David Malcolm was the
Maison du Chocolat of men, and no one else would ever do.

She was pulling back the comforter and about to slip into bed when she realized that for the first time in a month she had
forgotten to look at the telephone message pad by the kitchen phone. Healing, she said to herself. I’m healing. She sat down
on the bed and reached to turn off the light. Didn’t look at the message pad, she thought Maybe someone important called.
Maybe her agent or… Probably she should go and look.

R.J., she said to herself, you really
are
pitiful. A man dumps you. Never tells you why. Never even returns the calls you make to ask him why. And you live your life,
reduced to rushing home and suffering because you still believe he’ll come around. That any minute he’ll act like the white
knight you made him out to be. But it doesn’t work that way. He’s gone. Goodbye, and… Maybe you could have just a little bit
more milk, she thought. Then she stood and walked slowly to the kitchen, carrying her empty glass. When she got there she
didn’t even turn on the light, just opened the refrigerator door and, using the refrigerator light, read the message pad,
on which there was a note saying
MOM, DAVID MALCOLM CALLED.

Oh, God. She left the refrigerator door open and walked closer to the message pad. Yes, that’s what it said,
MOM, DAVID MALCOLM CALLED.
Her feet did a little dance as she turned on the kitchen light to look at it again, just to make sure she wasn’t imagining
things. There it was.
DAVID MALCOLM
CALLED
. But when? Where was he? No number with it. Did he want her to call him back? Would he call
her
back? Oh, how the longed to rush into Jeffie’s bedroom, wake him up, and make him tell her every word, every syllable David
had said to him. She closed the refrigerator, leaned against it, picked up the message pad and ran her hand back and forth
over the page where Jeffie had written David’s name. What did he want? What could he possibly say to explain the disappearing
act?

She lay awake for another hour, trying out pieces of conversation in her head that she would use if he called back Goddamn
you for walking out like that, whatever the reason. It’s diabolical behavior. Not the behavior of a man who says he’s in love.
I can’t think of anything, any reason makes that makes your disappearing the way you did legitimate.

If only she could be strong. If only she could be calm and controlled and not weep when she heard his voice, and not forget
all the rational things she had thought about saying to him night after night when she lay alone in her bed, unable to sleep.
David.

Finally she drifted off, and after a few hours she sat up, awakened suddenly by the sounds of Jeffie in the kitchen. It was
daylight. Seven. The dock said seven. She put her robe on and was still tying the belt when she got to the kitchen. Jeffie
had a mouthful of Wheat Chex, and when he saw her face, he swallowed fast. He knew what she wanted him to tell her.

“He said he’s out of town. And that he’ll call you back. That’s all.”

“Thanks, honey.”

She had coffee. A piece of wheat toast with peanut butter on it. And then she showered with the shower door open because Manuela
was off and Jeffie had left for school and she wanted to be able to hear the phone. And she dedded just to towel-dry her hair
instead of blowing it dry, because the sound of the dryer might drown out the sound of the phone. She hated that he was still
doing this to her. But no. She was still doing it to herself. He would call back when he called back and she had better get
dressed and get… The phone rang. She wanted to let it ring a few times, but she couldn’t.

“Hello?”

“It’s David,” he said. He sounded bad. A poor connection. But that wasn’t what was making him sound bad.

“Hello, David.”

“I called to see how you are,” he said quietly.

R.J. recognized the hiss of long distance on the connection.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Out of town,” he said. Out of town. Vague. He wanted to be vague.

“I’m fine,” she lied. She wanted to sound detached. To make him think he hadn’t hurt her, but her anger forced its way up,
and she heard it in her voice and hated it. “Except for the fact that for the last month I’ve lived in the mystery of why
a man, who told me he’d never known love like ours, suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth without so much as a goodbye,
which is the lowest way to end something I’ve ever heard of, and believe me, I’ve heard of a few. To just run away? And then
to call me from some place referred to as ‘out of town.’ Yeah. Other than that… I’m fine.”

“I didn’t run away,” he snapped. It was the first time she’d ever heard anger in his voice. “I came to Houston. I’m with my
father. At the Medical Center here. He’s not well, R.J. Probably dying.”

Oh, God. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“But you’re right,” he said. “I should have called you. And I’m sorry that I didn’t. For the first few days I didn’t because
all my energy was focused on my father and his needs. And then, when I realized that a few days had already gone by and I
hadn’t called, I consciously chose to take a few more days. And then I guess it became weeks and…”

For a long time there was nothing to be heard on the line between them but the hush of the long distance from Houston to Los
Angeles. It hurt R.J. to breathe while she waited to hear where all of this was leading.

“I feel so helpless,” David said finally, “because there’s nothing I can do for him. And I know I should just thank heaven
he and I had all those years together but…” More silence. R.J. knew just how he felt. She had felt it time and time again.
And again. Recently, when she was cleaning out her closet, she realized that hidden away in the zipper pocket of the black
clutch purse Mona Feldstein Friedman
had given her as a Chanukah present and which she still carried when she dressed in black, were four copies of the Hebrew
transliteration of the mourner’s prayer. The now yellowed ones from Frande’s funeral and her father’s funeral, the one from
Rifke’s funeral with the ragged edges R.J. had nervously torn during the service, and the crumpled one from Arthur’s funeral.

“I understand,” she said.

“I’ve had plenty of time to think,” he told her. “Sitting in my room at The Warwick. To take a long look at my own life, and
I know it’s time… time”—she could hear the struggle in his voice not to let go—“for me to make some decisions about how I
want to spend the rest of it And R.J.,” he said, “I’m really not… in good shape.”

There was the shrill sporadic noise of what sounded like a hospital paging system in the background.

“How’s Jeff?” he asked after a while.

“Fine.”

“Manuela?”

“Fine.”

“Give them my best, and I’d better go,” he said to her.

No. He was disconnecting again. Slipping away.

“David…”

“R.J., take good care.” he said, and then there was a click and he was gone. Again. She continued to sit holding the receiver
next to her face until a pulsing beep tone reminded her that the phone was off the hook. As she dressed, she heard his voice
over and over—how he had to “make some decisions” about how he was going to the rest of his life. David. Losing his father.
The remaining parent The man whose unique position had created for his only child a magical, heady, untouchable place in the
woild, and now he was dying. Poor David.

She turned on the
Today
show as an attempt to shut out her thoughts. He was thinking about how to live the rest of his life. Clearly the plans didn’t
include her. That was the message of the call. If they did, if he wanted her, needed her, thought she could give him any comfort,
he would have asked her to come to Houston. Even just to be there waiting for him at the hotel in the evenings when became
back. No.

He was evaluating his future, and as she’d feared long ago, the didn’t lit On the
Today
show some actress was
plugging a TV movie, and R.J. listened while she got dressed for work. Then, while she put her makeup on, Norman Cousins was
the guest, talking about his new book, and she stopped to listen. Sat down on the bed to pay more attention. When the interview
was over and they cut to a commercial, she dialed the phone.

“Hemisphere’s Sixtieth,” someone answered.

“Eddie Levy, please.”

“Thank you.”

“Eddie Levy’s office.”

“Is he in? This is R.J. Misner.”

“I’ll ask him.”

“Meydele?”

“Eddie, the editors you’re working with. The film expert and the one who edits it to tape. Could I get them to do me an enormous
favor if I pay them for their time?”

“I don’t know why not. I’ll go find out and give you a call right back.”

“Thank you.”

Then she dialed again.

“This is Harry Elfand. I’m either in the shower or in Europe, whichever comes first. Leave a beep after you hear the message.
Nice talkin’ to ya.”

“Harry, it’s R.J. Misner. It’s important. Call me back right away.”

Then she dialed one more time.

“R.J. Misne’s office.”

“Janet, I won’t be in for a day or two. Tell Don Jarvis that I’m sick, and the writers know what to do without me. Okay?”

“Sure. Anything I can do?”

“Yeah. Pray that what I’m about to do is the right thing.”

Harry Elfand sat by the pool of his Encino house. It was eleven in the morning and he was drinking a beer.

“Don’t tell me,” he said as R.J. walked toward him. She’d been shown out there by Josie, his round white-haired wife who was
as polite and sweet as Harry was cantankerous.

“You need help kicking Patsy’s ass and you came to me
for advice,” he guessed. “Well, here it is. You shouldn’t have gone back to her show. See? And I’m not even talking sour grapes
here, because that bitch has to pay me off for the next three years, so I’m in fat city. And I wasn’t exactly starving before.”

“Nice to see you too, Harry,” R.J. said, and she sat on the edge of the diving board. “This isn’t about Patsy.”

Harry looked at her closely now and saw how serious she was.

“You in trouble, kid?” he asked, quietly now.

“No, in need. For something you’ve got and I want you to lend me.”

“Not money?”

“Nope.”

“Sock it to me,” he said.

When R.J. left Harry Elfand’s house with what she came for, for the first time in the long years since she had known him,
he hugged her. A long hug. Then wished her luck.

D
avid sat on a hard chair that he’d pulled very dose to the hospital bed. Sometimes five or even ten minutes would go by when
neither he nor his father would speak. Then the old man would remember something about the past, or have an idea about business,
and with what it hurt David to see was a great deal of effort, he would say a few words to his son.

“Thanks for being here, fella,” he said this time. He had said that repeatedly over the last four weeks.

“You’re welcome, Dad,” David answered. The first time his father had thanked him for staying by his hospital bed every day
and night. David had blurted out, “Well where else
would
I be?” And thought to himself how much that sounded like something R.J. would say. Oh, God. R.J. He had to do something about
R.J. Had to call her back, and instead of fumbling around, this time he would tell her…