I felt good about the neighborhood from the start. Typical Los Angeles street, tree lined, well-maintained yards, varying housing styles, mostly built in the ‘20s. As far as I could see, there was only one other duplex on the street. Mrs. Rayburn’s is a Spanish style which suits me just fine. When in California…
And Jerry, for his part, was tickled, just tickled. It had all been his idea, and now he felt that it was coming together. There we were, the two lawyers of the group; the ones who should be the most worried about the potential pitfalls, unforeseen problems, the fine print, so to speak, and yet we both were operating like it was a done deal. Well, it was. Mrs. Rayburn was a doll, a real sweetheart and a woman of her word. She was very intrigued, even stunned, by the idea that I was a “lady lawyer.” But she welcomed us with open arms, especially Cliff. The two of them carried on as if they had known the other for years, joking and kidding with each other. She was Silly Putty in his hands.
Anyway, apparently she had gotten used to the idea of moving out real quick after hearing about the extra money she was going to be paid. She had already found a beautiful apartment over in Santa Monica with a view of the Pacific Ocean. And we really did not mind paying the additional rent. After all, we were divvying it up four ways. Besides how else were we going to do this thing?
After meeting our gracious hostess, I was anxious to look around, but Mrs. Rayburn insisted that we first sit down and have some Danish and some coffee.
After about five minutes of small talk, Cliff, who I notice sometimes has trouble sitting still, was the first to stand up. He lit a cigarette.
“That was delicious,” he said. “Now, Mrs. Rayburn, just to confirm, it is my understanding, according to the ad in the paper, that you will personally be serving coffee and Danish like this every morning at eight A.M. sharp. Is that correct?”
Mrs. Rayburn gave him a look, made complete by a set of ad hoc heavy eyelids, that could be best described as a mix of motherly amusement and mock annoyance. “It said nothing of the kind, Clifford,” she said sipping her coffee.
“All right, once a week it is, Mrs. Rayburn.”
“Clifford, behave. As long as you kids pay your rent on time and don’t cause problems, don’t expect to be seeing much of me.”
It is one of my favorite things about Cliff: finding out information from people without asking them directly.
“Well, I’m gonna check that ad, and we’ll see about that. Now how about that tour for my friends that you’ve been promising? Or is that off as well?”
Mrs. Rayburn smiled and waved her hand at Cliff. “Ohhh.”
As she showed us around, I liked her half of the duplex right away. The front door led right into the living room, no foyer to speak of; a small alcove-type dining room to the left just past a beautiful fireplace. The kitchen was straight ahead through a swinging door. Just beyond the kitchen was a breakfast nook with the seating built-in. Also off the kitchen was a laundry room which led to the back porch. The hallway could be accessed from both the kitchen and living room and led to two bedrooms with one bathroom at the end, closest to the kitchen. Many of the windows throughout the house had been replaced with those flip-flop jalousie windows to keep up with the times a little. The house was not too big and not too small. What a real-estate agent might call “cozy.” The unoccupied side of the duplex was exactly the same, only the mirror image.
I should also mention, just to give you a complete picture of the layout, that when entering from the front, both sides of the duplex have a raised porch with a waist-high half wall, covered by one of those new aluminum style awnings. The back yard is cut down the middle by a small white fence, about a yard high, that divides the two sides. Also in the backyard of each residence is an avocado tree. Like I said, a mirror image. And finally, each side has a two-car garage which is accessed by a long “Hollywood driveway”, or “Ribbon Driveway”, on each side of the house. Now, for those unfamiliar with the term “Hollywood driveway,” you will understand when I explain it, because we have all seen them. They are concrete driveways with a strip of grass running up the middle. This grass strip usually tapers off and comes to a point at the end. They kind of complete that Jazz Age 1920s look.
Well, anyway, it was obvious that we all liked the place. It was obvious also, but only to the four of us, that we were all wondering where the door between the two sides of the duplex might go. While getting the tour we gave each other glances and eyebrow raises and chin gestures, knowing that later we would be talking. Anyway, Mrs. Rayburn seemed happy that we were pleased but I could tell, at times, she was a little perplexed by our enthusiasm. Her face seemed to be wrestling over why four professional, college educated young people would want to live in such an old—although in good shape—house, and be willing to pay extra, when they could get something nice and modern like she would be getting. True, she never said anything directly. Most likely, she did not want to blow the deal, but I could tell she was thinking it just the same.
“About the schools, Mrs. Rayburn, are they close by?” I asked. I figured I would give her a good reason why we might want to live in the area, not caring the least about what her actual answer might be. It was the only time I saw her a little bit flustered. She looked like she wanted to ask ten questions at once but was not sure if she should really ask any of them. I let her off the hook fast, telling her it never hurts for a woman to think ahead these days.
“Yep, no one’s getting any younger—except for maybe Dot,” said Cliff. He gave her a squeeze.
Mrs. Rayburn smiled and clasped her hands together. “Oh, I just love newlyweds!”
I became aware of my half-smile when Mrs. Rayburn glanced my way. I looked at Dot and Cliff and then at Jerry. This was it. We were married now.
Cliff Lonigan
Well, it’s been interesting. I’ll give you that. So far it’s been a lot of work, and I mean after I punch the clock at my real job. But it’s also been pretty swell, a new adventure like we’re fooling the world. The first thing we really needed to get at was the door between the duplexes. You should have seen the way we were all gesturing to each other about where the door should go during Mrs. Rayburn’s tour with us through the house. We must have looked like a bunch of Casey Stengels out there, sending out signs to the runners.
Anyway, what we finally agreed on is working out great. Both sides of the duplex have a spare bedroom, so what we did was cut an opening right in the back of those bedrooms’ closets, which are sitting back to back, and fit a door in. It’s perfect. You walk through the front door of the house, head for the spare bedroom, and come right out the closet into the other side of the duplex.
My dad picked up extra money doing construction when I was young, and he taught me a lot growing up, so me and Jerry worked on it together. It was a little harder than I expected. It turns out the walls are thicker than normal between the two halves of a duplex—at least in this case. That made it harder to cut and harder to stick a standard door jamb in there. Anyway, snags are an opportunity to rally, and it all came out pretty jake, as the old man used to say. So, we got it done in fairly short order, and last Saturday, me and Jerry gathered up all the dust and rubble and heaved it into the city dump like a couple of mobsters discarding the evidence.
The kookiest thing about this whole situation, to tell you the truth, was how everyone was frantic about making a hole in old Mrs. Rayburn’s wall and all. Nobody could walk by while I was working without making some kind of long-faced comment. I guess they felt guilty because she’s a nice lady. Which is true, but the passageway was the whole reason we moved in. I just shook my head and smiled. “You bunch of hypocrites. You’ll make the hole all right. You just need to cry about it first.”
So, about the layout to the outside world—officially me and Dot are a happy little couple, the Lonigans. We’re on the right side of the duplex, when you look at it from the street. On the left are Mr. an
d Mrs. Ripley. Jerry and Barbara, to be more familiar. Off the record and hidden from polite society, the men are on the right side and the girls are on the left.
Pretty simple stuff, but it has still taken some getting used to. Like the time Dot forgot herself and tried to go through the front door of the wrong side of the duplex. She stood there for a minute and a half, jiggling the knob on the left side of the house before it registered. I pretended to be mad and told them all I had the perfect solution. For my next project around the house I told them that I was going to subtly mark the boys’ side and the girls’ side. On the boys’ side, I said, I was going to leave the driveway’s “Hollywood strip” alone, in its natural long phallic state. On the girls’ side I had other plans. I told them I was going to fill in the strip with concrete, except for at the tapered end where I’d leave a nice fuzzy patch of triangular grass. You gotta love this little bohemian gang. They took it with a laugh and smile, the very vein in which I had meant it.
Dot Johnson
Well I must say that we all seem to be settling in nicely with our “Grand Ruse,” as “my husband”, Cliff, has taken to calling our duplex adventure. That is to say, for the most part at least, so far so good. It sure feels strange to call Cliff, “husband” but the four of us keep all that light and have fun with it. To us, it’s like we’re all in on some big esoteric joke, and I think it’s made us closer.
The boys got right to work, almost from the beginning, after we all moved in our personal belongings. The first order of business, naturally, was to connect the two sides of the duplex with a door inside the closets of both halves’ second bedroom. Poor Cliff. We all felt so bad about destroying Mrs. Rayburn’s wall that, well, I guess we didn’t make it easy on him. But he’s a trooper. And very handy around the house. I know he has some other projects planned such as hooking up a pulley system in that same closet which leads to the attic, so we can easily bring things up and down. It’s not especially high on the priority list, but anyway, it’s nice to have a man around the house who, I have a feeling, can fix just about anything.
And I like the domesticity, even if it is a bit unconventional. For instance, every morning I go out to the porch and get the newspaper since I’m up before anyone else. Then I take a quick look at the sports section so when Barbara gets up, I can tell her whether the Dodgers won or not. Of course, in my case, I need to remember to go over to the boys’ side so I can open their front door to get the paper—and our milk. Finally, I bring it all back over to the girls’ side through the passageway. It takes some juggling, but we manage just fine.
Not that we haven’t had our challenges. Several times, without thinking, primarily because I was in a hurry, I have run out the front door of the girls’ side in the morning. I’ve done the same thing out the back door which isn’t nearly as visible, of course. To my knowledge, none of the neighbors have ever seen me, but still I need to be careful. I’m not the only one, of course, to have done this, but I have done it the most. This is something we’ve all talked about, and my suggestion is that if any of us are “caught” so to speak, he—or she, as the case may be, should simply mention, in a casual way, to the witnessing party, that he was simply borrowing some sugar or what not. But this would only work if we had the chance to explain to the neighbor, as opposed to a situation where he was peering out a window at a distance, for example.
My mother has been another challenge. Being that I’m the only one of the group who grew up in L.A., I am the only one who faces the challenge of having a mother who lives relatively close. Mother was quite upset when I informed her that I would be moving out. It has always been her assumption that I would live at home until I married. If she only knew.
Well, I decided to beat Mother to the punch, that is before the suspicions and questions began. Luckily, being a teacher, I get off of work before the rest of the gang, and I arranged to pick up Mother by 3:30 last Wednesday.
Leaving the school, I removed my wedding ring in the car and headed for Pasadena.
“Really darling, this wasn’t necessary. I could have simply met you at your new place myself and saved you all this driving,” she said as we pulled away from my childhood home.
I assured her that I didn’t mind, and that it would give us the opportunity to talk. Settling in for the long drive—forty minutes, at least—Mother removed her gloves and told me, again, all about her high hopes for my future. And she reminded me that Walter Dunphy hadn’t given up and would still be interested in taking me out. Oh, joy!
As we approached my neighborhood, I made two defensive moves. First, I began talking up a storm about some distant childhood memory that made my mother scream with laughter. And second, I purposely took an extremely circuitous and unnecessary route to the house. Both tactics were designed to make it difficult for Mother to drop in unannounced at a later date.
“Well, here we are,” I announced as I pulled the car to the curb.
“Well, this certainly looks like a nice neighborhood. A little too suburban though, if you ask me. I mean for a single woman.”
As far as the rest of the world was concerned, my husband Cliff and I lived on the right side of the duplex. But in reality, of course, I lived on the left side with Barbara. Now, I walked out the door every day from the boys’ side—not counting those few forgetful moments I mentioned earlier—so I knew exactly how their side could get. Knowing this, I took it upon myself to come home during my lunch break that day and straighten up a bit. I also threw in a few feminine touches, like placing a vase of fresh-cut flowers on the dining room table and laying out a few women’s magazines. For some reason I didn’t mention any of this to the gang, and I hoped the boys wouldn’t mind.
As we walked up the path toward the boys’ side of the duplex, I heard a car horn. It was Mrs. Twaddle, our neighbor. A horrible feeling shot into the pit of my stomach as I looked back over my shoulder. “Mrs. Lonigan! Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Lonigan!” I imagined her calling out. Without stopping, I put on my friendliest face and waved. Then I immediately turned toward Mother and pointed out some flowers to her as we continued forward. I saw my mother’s lips moving but all I heard in my head was, “Who on earth is Mrs. Lonigan?” It hit me that I wanted Mother’s visit to be short. But, of course, I couldn’t let her know that and realized I better play it cool.
I felt a little better after we entered the house, and I shut the door behind us. Naturally Mother wanted to see everything, and I gave her the grand tour. Or about as grand as a tour can be of a thousand square foot cottage. When we entered the spare bedroom, my eyes couldn’t help being drawn to the closet. I told Mother that this was my roommate Barbara’s bedroom. For some reason Mother seemed interested and slowly walked around the room, looking at the walls and such.
I had put out a picture on the nightstand of Barb and her father, that I had gotten from our side, which Mother picked up and studied for a moment. Based on her face I could tell she didn’t think much of Barbara’s looks which made me feel angry.
Putting down the frame, she paused at the closet door but moved past it.
“Mother, maybe we should move on. I feel funny, this being Barbara’s room and all.”
“What’s this?” Mother was bending down at the desk, picking up a magazine.
“Huh?” I said, genuinely taken off guard. It was a copy of Sports Illustrated. “Oh, that must be Barb’s—or maybe her brother’s. I don’t know.”
My mother pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. “You don’t think she’s one of those, uh…?” Her question trailed off into a concerned little laugh as she gestured with an open hand.
“Oh, Mother! Honestly! It’s her brother’s. You’re terrible!” I swatted her ever so lightly and hooked her arm as we exited the room.
Mother was still chuckling as we made our way down the hall. “Well dear, this is Hollywood you know. You never know. You just never know.”
When we entere
d “my” bedroom, the first thing Mother noticed was the bed.
“Well, that’s a very nice bed, dear.” She looked perplexed, something I usually and purposefully, ignore. My feeling is if you’re going to say something, just say it. Don’t wait for someone to ask you why you’re cocking your head like a poodle listening to a far-off siren or something.
“What is it,” I asked. I suppose it was my nerves.
“Oh, nothing. I guess I was just wondering why you bought a new bed. And why a queen size? You could have just used the one in your bedroom at home.”
“Well Mother, I guess I just wanted a new bed for my new place. Besides I got it at a second-hand shop—”
My mother’s eyes darted at me, where I immediately met them, as I knew they were coming.
“The mattress is new. Don’t worry. And I got a queen size because it’s nice to be comfortable, and the frame only cost two dollars more.” Of course, none of this was true. The bed was Cliff’s. Or maybe Jerry’s for that matter.
Mother was quiet for a moment, but I knew what she was thinking. The question was, was she going to be able to keep it to herself?
“Well, it is an awfully big bed for one person is all I’m saying,” she began. No, no, I guess she wasn’t going to be able to keep it to herself. “I just hope you’ll remember your upbringing,” she said, choosing her words carefully. Painfully carefully. “You are a very pretty girl but even so, I know you are aware that once a girl lets a man think that he can spend the night and take liberties, there’s no going back. And—”
“Yes Mother, I understand. You don’t have to worry about me when it comes to men. You did a wonderful job of raising me, and I have no trouble fighting them off.” I screwed up my face, put up my fists, and feigned a punch.
The Duplex Page 8
