In the Palomar Arms

by Hilma Wolitzer

  “Oh, Christ,” Steinmetz moans.

  The man who did the treatment about the aborted fetus waves his hand frantically, as if he’s trying to flag down a train. “Get with it, lady,” he says. “This is the twentieth century!”

  “Well, I think it’s disgusting,” she tells him.

  “Yeah, but the question is, does it play?” Steinmetz insists.

  “Listen, everybody, I’m sorry,” Daphne says. “But I just got back from a trip. I’m tired and a little on edge.”

  “Is that in the script?” Marshall asks.

  “Oh, why don’t you take off that stupid cap!” she cries, and instantly regrets it. He’s probably profoundly bald—hence the cap in the first place, and the compensation of those overgrown sideburns. “Don’t!” she says, a moment too late.

  But he’s not bald at all. In fact, he has a luxuriant head of dark hair that springs into shape as soon as the cap is removed. Someone rowdy whistles and applauds. Daphne feels embarrassed, as if it were an erection Marshall has exposed. Without the cap, and if he could lose some weight … He’s really a very nice-looking man, and probably a decent one. Look at his range of emotions in this short, excruciating session: the appeal of his smile before saying his first line; the way he blushed when she suggested he speak his heart; his humiliation at the revelation of his own good looks. He might have had a crush on her all term, and now she’s spoken harshly to him without due cause. Her ache has become centralized, and it’s radiating. She longs for Kenny, while Marshall longs for her, and maybe Mrs. Spurgeon longs for Marshall, in a hapless chain of unrequited longing. She has been so selfish and self-centered, so stonily elite in this roomful of people she had privately considered losers. Course takers, idlers, lost California souls. Even Steinmetz, the so-called authority here. What is he doing in Ventura, when Hollywood is so close? And what did he ever have produced, anyway? A few soap episodes. A couple of rewrites for that old sitcom, I Married Joan.

  But what makes Daphne think that she’s different, only a tourist slumming in purgatory? Monica may be creepy and crazy, but she’s right about the direction of Daphne’s life. It must change if anything worthwhile is to become of her. This knowledge is fortifying. It will give her the strength to be firm and articulate with Kenny, and to survive the dread of their meeting until it finally takes place. “Forgive me, Marshall. Please,” she says, “can we just continue?”

  He nods, crushing the ebullience of his hair under the Dodgers cap. There is a ruffling noise as everyone looks at the script again. “Scared of what, my lover?” Jake asks.

  “Of … oh, of everything!” Jacqueline answers. And it plays.

  14

  THERE ARE SO MANY pretty women in Ventura. And their clothing is wonderful, full of color and movement. Those ridiculous high-fashion styles in the Times look fine on real bodies. Tight, faded jeans do, too.

  Kenny sits in the Toyota, the raised tinted windows isolating him in unnatural slimness from the dazzling scene outside, making him a voyeur when he’d rather be a participant. He’ll be able to open the windows soon, but now the sealed car holds the last few blasts of air-conditioned relief. A tape of Mahler’s Fifth slightly tempers Kenny’s insane bliss. The fourth movement will probably make him wild again, but it’s worth it.

  He’s a little early; Daphne won’t be out for about ten more minutes, if she’s coming at all. Her car isn’t in the lot, but she could have taken the bus today, or come straight from the airport in a taxi. Kenny believes she’s inside the building he’s facing; he feels it in a rare tremor of clairvoyance. He’ll have to ride around again a few more times to cool off, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind anything right now. It’s one of those moments of well-being in which he is indestructibly robust and hopeful. Perhaps the women walking by would not be so pretty if his spirits were lower. But now they look perfect. How lucky he is to be alive in an era when life is extended by science, and sexuality is celebrated by just about everyone. Jesus, he’s tempted to roll down the window now and shout something to that pair of athletic beauties jogging past like madwomen in the heat. Nothing macho or obscene. Just “Hello!” or “Great day!” or something else as innocuous as that. Better not. In the rearview mirror, he sees his excited eyes and winks that he looks like a sex maniac in a schoolyard. He could get a faceful of Mace for his friendliness, or Daphne could show up as the campus police drag him off. Oh, where the hell is she?

  He opens the window because he’s sweating and starting to feel uncomfortably alone. The air is appallingly hot, and he quickly rolls the window shut. He turns on the ignition and begins riding in a slow, small circle, the air conditioner on low, the music brilliantly loud. And then, at the very peak of the fourth movement, he sees her come through the center doorway of the building. Even from a distance, her stature and beauty don’t seem reduced. He puts the car into neutral and leaves the motor running, wanting to watch her walk toward him, and wanting to delay the exact moment of reunion a little longer. He is aware that he often holds back this way in lovemaking, for the same exquisite sensation of harnessed pleasure.

  Other students come through the doorway and walk behind Daphne—stragglers from her class, he supposes. Several classes must have broken at once, because now other doors open and more people wander out. But he can focus only on Daphne, as if she’s crossing a broad stage under the faithful beam of a spotlight, carrying a suitcase. He is about to open the door and run to her, when a man just behind her catches up and, after a brief exchange, takes the suitcase from her hand. She protests, but not enough, and then they veer off, heading away from Kenny.

  “Hey!” he yells, and he opens the door of the Toyota. Mahler pours out in a torrent, and several people stop to listen and stare. Daphne doesn’t hear anything; she’s too far away. Christ, she’s getting into that joker’s car. He’s wearing a baseball cap, and he’s putting her suitcase into the backseat. Then he holds the passenger door open for Daphne and touches her arm. Is she smiling? They look like they’re about to go off on a fucking honeymoon. Kenny wants to drive right up to them, but there’s a small flurry of traffic around him, and he might get stuck. Instead, he leaves his car door open, the motor and music still on, and starts to run across the parking lot. “Hey!” he yells again, and bumps into somebody, spilling books to the ground. But he doesn’t pause or turn around, even when curses are called after him.

  He gets there just in time. He has to tap on the window, and she looks up in absolute amazement, as if she never expected to see him again in this life.

  She doesn’t get out, which infuriates him. He’s breathless and plastered with sweat, standing there with his hands on his hips and heaving like an asshole; while she turns away to say something to the guy in the car with her.

  Then both doors open at once. Kenny wants to embrace her, but it’s too awkward. The man is out first and rushes up, extending his hand. “Marshall Haber,” he says, and Kenny assesses him with some relief. He mumbles his own name and they shake hands while Daphne waits.

  “Hello, puss,” Kenny says, turning to her. His voice is too loud and possessive.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, and wishes that she didn’t tremble so easily.

  He opens his hands. “I was just driving through,” he says, “and there you were.” That doesn’t even earn him a smile. What was she smiling about so much before he got here?

  “Come on, I’ll take your bag,” Kenny says. She hesitates, and he knows immediately that he’ll play that moment of hesitation over and over again in his head later. Someday, when they’re quarreling about something else, he might even bring it up. It scares him to see himself hoarding such ammunition for future discord. He had planned to come to her unarmed, except for the argument of love.

  She turns to the man in the baseball cap and says, “Kenny’s an old friend, Marshall. But I didn’t know he’d be here. Thanks for offering the ride, anyway.”

  Marshall looks as if he’s used to defeat, as if he ex
pects it. “Sure thing,” he says, and pulls her suitcase out of the car. He gives it to Kenny in a gesture that seems unnecessarily formal. Still, Kenny thanks him, and they shake hands again, like a couple of Frenchmen. He supposes he’s lucky not to get kissed. He and Daphne have not kissed yet, either. They haven’t even shaken hands. “Old friend,” she’d called him. Meanly, he stores that phrase next to her hesitation, and they start to walk in silence across the parking lot.

  Daphne looks behind them. “So long, Jake!” she bellows, and Kenny turns to see the guy in the baseball cap grin at her and cup his hands around his mouth. “Au revoir, Jacqueline!” he answers, and they wave gaily at each other.

  “What’s that?” Kenny asks, struggling to lighten his tone. “A code or something?”

  It’s difficult for Daphne to make eye contact with him. In the powerful sunlight, he appears golden and illusory, like a field of wheat. After all her preparation, she’s unprepared for this meeting. “It’s only a little joke,” she says.

  Nothing seems funny to Kenny. His plans have been spoiled and it’s Daphne’s fault. But he doesn’t want to quarrel; he wants to establish the mood he’d anticipated, to recall his own manic happiness and arouse hers. He shifts the suitcase to his other hand and puts his arm around her waist. She allows herself to be drawn close enough for a glancing kiss. “I missed you very much,” he whispers.

  “We have to talk, Kenny,” she says. It could be another rotten line in her teleplay.

  “Among other things.” He puts his mouth against her warm hair.

  He’s taking over. It’s what he does. In bed his aggression is a healthy challenge she loves to meet. Here, now, she feels repressed by it, and impotent. She stops walking and stamps her foot. “No!” she says.

  “No, what?” he asks pleasantly, teasing, bluffing. She’s spoken in the brittle and stubborn voice of the airport phone call. She sounds like Molly, trying to fight bedtime forever.

  “I want us to stop, Kenny,” Daphne says. “I decided while I was in Seattle. This makes me too unhappy.”

  “Would you be happier alone?”

  “No,” she answers truthfully. “At least, not for a while.”

  “Oh, come on, Daph,” he says. “This is a hell of a reunion.”

  “That’s because we’re not together anymore.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that.”

  “Sarcasm won’t help, Kenny.”

  “Okay, what will, then? Just tell me, and I’ll do it.”

  “No, you won’t,” she says softly, but she knows he’s heard her.

  “Listen,” he says. “Did you get my message in Seattle? I think I spoke to your mother. She sounded a little like you. My heart was clunking like a kid’s.”

  “You didn’t leave a message. You didn’t even leave your name.”

  “That’s because there really wasn’t any message. I was only dying for the sound of your voice. I called you a hundred times back here first.” He hesitates and then says, “I even went to the apartment once.”

  “Why? Why did you do that? I told you I was going away, didn’t I?”

  “Why? I’m in love, that’s why! I’m irrational! I brought you flowers, but they died.” The last doesn’t seem like a lie after he’s said it. He had seriously considered bringing them, anyway. And they would have died. When they reach the Toyota, he wishes that he’d filled it with orchids, like a Mafia chief’s hearse. He’s surprised by the chugging engine, the music still playing. He’s surprised the car wasn’t stolen, with an open invitation like this. Maybe his luck is about to change. He looks at Daphne, hoping she’ll seem impressed by this display of recklessness, but her face tells him nothing. He puts her suitcase into the trunk and then fumbles with the handle on her side, made clumsy by her lack of response. When the door is open, he says, “Get in,” incapable of more graciousness than that.

  She obeys, without speaking, a passive rebel, and now she reminds him of Joy, of all the times they’ve entered cars, rooms, even their bed, in controlled and furious silence. How unwelcome these comparisons to his wife and daughter would be to Daphne right now. He hates himself for thinking of them, and is glad, at least, that she can’t read his mind. Sitting close to her like this, he is rushed by tenderness. It is much better than the scalding lust he’s felt for days. This requires no effort on his part, no act of conclusion. He has only to experience it.

  All the pretty women in Ventura, in California, in the world, and he wants and loves only this one. It’s a miracle, not the kind he’d hoped for earlier in his office, that would have untangled the intricate knots of his life, but the simpler, more available miracle of selection and desire. He would like to say something about this to Daphne, but he knows it’s too soon. She wouldn’t believe him or really listen. Someone has brainwashed her about the dangers of her own need, and she’s frightened and grieving. He risks putting his hand briefly against her face, and then he starts to drive her home.

  15

  WELL, WHAT DID SHE expect—that she could end it with a fast phone call, the way you cancel a dental appointment? That it was possible to avoid a scene simply because she didn’t want to suffer one? She gets out of the car quickly before he can open the door for her, that old trick of chivalry to gain advantage.

  Kenny follows Daphne through the narrow lobby, carrying her suitcase. He’s reassured by the dim light of the hallway, the familiar dank and slightly spicy odor. His heart moves swiftly with hope, as it always does here. He knows that soon it will all be better, that the moment they lie down together, they’ll also lay everything else aside.

  Daphne thinks that it will be over before very long, and then she remembers other afternoons, his moving shadow on her back as she unlocked the door, and she has to steady the hand holding the keys.

  The apartment is stifling and dark. After she draws one of the blinds halfway up, Daphne sees the debris she’d deliberately left before her trip, and decides to ignore it. The hell with it, she tells herself as she sits in the straight-backed chair, exhausted, and determined to begin.

  Kenny is disconcerted: there was no instant magic as they crossed the threshold. Daphne’s sitting there like a hanging judge. And, Jesus, what a mess.

  She registers his survey of the sloppy room, that thoughtful frown. He looks around as if he’s checking for evidence of intruders. A robber would have to be pretty hard up, or totally lost, to choose this place. She’s aware that Kenny is reserving comment and that he’s playing at being man of the house. He picks up the single slipper in the middle of the floor—a pitiful clue—and lets it drop back down. It sounds a muted thump. He turns on the air conditioner to its whirlwind maximum level, and pulls the other blind open with a clatter. Then he kneels at the fireplace to start the idiot fan rotating. In contrast to his noisy puttering, her own quietude gives her unexpected confidence. She folds her hands in her lap, completing the picture of serenity. But when he sits on the sofa, with the orange light flickering across his dear face, her confidence is threatened. What if he proclaims his love again?

  “Now,” Kenny says. “Tell me what’s happened.”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s happened.” He’s caught her off guard, and she can only come up with a defensive, sullen answer. Anyway, nothing really has happened, in the way he probably means. An old lover hasn’t swept back into her life. And she hasn’t had a reeling epiphany. Does anyone ever have one, except for heroes in books? And is heroism only a lie we read about? “Nothing’s happened,” she repeats, “and that’s the whole point. I feel cheated, Kenny, really ripped off.” He doesn’t ambush her with arguments. He doesn’t leap from his seat to take her into his arms, and she’s relieved and disappointed at once. And because he hasn’t interrupted her, she feels compelled to go on. “I keep thinking of you with your family, and that you won’t ever leave them, no matter what you say.”

  His family! Kenny has a nightmare vision of having literally left them somewhere, intending to return in a few minutes and then forgettin
g his intention. By mentioning them in this room, Daphne has violated an unspoken pact. She’s ruined the order of things, and he’d like to wring her neck. Instead, he’s doggedly patient, as he was earlier in the parking lot, where he’d been the one to break faith by his errant thoughts. “But we had a schedule, Daph. We agreed on it, didn’t we? You understand how complicated everything is.”

  He’s being too reasonable, as if she’s a child who needs the rules of a simple game explained once more, and he’s the magnanimous uncle. Her anger is building, but she can handle it. It even gives her a bloodburst of energy, like a sugar high. And she won’t justify his condescension by acting like a baby. She, too, is a reasonable adult, and can match his patient manner, word for careful word. “It makes me foolish, you know,” she says. “The kind of woman who writes to Ann Landers for advice she doesn’t really need. Vexed in Ventura. I hate being like that. I’m not like that.” She hopes she sounds assured, that the quiver in her voice only attests to the power of her conviction. “When you’re not here,” Daphne continues, “sometimes I daydream about where you are and what you’re doing.”

  “I do the same about you,” he says.

  “That’s not what I mean. I imagine you talking about dinner and wallpaper, and shutting off all the lights in your house, one after the other. I see you kissing your children good night, and then making love to your … to Joy.” She waits for him to deny that last, but he only smiles sadly and leans forward a little, encouraging her to go on. “It makes me heartsick with envy,” she says. “It makes me cruel in my thoughts.”

  What does she know about cruelty? His wife and children, abandoned in a cloud of highway fumes, dumped in an alley, or on the treacherous peak of a glass mountain.

  “In my parents’ house,” Daphne says, “I looked at all the things they’ve accumulated over the years—pots, colanders, photographs, canceled checks, place mats, tax returns, plants, the things in the medicine chest and the kitchen cupboards, the marked boxes in the garage and the attic … clothing and tools and yearbooks and letters. I realized that you’re bound to your family by things, by possessions and experience, even by the bad times. You and I were good together, Kenny, but we hardly have any history between us. And history always wins out in the end.”