42
I had had a letter from Gordon telling me how well things were going for him and how much he liked Eze. He was thinking of having a show in Paris in the late fall, if all went well, and if his work kept up at the pace he was keeping. He was settled, had rented a tiny house with an incredible view, and a skylight, and he was learning to play boule.
He suggested that I might like to come and visit for a few days if I was in Europe for the summer, or I might want to spend a month with him, “if that appeals,” but I gathered from the tone of the invitation that he knew I wouldn’t accept. I hadn’t seen him in months, and it might as well have been years. I felt so much older, and different. Not wiser, just a little more tired, and yes, different.
I was in the midst of packing Sam’s things for her visit with Richard, and was thinking that it was going to be nice to have Tom and Peg around. It wouldn’t be quite so lonely. The house would be so empty without Sam, but it was better than having her commute on weekends or getting confused by constant visits had her father lived nearby. I wondered if she’d grow up with the same sense of unfamiliarity with her father that I had had with mine. Maybe that’s the price you pay. Or just the price some fathers pay.
The phone was ringing . . . probably Peg.
“Hello?”
“Allo? Allo? Oui? . . . Allo?”
“Yes, I’m here. . . . Hello.” Terrible connection; it sounded like little gnomes grinding rocks in a coal mine.
“Madame Foe-ress-taire, s’il vous plait. Nous avons un appel de la part de Monsieur Ahrte,” and the aahhrte rolled in the operator’s throat, reminding me of French teachers in school.
“C’est elle-même.” This is she.
“Gillian?”
“Yes. Gordon, what the hell are you doing calling me all this distance? You must be getting rich over there.”
“I’m sitting in front of the most exquisite sunset I’ve ever seen. I had to call you. I want you to come over.”
“For a sunset? I think I might miss it. You’re too much. It’s a long way off, Gordon. I want to stay here for a while.”
“Why don’t you come over? And bring Sam. It would be marvelous for her.”
“Her father is picking her up in two days. She’s all set for the summer, or one month at least. So I’m going to stay home and keep house.”
“For whom?”
“Me.”
“Gillian, please. Don’t answer me now, think about it, please.”
“All right, I’ll think about it.”
“No you won’t, I can tell.” He was right.
“Really, I will. I’ll write and let you know what I decide.” I’ll write and tell you no.
“No. If you write, that means you’re not coming. I’ll call you in a few days. There’s a flight out of Los Angeles that goes direct to Nice. I could pick you up there.”
“Christ, I haven’t been there since I was a kid.”
“Well, it’s time you came back . . . please.” There was that pleading tone in his voice again.
“Well, I’ll think it over. How’s everything else?”
“Wonderful. I’m happy here. You were right.” At least I had been right for someone. But that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that Chris had fallen off a crane.
“How’s Greg?”
“He was over here during spring vacation. Loved it, said he’s coming back in July,” and there was something new in Gordon’s voice. I could hear it in spite of the little gnomes hacking away at our transatlantic connection.
“Look, this is costing you a fortune. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Think about it, Gill. . . . I need you.”
“Good-bye.”
“Bye . . . I’ll call you at the end of the week.”
. . . I need you. . . . I need you. . . . How long had it been since a man had said that to me? Months? Longer? Had Chris ever really needed me, or just wanted me? And Gordon hadn’t needed me before either. Not until the very end. How long since a man had needed me? Ever? . . . I need you. . . .
I called Peg and told her, and her reaction was instantaneous. “Go!” It was a command. But I had known she would say that. Why did I call her? To hear her tell me that? To hear her say “Go!”?
“Don’t be an ass. All I need is to go to the south of France and get all messed up with Gordon.”
“Messed up? What’s messed up? He was good enough for you before. Do you have something better I don’t know about? Shit, Gillian, I’d jump at the chance.”
“Don’t let Tom hear you say that.”
“All right, all right, but if you don’t go . . . baby, you’re out of your mind,” and we hung up, equally irritated with each other. I was annoyed with Peg, and with myself for calling her. Now, I’d have to listen to her push and harp for the next few days, and then bitch at me all summer about not going.
Sam left with Richard and they flew to London. Before he left, he looked at me and I think he felt sorry for me. “I’m sorry this has happened to you, Gill,” and he only knew the half of it.
“Thanks. So am I. But we’re doing fine. Sam likes San Francisco.” Anything to get off the subject.
“You never go to Europe anymore. Why don’t you come over this summer, to pick up Sam? It would give you a chance to roam around again.”
“And recapture my youth?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but you thought it. I’ll see.” Everyone was pushing Europe this season.
I told Sam I’d call her, and she looked tearful as they left. I remembered that same feeling from when I was a child, and it tore at my heart as they drove away while I stood on the steps waving.
I sat in the house, listening to the emptiness, looking at the toys she’d left in the living room, wondering how people survive without children.
The phone rang again. I hoped it was Peg. It would be nice to have them over to put some life and voices back in the place.
“Allo?” Oh Christ. Gordon again. And I hadn’t really given it any thought. Not yet. I needed time. Please, some time. Not yet . . . always not yet.
“Gillian? What’s the word? But before you tell me, I want you to know that I’ll understand if you don’t come. I want you here, but I understand. I have no right. . . .”
“I’m coming,” and I almost fell off my seat I was so surprised at myself.
“You are?” I wasn’t the only one who was surprised.
“Yes. I just made up my mind. This minute, in fact.” I was still stunned.
“When are you coming?”
“I don’t know. I really hadn’t thought about it till this second. When’s the next plane over?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Too soon.”
“All right. There’s another one a week from tomorrow. That ought to give you time to get yourself together. When’s Sam leaving?”
“She just left, about eight minutes ago.”
“All right, I’ll meet you in Nice, a week from tomorrow. I’ll be at the airport. And Gillian . . . darling . . . thank you. You’ll love it here, you really will. . . . Thank you.”
I murmured something in response and we hung up. What the hell had I done? I had given myself a vacation, nothing more. Oh, yes, much more. I had held out a hand and allowed myself to be needed again, because I needed Gordon too. It was a beautiful feeling. Chris . . . Chris . . . darling, I’m sorry . . . but as I walked upstairs I remembered Chris. And Marilyn. The real Chris. He’d understand. He really would have.
“Peg? I’m going. I just talked to Gordon. I’m leaving a week from tomorrow.”
“Hallelujah! We’ll be right over.” And they were, with a bottle of Spanish wine, which we finished in an hour, amidst great giggles and back pounding. They were “proud” of me. Too proud. I felt as though I had betrayed Chris, and in a quiet moment I went out to the kitchen to get more ice. And get away from them.
Tom was right behind me and he was looking down at me as I fiddled wit
h the ice tray. I was trying not to cry, and not to look back at him, when he grabbed my arm and pulled me out of my hiding place in the refrigerator.
“Gillian. He would have wanted it. He wouldn’t have liked you like this.”
“I know. But I can’t help it. I have to . . . I had to.”
“I know that. But now you have to stop. Love him, Gillian, remember him, remember what he was. But don’t turn him into a ghost. He wasn’t that kind of man. And you’re not that kind of woman. Hang on to him. We all will. And maybe you’ll never love anybody as much as you loved him, but I’ll bet you never loved him alive as much as you love him dead.” It was true, it was true. I had had doubts and bad moments. But I did love him, and I looked up at Tom with tears running down my cheeks again, and feeling defiant. “I did love him.”
“I know you did. But be brave, Gill. Don’t settle for halfway. You never have before and he never did,” and I hung onto Tom and cried. It was almost over . . . don’t settle for halfway . . . step out, walk ahead, move on, reach out . . . to love again . . . be brave enough . . . to go to Eze . . . brave enough for Gordon. Brave enough for Chris.
When we walked out of the kitchen, Peg looked up at us and said, “Kissing in the kitchen, huh? Listen, Gill, I hate to ask you this, but . . . can we borrow the house while you’re gone? We have to give up Tom’s place. It’s too small and it’s driving me nuts.
The lease is up this month and we should be able to find something else pretty soon.”
“Sure! You don’t even have to ask. You can move in tomorrow.”
“Well, I think we can wait a week.” It was a nice feeling to know that there would be people living in the house while I was gone. Living people. Happy people. Our friends in Chris’s house.
A week later, Tom and Peg drove me down to Los Angeles. I had insisted that I could fly down and just change planes, but they wanted to go down and see Tom’s parents, and they wanted to see me off.
“How do I know you won’t sit in Disneyland all summer and tell us you’ve been to France?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“No,” and she looked as though she might mean it. It was a nice trip down; we took turns driving, and the trip went quickly.
“Pan American Flight 115, departing from Gate 43 . . . final call for all passengers departing to Nice, France, on Pan American Flight. . . .”
“That’s it.”
“Yeah.” We stood around looking nervous, not knowing what to say. That same feeling we had had at Hobson’s. God, how I hate good-byes.
“Peg, take care . . . I’ll write . . . Tom . . . ,” and he squeezed me in a big bear hug and passed me on to Peg who hugged me too and looked shaken.
“Now get on that goddam plane before I fall apart, willyouforchrissake.” That was the old Peg.
“Good-bye, you two.”
Tom gave me one of his boy-man grins. “We’ll take good care of the house. And let us know when you’re coming back so we can sweep up the dirt.” I nodded, and they waved, and I walked through the gate to Flight 115. I looked back and they were still there, watching, and holding hands.
43
It wasn’t quite tourist season yet, so the flight was less than half full. It was a long flight, and most people prefer to break it up by stopping in New York. Most of the people looked European, and I sat alone, with three seats to myself, across the aisle from a man who was also traveling alone and who looked definitely American. He looked over at me a few times, and I thought he might try to start a conversation so I looked away.
I slept for most of the trip, and looked down at the clouds, thinking about Peg and how far we’d come together. Tom too. He had become one hell of a good friend, and it seemed fitting that he and Peg should end up together. Who would have believed all this a year ago? Who would believe anything the year before it happens?
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Lillian Forrest? I think I met you in New York.” It was the man from across the aisle. I was tempted to say, “No, the name’s Jane Jones.”
“Gillian Forrester. You were close,” and I looked away again, hoping he’d be satisfied with having established who I was. I didn’t ask him to reciprocate the information, for fear it would lead him into further conversation.
“You won’t believe this, but I met you at a party you gave, oh way back in October it must have been, last year. In New York. Great party!”
“Thanks.”
“I was working for a bank in New York, and this chick says, ‘I’ve been invited to the greatest party, I mean this girl really knows how to give them.’ And she was right. Great party! Would you believe, after that she got married, and I got transferred to Los Angeles, and my sister had twins? I mean, all that since last fall,” and he looked at me, as though I really shouldn’t believe it.
“Thanks, about the party, I mean. Sounds like you’ve had a busy year,” and I cringed, thinking I had encouraged him to expound further.
“Yeah. Sometimes I just sit back and think, ‘whoda believed it a year ago, here I am in Los Angeles.’ I mean it’s a whole new world. A whole new life.”
“Mmm . . . I know what you mean. Who would believe?” and I turned away again, to look out the window, down at the clouds.
“You know something, Lillian, you look different. I almost didn’t recognize you, except I never forget a face.” He stared at me for a moment. “Yeah, you’ve changed. Something about the way you look. Not older, just different.” That’s right, brother, “different,” but older; it’s okay, you could have said it, because, baby, I earned it.
I turned away then, for the last time, and slept the rest of the way to Nice.
“Veuillez attacher votre ceinture de sûreté, et ne pas . . .”—please fasten . . . “We will be arriving in Nice in approximately fifteen minutes; the local time is three-thirty-five and the temperature is 78 degrees Fahrenheit. Thank you for flying Pan American. We hope you have enjoyed your flight, and wish you a pleasant stay in Nice. If you wish to make reservations for the trip home, please see our ticket agent in the main lobby of the terminal building. Thank you and good-bye. . . . Mesdames et messieurs, nous allons atterrir à Nice dans. . . . Merci et au revoir.”
The plane came to a bumpy stop on the runway and taxied in toward the terminal building, stopping just far enough away to allow a gangway to be rolled up next to the aircraft. I came down the stairs and looked around. No sign of Gordon. And then I remembered customs. La douane. He would be waiting on the other side. I felt surprisingly calm, only a little irritated that I hadn’t at least had time to comb my hair properly before landing. I had slept till the last minute and had had to do all possible repairs from my seat. I felt rumpled; it had been a long trip.
The douanier looked North African, and stamped my passport and bags without a second glance. American passport. Abracadabra, like magic. They hate your guts, but at least they don’t rip your luggage apart. Not like in the States.
“So long, Lillian . . . see you ’round.” My friend from across the aisle. Still no Gordon. Maybe he had been delayed by traffic, maybe. But what if? . . . Oh not something else. Oh please, Lord, don’t do this to me. You can’t hate me this much. . . . No, oh no . . . and as I began to panic I looked up and there he was. Taller than I had remembered, thinner, his beard looked fuller, his eyes bluer in the tanned face. He stood looking uncertain, as though he wasn’t sure he ought to come and get me after all. All the last months stood between us, the story of it in his eyes, just as I knew it was in mine. We just went on standing there.
“Watch your step, madame, it’s a very big step. Watch your step, sir.” There were two steep steps down from the customs area, and a guard was warning arriving tourists. You’re right, it’s a very big step monsieur. And Tom’s words rang in my ears: “Be brave, Gill. Don’t settle for halfway. . . .” I stepped down, slowly, carefully, deliberately, looking down at the steps to be sure of my footing. Always look to be sure of your footing. Look at those steps . . . one .
. . two . . . and I was at his side.
He continued to look down at me for an endless moment, doubtful, as though he didn’t dare believe. He pulled me to him, slowly, holding me gently in his arms.
“I’m back,” I whispered into his shoulder.
He closed his eyes then and pulled me closer. “Now I know. I thought I’d lost you too.” After a moment we faced each other again, all our years reflected in our eyes, the people we had been, the people we had loved, the people we had lost in different ways . . . his wife . . . my husband . . . Juanita . . . Greg . . . Chris . . . they stood around us, and watched us go, hand in hand, going home.
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