“The guy had an eye for truth,” Jacob said.
Capa was one of Jacob’s favorite photographers. Jacob, I’d noticed, had a lot of favorites: people, places, and things he was passionate about, that he knew everything about, that he inhaled like oxygen. He wasn’t one of those gray individuals. He either loved something, or his indifference bordered on autism. Jacob told me, with the utmost level of zeal, that Capa had been friends with Ernest Hemingway, and had died young after stepping on a landmine in Indochina.
“Legend has it, they found him with his camera still in his hands.”
To Jacob, that made him a hero.
Jacob was the only person I knew in Los Angeles who actually used the public transportation system. He’d taken the bus to the museum and made it there on time. I was late because I drove from my studio and forgot to make a parking reservation. In Los Angeles, cars, not people, need reservations to go to museums. I had to flirt with the attendant to get in. After a little batting of the eyes, he finally agreed to give me a space, only he made me wait half an hour. I guess he thought I was cute, but not that cute.
The Getty complex sat atop a hill, high above the city, a gigantic maze of pure white geometric shapes and sparkling panes of glass the size of city blocks. Once I parked, I had to take a slow-paced tram up to the cluster of buildings that housed the various museums. The train was just as white as everything else, and riding it felt like being on mass transit to heaven, a simile which became all the more apropos as we started up the track, because as we ascended, I actually thought I was looking at hell below me.
It wasn’t hell. It was the 405 freeway.
I saw Jacob as soon as I stepped off the train. He was sitting on a travertine bench with two little boys who had grape popsicle juice dripping down their shirts. One boy was sandy-haired and looked about six years old. The other had darker hair and, I guessed, was closer to eight. A pug-nosed woman I assumed to be their mother stood at close range, probably because she pegged Jacob as a child molester. Hell, he was wearing a mood ring on his finger—the one I’d given him a few days before. I made it for him as a five-month anniversary present. It was a dark gem, encased in textured silver, and it had the word Grace engraved on it’s underside.
The three of them, Jacob and the boys, were deep in conversation. When I walked over, I heard the older boy tell Jacob that a shark could beat up a dog. His little brother told him no, a dog could beat up a shark. Only he said it like this: shawk.
“Sharks have bigger teeth,” the older one said.
“But dawgs can wun. Shawks can’t.”
“Dogs can’t swim,” big brother told him.
“Yes they can. Dawgs can too swim. Jacob, can dawgs swim?”
“Yep, most dogs can swim,” Jacob said sweetly. He must have liked the younger one better, otherwise I’m sure he would have explained the aerodynamics of a shark’s swim versus doggie paddle. It would be no match.
Jacob saw me and smiled. “Trixie, you made it.” As soon as he said my name, the boys giggled.
“I see you made some friends,” I said.
“Is that your weal name? Twixie?”
I lied and told him it was. He was the most adorable kid I’d ever seen. He didn’t even look real. He had a sunny face and a lopsided smile. I was surprised mother-snot-face hadn’t sold him to a television studio yet. He had the potential to be a millionaire by the age of ten and dead of an overdose by twenty.
“Hey, Jacob, is she your girlfwend?” he said.
When Jacob told them I was indeed his girlfriend, the older brother informed me that I was late and that I should kiss Jacob and say I was sorry. He said it with the voice of a drill sergeant. To put it bluntly, the kid was a brat—probably jealous because his cute little brother got more attention.
I apologized to Jacob for being late and planted a little peck on his cheek. The boys practically fell off their seats at that, like we were better than Saturday morning cartoons.
“Oh, to be so effortlessly entertained,” I said.
Jacob and I decided to see some paintings before we dove into the photography. They had a small Van Gogh collection at the Getty, and I’d stopped to dwell on Vincent’s irises when I heard Jacob call for me. He was standing across the hallway in front of a large canvas of a woman, looking into her eyes as if the two of them were conversing. Her dark hair was pulled back off of her face. She looked regal, mysterious, and sad. Her name was Princess Leonilla, or something like that. She was a Russian-born Parisian.
“She reminds me of you,” Jacob said.
I wasn’t at all flattered by the comparison. “She needs an eyebrow wax. I have better eyebrows than that.”
“Forget her eyebrows. I’m talking about her gaze, about what’s behind that façade. There’s a lot going on in there.”
“What are you saying?”
“Still water runs deep.”
One of the many things I adored about Jacob was that he could see me in things like the painting of an ugly Russian princess. He did that all the time. A song would come on the radio, or we’d go see a movie, and he always managed to find some reason why they were all about me.
“You’re the world’s muse, Trixie.”
“I just want to be your muse.”
“Done.”
Jacob was right about Capa. If ever photojournalism could be described as breathtaking, I thought, this man’s certainly qualified. It was obvious to me why Jacob liked him so much. Capa was able to find the remains of beauty in the fractured, often ugly nature of truth and humanity. Jacob had that gift as well. The fact that he loved me proved it.
As we wandered the floor that displayed Capa’s work, Jacob bombarded me with information about the photos, the same details that were written on the cards next to the frames, only he didn’t have to read them.
“That’s a loyalist there in the tree, he was killed hanging telephone wire,” Jacob said. “This was taken in China, late thirties, I think. I love this one.” It was a bunch of school children playing in the snow. “Hey, check it out. William Faulkner.”
“I hate William Faulkner,” I said. I walked right past that photo, not even bothering to look.
Jacob stopped in his tracks and glared at me as if I’d just threatened to behead his mother.
“What?” I said. “You have to read a page six hundred times before it sinks in. After one sentence, I break out in a cold sweat. I don’t get it. And I was valedictorian!”
Jacob laughed, but with the laugh of a man who knew the punch line to a joke you were in the middle of telling.
“Wait until we move to the Mississippi delta,” he said. “Then you’ll get it.”
We spent over two hours at the Capa exhibit. By the time we’d dissected each and every photo, Jacob was starving. Jacob was always starving. For such a skinny guy, he sure had an appetite.
“Let’s head back into town. I know this great Italian place on San Vicente,” he said.
I left Jacob at the coffee kiosk that sat in the museum courtyard. He wanted to grab a quick espresso before we got back in line for the train.
“Meet me in the bookstore when you’re done,” I said.
I bought one of Capa’s books for Jacob, and another collection of photographs by a guy named William Eggleston—his pictures sent me into a complete tizzy. They brought more surreal exaltation to what only an idiot might refer to as mundane southern Americana than any other photographer I’d ever seen. I yearned to be there immediately: Greenwood, Huntsville, Knoxville, Montgomery, Memphis, anywhere any of the photos were taken. I wanted to live someplace sluggish and normal, near a truck-stop where we’d eat grits and drink coffee every morning. I wanted a little house with honey-colored walls and grandma-looking furniture from the seventies, maybe an organ in the living room, a cheap painting of a saint above our bed, and Formica countertops in the kitchen. We’d prete
nd we were Baptists so we could go to their church on Sundays and hear the choir sing. Jacob would write all day, and I’d work as a waitress. Pudgy, perspiring men would give me an extra dollar tip because I’d wear my uniform a few inches too short, but that’s as far they would push it because the whole town would know about me and Jacob. We’d be recognized as the lovebirds—the sappy couple who held hands, kissed, and never mowed their lawn.
My heart ached for Jacob to finish his book so we could get out of the dazzling shithole we were stuck in and live happily ever after.
I looked at my watch and realized Jacob had been off getting coffee for almost half an hour. I couldn’t wait to show him the book. When I went back outside, he was nowhere near where I left him. I wandered over to the train platform and saw him sitting on the same bench I’d seen him on earlier that afternoon. He wasn’t drinking any coffee and he had a weird look on his face.
“Is it all right if we skip dinner and just go home?” he said.
I told him it was. “Is there something wrong?”
He stood up and took my hand. “Nothing I really want to talk about right now, if that’s okay,” he said soberly.
We drove home in silence. When we got back to the apartment, Jacob went into the office and didn’t come out for hours. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I knocked on the door and walked in. He had one elbow on the arm of his chair, and a pen in his mouth. His face had softened a little, but he still looked troubled.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
I sat on top of his desk. He put the pen down and set his palms on my legs. He rubbed my quadriceps gently with his thumbs, and stared at the blank wall, transfixed at nothing.
I sighed. “Jacob, what’s wrong? You haven’t said ten words since we left the museum. Please talk to me.”
His brow furrowed. “It’s Nina,” he said.
Nina, I thought, this can’t be good. “What about Nina?” I said, trying, I repeat trying, to stay calm.
“I saw her at the Getty today.”
“You saw her? Why didn’t you tell me you saw her?”
“I just did tell you.”
“I mean while we were there.”
“She saw you.”
“What do you mean she saw me? How did she see me?”
“She saw us in front of the fountain.”
I hardly thought it was fair that she got to see me but I didn’t get to see her, the dyke-bitch. I rewound my memory fast and remembered that Jacob and I had stood in front of the fountain and kissed before he got in line for coffee. It wasn’t just a little lip-smack either, it was a full-on, grand, public display of affection, with tongues and googlyeyes and everything. Art made us horny. I hoped Nina had seen that. I hoped she put that in her smack pipe and smoked it.
I got down off the desk and turned my back to Jacob. I stared out the window at the amusement park on the pier. I could just barely see the Ferris wheel. It was all lit up, going around and around. There was only a handful of people on it, and I wondered if it went faster when it was virtually empty. I had a feeling that if I watched it for too long, I would curse it and it would roll right into the water.
“Jacob,” I said. “Why are you so upset about seeing her? I see Greg all the time, you don’t see me moping around and locking myself in my room over it.”
“I hadn’t seen her since before I left for Costa Rica.”
“So?”
“That was almost a year ago.”
“So?”
“So, she’s in bad shape. I shouldn’t have just cut her off like that.”
“Jacob, she dumped you, remember?”
“I asked her to come over tomorrow. I have to talk to her.”
“You made a date with her?”
“It’s not a date. She—”
“You have a time and a place? I’m pretty sure that’s the definition of a date. You have a date with your ex-girlfriend tomorrow. That’s nice. That’s just fucking great!”
“Why are you getting so upset? You’re not even letting me—”
“Do you want to see her? Was it your idea to get together?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Just answer yes or no.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Well then fucking enlighten me,” I said, much louder than I’d planned. I smelled some kind of food coming from one of the apartments on our floor; it was buttery.
Jacob took a deep breath. “How can I fucking enlighten you when you’re yelling and screaming and acting like a baby? Mellow out, will you? Then we can talk.”
I stormed out of the room and slammed the door in his face. I didn’t like being called a baby. I felt betrayed and deceived, and I feared I’d never get to be a William Eggleston character. Deep down, I knew I probably had no cause to be so upset, but my memory got the best of me. I flashed back to the day my father left. I saw him trying to get out the door while my mother held on to the arm of his shirt. He pulled his wrist up into his sleeve so that all she could grab was his cuff. Her grip slipped, and off he went—he just walked away, appendage-less. I pretended he’d been in a car accident and had lost his hand but would persevere over tragedy, just like that one-armed guy from Def Leppard.
After my father walked out the door, my mother ran to the window, her waterproof mascara shellacked to her lashes as tears ran down her cheeks. She shrieked so loud it sounded like she was being stabbed. Now that she has half of his fortune, she’s reconstructed her poise, but back then she was just prideless and pitiful.
I heard a voice in my head. It said: I would rather be alone than ever be my mother. I will leave before I am left.
My intuition told me I was out of control but there was nothing I could do.
Jacob opened the door of the office and leaned against the wall. The smell of melted butter made my mouth water. I wondered if Jacob could smell it—he’d been hungry for hours.
“Beatrice, can we please talk about this? It’s more complicated than you’re allowing for and—”
“Shut up, Jacob. I don’t want to hear it.” I dug through my jacket for a set of keys. Jacob looked at me as if he’d never seen me before in his life.
“Did you just tell me to shut up?” he said.
Popcorn. That’s what I smelled. Someone on our floor was making popcorn. Maybe it was Greg, I thought. Maybe I should knock on his door and have a handful of popcorn and fuck him. I wondered how Jacob would like that. He could fuck Nina and I could fuck Greg. Just like old times.
It was kind of ironic, actually. Greg had done infinitely worse things to me when we were together, but nothing he did ever hurt me. Because I didn’t care, that was the core of the issue. I’d never cared before. I didn’t know how to act like a normal person and be in love at the same time. Nor did I know how to process fear.
I was damaged goods. A cripple.
Pathetic.
I couldn’t find my keys. I had to take Jacob’s off the table. He asked me where I was going but I pretended like I couldn’t hear him.
“Please don’t leave right now, Beatrice. Please. I need to talk to you.” He was that cute little boy from the museum and I was his mother running off without him.
“What do you care?” I shouted on my way out the door. “Maybe you can invite Nina over while I’m gone!”
“Hey!” he shouted back. “Maybe I will!”
It pissed me off that Jacob didn’t follow me down the hall. I wanted him to run after me and grab my sleeve. I wouldn’t have hid my hand like my father. I would have let Jacob take hold of me and he would have refused to let me go.
Instead, he just stood in the doorway and watched the elevator close.
FIFTEEN
I had no idea where I was going. I thought about heading to Kat’s
, but she would have wanted to look Nina up and threaten her life or something, plus Kat lived in West Hollywood. To get to her apartment, I would have had to either drive down Wilshire, take Sunset, or get on the highway. Wilshire had too many lights; Sunset, too many curves; and California highways depress me the way bad smells do. I avoided the highways at all costs, even if side streets added an extra dozen miles to my trip.
The first place I stopped was the Third Street Promenade—an outdoor shopping mecca right around the corner from where we lived. It was nothing special, just a long boulevard of mass-produced, trendy clothing emporiums, lots of cheap, tourist-trap restaurants, and a bunch of movie theaters. I went directly to the Cineplex. I didn’t want to see a movie or anything, but I was fixated on popcorn. The Cineplex had the best popcorn. It was the only theater on the Promenade that made it fresh. All the other establishments had it shipped to them in gigantic plastic bags. The girl in the ticket booth thought it was a strange request, only wanting the popcorn. She let me in anyway, and I got a bucketful with butter and salt, then I went back outside.
I sat on a bench with my popcorn and watched a rickety old man play drums in front of Banana Republic. He’d set up a full set right in the middle of the sidewalk, and he had a small crowd of fans congregated around him while he rocked-out, accompanied by prerecorded music on a boom box. He looked like a fossil and he was the worst drummer I’d ever heard. The erratic rhythm of his beats made me think of Jacob and Nina having sex. That’s when I decided to go over to Pete and Sara’s. They knew Nina. They could give me objective advice. Or at least tell me what she looked like.
When I rang the bell, Sara asked who was there, and she didn’t seem at all surprised to hear it was me, even though I’d never dropped in on them before. She gave me a strong, maternal hug. It made me hope she’d get pregnant soon. She was going to be a good mother, I could tell. Even if Jacob was going to dump me and get back together with Nina, and I’d never see Sara again, or meet her future gamine child. Our never-quite-blossomed friendship would become a casualty of a breakup.
God-Shaped Hole Page 8
