This was one serious whirlpool. I allowed the small of my back to be battered by one jet, while my feet found pleasant abuse before another.
We enjoyed the water quietly, each of us heaving sighs as the tensions of the party dissolved. Yes, it was very quiet. Thus I was able to hear sudden footsteps close by and coming closer.
My heart jumped into my throat as a tall figure loomed over us, blotting out the stars.
"Oh, hi, Hesper," said Genie, looking up. "Thank you. Lillian, this is Hesper."
A large, large woman set down a silver platter laden with a water pitcher, glasses, a plate of sliced fruit, and delicate cookies. She swung an ice bucket down from one elbow, containing—what else?—more champagne. She was a burly one.
"How do you do?"
"Good evening, Ms..."
"Lillian Byrd."
"Ms Byrd."
Hesper's eyes glowed like a cat's in the dim light. Crouching easily, she poured the champagne and arranged the tray so we could reach everything, then disappeared.
"I thought you said it was private here," I whispered.
Genie looked at me. "It is. Oh! You mean—oh! That's good!"
Hesper reappeared with an armful of towels and set them on a low stool nearby.
"We won't need anything more tonight," said Genie.
"Good night, then, Ms Maychild," said Hesper.
We laid back in the tub, hooking our necks over the edge and letting our stomachs and toes bob up to the surface. We drank a little more champagne, each of us knowing better than to get drunk. I read the label on the bottle. "Dom Perignon. I've heard of that."
After a while Genie reached over to the tray and made as if to feed me a slice of mango. "Aren't you hungry?"
Ignoring the mango, I looked into her eyes and said, "Yes. I'm very hungry." And she had the sense to know what I meant. It'd been a long time—oh, I hate to tell you the length of the drought I'd been through. Her eyelashes fluttered, and I hoped they were an indicator of her heartbeat.
She took my hand. "Look, I don't know how to say this, so I'll just say it. I like your company. I like you. I wish..."
"What do you wish?"
Her finger drew circles on my palm.
The bedroom was exactly five paces away.
I'd never made love with an athlete. Genie Maychild had the strength of three gym teachers, combined with the finesse of a Renaissance glassblower.
She understood skin the way I understood it: our best organ, one we humans, tragically, tend to underrate.
"Do you feel that?" she murmured. "How about now? Can you almost not feel it? That's it. Yes, that's it, love. I want you to barely feel it." She had a marvelous talent for the phantom touch, the touch that flies and settles like a breath of air, then flies and settles again.
By way of compliment I said, "My backside never had it so good."
It seemed everything I said made her laugh.
Genie did with my body exactly what she wanted to do with it. Which was fine with me, except I eventually worried that I wouldn't be permitted certain liberties of my own. A silly worry, as it turned out.
At one point I remember being supported for a moment, acrobat-style, on her solid feet, looking down at her composed face. As she lowered me she began to describe my skin in terms Keats would've envied. I listened carefully, mercenarily, thinking to what good use might I put those words myself someday.
After a while I took the opportunity to explore the world of her, which, as I've said, filled me with awe and longing. It wasn't merely that she was in great shape, and it wasn't merely that she was exquisitely sensitive.
She seemed to have a sixth sense, an extra something, that made her deliciously—how can I put it?—anticipatory. It was as if she could guess what I was going to do next, even though I was mixing up my pitches pretty well, so to speak. She guessed, then she allowed herself the luxury of anticipating the sensations, then actually feeling them. As if she felt everything twice. I sensed more than saw this happening. In making love to her, I came to learn more about making love, and to love it still more than I already did.
Love through the perceptions of a self-possessed body, a body singing with life—well, we should all be so lucky, every one of us.
Genie sang, and I sang, and then we slept, and the house was very quiet.
Chapter 8
I awakened to Genie climbing over me on her way to the bathroom. "It's morning," she announced, planting a big smack on the back of my neck. "It's morning and it's a fantastic day—let's go, let's go."
I closed my eyes again, listening to the running water in the bathroom, and opened them when the bed jounced slightly.
Hesper had silently entered and placed a breakfast tray at the foot of the crisp white coverlet. Reflexively, I clutched the sheet to my bosom, but she glanced only into my eyes.
She had one of those haircuts where it's buzzed short in the back, then kind of floppy on the sides and front. Her neck was heavy, swelling into her shoulders like poured concrete. Yet she moved lightly, and I saw that her feet were quite small.
"Will you want a hot breakfast, Ms Byrd?" She bent her broad back over the tray to adjust a tiny silver vase holding a pink tea rose.
"Uh, no, thanks. This looks great. Jeez." There was plenty of food—fruit and buns and such.
When Genie came out, she said, "Good. Hesper makes popovers to die for."
"Did she come with this house or is she—you know—yours?"
"Came with. Hey, let's go. I'll drive you to get your stuff. Because I love you and you're going to stick with me all weekend, right?"
"I had a wonderful night."
"Me too. Goodness, I needed that."
I stood up and stretched. She watched me. "You are built like a blade of grass, you know that?"
"I know it."
"I think I got bruises from your hipbones."
"You did not."
"Where'd you get that mark? I didn't notice it before."
She was looking at my right thigh, where a maniac had shot me a few years ago.
"Oh, it's an old dueling scar; I'll tell you about it sometime."
She was the kind of person who accepted a response like that with a look that said, I look forward to it. I've known women who would've said, "No, no, tell me now, what happened?" and insisted on hearing the whole damn story, who couldn't rest until they'd heard the whole damn story, then would've gone drama queen over it, deciding I was either a marvelous hero or a complete dimwit (I'm half of each, actually), and would either insist on a commitment ceremony on the spot, or run off to change her phone number.
But not old Genie. She understood privacy, and timing. She valued her own privacy, I'd noticed. There were things she didn't want to tell me, stuff about before she was famous. As a journalist, I'd occasionally met famous people and had gotten particularly interested in that gap between nonfamous and famous—you know, that magical time that comes when hard work, or luck, breaks through that barrier that separates the stars from the asteroids. What was it like to go from being a washroom attendant to having somebody ask you for your autograph? That's what I ask about, and I'd tried to get there with Genie last night, but she deflected me. It was fun to be deflected, given the other things we had to do.
I thought about the offer I'd just been made. It seemed like an offer, anyway. I'd imagined a morning of lazy talking, and more hanky-panky, followed by a fond adieu. Now I figured Genie and I would have a voluptuous weekend, then on Monday we'd go our separate ways. She gearing up for the tournament, I melting into the crowd.
I showered, my body feeling brand new.
.
Genie's morning-after energy propelled us to Truby's, where we found her doing yoga, with Todd for company.
Everything was okay. I introduced Genie, and we sat and shot the breeze for a few minutes. I was afraid my friend would be downhearted from not having scored last night, but no.
"I'm making progress, Starmate," she said. "You
know the woman I was talking with when you left?"
"Yes," I said.
"Well, we kissed."
"Right on. How was it?"
"Scrumptious...absolutely...divine."
"Will you see her again?"
"Tonight."
"She coming over here?"
"Eventually, I hope. We're meeting for dinner at Cobalt. She lives in Burbank."
"Good," cheered Genie, smiling her upside-down smile. "You won't have any trouble." She was holding her palm out to Todd, who was sniffing and inching closer.
"Right," I said. I could tell Truby felt fine about me taking off for the weekend. We'd reconnect on Monday. "Come on, Toddy, we're going for a ride."
.
The crack made by the collision of the face of Genie's driver with the backside of a golf ball was a sound of authority, the likes of which I'd never heard.
"That's it," said Dewey O'Connor.
"I felt like I hardly hit it," said Genie, looking after the ball, which was racing a jet through the crystalline sky.
"That's what I'm talking about," said O'Connor. "When you hammer at it you lose power." He was a jockey-size Irishman and sounded like it. When ye hommer at it, ye lose power. "Your hands were gettin' too quick."
We were standing beneath a high flat L.A. sun at O'Connor's golf academy in the San Fernando valley—"the Valley," people in L.A. call it. The Valley may be suburban and dreary, but O'Connor's spread was super-luxe, catering to professionals and high-rolling amateurs. He'd built a special lesson tee for his most precious clients; we were shielded by a thicket of cedars from all prying eyes and spy cameras. I'd brought Todd because I felt he'd missed me overnight and needed to hear my voice. I kept him in his travel case on the ground nearby.
I was feeling extremely sparkly. Tagging along with Genie I felt as if a big hand were following over my head, throwing glitter down. Every time she glanced my way, my heart wiggled in my chest. I yearned to wrap my arms around her again.
When we arrived, O'Connor scanned me all the way down to my shoes, as my party hosts had done. I was wearing shorts and my faded pink polo shirt, plus my black high-top Chuck Taylor basketball sneakers. I understood perfectly well they weren't appropriate golf wear, but they were the only shoes I'd brought besides my loafers. Back home I did have a pair of golf shoes, but I played in my sneakers sometimes, liking the feel of the ground beneath the worn soft soles. I expected O'Connor to curl his lip, but he gave me a kind smile and said, "Do you golf, then?" His face appeared unnaturally healthy, no spider veins, no rheum in his eyes—as if he never touched a drop.
"Gimme the six," said Genie, looking downrange and holding out her hand. Needless to say, she looked perfect in an outfit of fine knits and impeccable leather.
O'Connor looked at me. Realizing my role, I pulled Genie's six-iron from her absurdly large golf bag and handed it to her, grip first, as I'd watched caddies do, and received her driver. I propped it against the bag, thinking she might want it again.
She raked a ball over to a clean piece of turf, set herself, and hit it.
It was as if her body had no bones, only resilient muscles. She was as supple as an otter. She made the club look supple. With a pure click, the ball left the clubface, rose into the sky, and fell to earth at the distance most of my drives go. Its flight path was perfectly straight; the ball bounced and stopped to the left of a fluttering yellow target flag.
"I was trying to fade it in a little bit." A crease of disappointment appeared in her brow. I wanted to leap forward and kiss it away. "Just a second," Genie said. She handed me the club, then bent down and rummaged in her bag. She came up with something I recognized from my childhood: an asthma inhaler. She flicked it open and took two long puffs, exhaling through her nose.
"There's something in the air out here my tubes don't like," she said.
"Asthma?" I asked sympathetically.
"I don't call it that. I just need a shot of this stuff once in a while."
"How's your breathing been?" O'Connor asked.
"Not bad. My tubes just don't like California. Now, Dewey, listen." She took her stance again. "I'm thinking I'm coming over a little bit and pulling it. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," said O'Connor.
She hit another shot. This one started out straight, then curved a bit and stopped closer to the flag.
"I still feel like I'm fighting a pull, like I'm changing my plane at the top."
"Quit thinking, Genie. Now's no time to be thinking. Forget the fade, you don't need a fade. You hit a naturally straight ball. It's a gift. Just because everybody else thinks they've got to work the ball doesn't mean you have to. Merely see the shot and hit it. See it and hit it. Feel it and hit it. Easy, now."
She hit a few more, in silence. I could've watched her forever. She switched back to the driver, and hit four balls that disappeared over the horizon—I suppose they landed in Nevada or Texas, maybe.
"Oh," she said at last.
"That's it," said O'Connor.
And the lesson was over.
.
"What would you like to do now?" Genie asked as we zoomed onto the Ventura Freeway. "Tomorrow we'll play golf. I want to go over to Woodley."
"You don't want to play golf with me."
"Yes, I do. But how about now?"
"Well," I said, "you think there's any way we could, you know, test the old mattress again? In the Biblical sense?" I touched her arm, stopping short of grabbing it and stroking it madly, stopping short of diving into her lap as we rolled gaily along.
"I want to look at you again," I went on. "I want to look at you all over. You're so—Christ, alive!"
"Lillian."
I stopped.
"Later," she said. "Later we'll ride the hurricane. All right? Let's talk about it all day."
I liked that. "Well," I said, "first we should drop off Todd at the house and give him a little safe space. Then...well, what would you like to do?"
"Do you like to shop?"
"I guess it depends where. I like"—and I knew this was dorky, I knew it—"I like hardware stores. If I have a few bucks, that is. They have so much cool stuff."
She cut me a look, slung the Jaguar around a tour bus and settled neatly into the blind spot of a guy in a sparkling Lexus. The Lexus was white, trimmed in gold.
"That car looks like a Fabergé egg," I said. "And I like Army-Navy stores. Because, well, for the same reason, plus everything's so cheap. For instance, I got this Vietnam hat last year? It's the neatest thing for the rain, and it only cost—"
"I was thinking," she said, "Rodeo, but now I'm thinking Melrose."
So we checked out the latest boutiques, the latest L.A. funk and junk, on Melrose Avenue. We went into a place called Golf Punk, where they sold little tiny teenager clothes that I couldn't imagine any professional golfer wearing, even the cute diminutive ones.
"You actually golf?" I heard a clerk ask Genie. The clerks had no idea, but they were very nice, and even though we didn't buy anything they insisted on giving us a handful of stickers with the store logo on them.
Then Genie spotted a sign across the street, for a particular brand of boots, those ones from Australia. We waited at a stoplight, and when it turned, Genie started across, her eyes already searching the shop window.
I happened to be watching the traffic. And I happened to realize that a minivan with a Jack-in-the-Box head on its antenna wasn't going to stop, was in fact still trying to beat the light, and was accelerating fast.
With a quickness I can only describe as supernatural, I lunged for her arm and screamed.
She perceived in an instant, and leaped backward powerfully, knocking me over. The minivan honked and barreled on, practically grazing us.
"Wow!" I said, getting up.
The few other people near the corner were looking after the minivan and shaking their heads.
Genie said nothing. She'd gone white. Sinking sideways against a light pole, she was on the verge of fain
ting.
I took her arm. "It's all right."
"My God."
"It's all right."
"You saved my life."
"No, I didn't. You jumped away."
"I almost died," she said wonderingly, "I almost died right there on that street—right there." She pointed to the spot as if pointing at a ghost: arm straight from the shoulder, finger out. "I could be dead right now."
"Hey, let's get you a cold drink. Let's sit down somewhere. Over here, come on."
I escorted her to a little table at a sidewalk joint. "Do you like raspberry? Two raspberries, please."
For a few minutes we just sat there and breathed.
.
By now I guess you've figured out that this was that year. The year the Dinah ended unlike any championship ever. If you were there, or if you saw it on television, or if you read the papers afterward, you know a little bit about it.
Well, you're going to find out what really happened, what it was to be inside the ropes when it appeared that the world was ending, and when, for a few people, it did.
Chapter 9
That evening was a quiet one. A breeze swirled around the canyon, bringing smells of gnarled vegetation, spicy smells, green smells. We took Todd out for a romp on the terrace before dinner. I'd brought a harness and lead for him, and used them now. Thick shrubs surrounded the terrace; were there fences beyond? Impossible to know. Of course, you can no more walk a rabbit than a frog—it walks you. But Todd responded well to my voice. And I'd learned what to do if danger came around and I wanted him to freeze so I could pick him up: stomp very hard, as rabbits themselves do to signal danger. It's not that they stomp so much as launch their hindquarters skyward, which then fall to earth with a bang.
Damn Straight Page 5
