Dreams of Jeannie and Other Stories

by Catherine Dain

  Dark streaks rose from the silk around her waist to touch the ones falling from under her breasts. She searched in her purse for a tissue to blot her face, but she hadn't thought to include one.

  The black bus had brought her up the hill a year ago. She had a sense of shifting reality at the curve in the road, even before the bus reached the gates. The stench of the other women in the bus, a combination of alcoholic sweat and poor hygiene, had been so overwhelming that she al­most vomited. Since then her nose had become less sensi­tive.

  She tugged at her blouse again, trying to make it fit, trying to keep the dampness away from her skin. It was over. Kickout day, she reminded herself. She had survived the year.

  The scrub on the hill had turned yellow again in the Sep­tember sun. She had watched it through an entire cycle of seasons, waiting for this day.

  The sun was almost hidden, the dry hill beginning to darken, before the car she was expecting nosed around the curve. She recognized the silver BMW 325i even before it slowed, then stopped, in front of her.

  The engine kept purring.

  No one got out.

  The trunk lid flipped open, and she heaved the suitcase in, fighting the urge to slam the lid back down. She closed it as softly as she could.

  The door on the passenger side was locked. She had to wait for the driver to let her in. She arranged herself quietly, fastened her seatbelt. The blast from the car's air condi­tioning made her shiver. The damp silk stuck like glue.

  She had to touch the surfaces—the silvery gray leather of the dashboard, the gray plush of the seat. She thought about closing the louvered vent but didn't do it. She would get used to air conditioning again.

  "I'm sorry I'm late, Lynn, but the freeways were jammed."

  The woman in the driver's seat kept both hands on the steering wheel as she said it. She looked straight ahead as she pulled away from the curb.

  Lynn. Annie was the only person who had called her Lynn for months, ever since the last of her former friends stopped visiting. She had been Marilyn in the jail, not Lynn.

  That was something she would have to decide, whether she wanted to be Lynn or Marilyn. She had a lot to decide, really, although most of the big decisions were already made, had been made a year ago so that she hadn't had to think about them in jail. She wondered if she could ever possibly be Lynn again.

  She looked at Annie, the woman in the driver's seat, and decided not to bring up the name question. The identity question. Annie hadn't been perspiring, and her clothes fit, and her auburn hair had been cut by someone with a li­cense.

  Annie, her sister, who didn't want to look at her.

  The BMW smoothly completed the circle of asphalt and headed back around the curve, down the hill.

  Marilyn—she discovered that she thought of herself as Marilyn—leaned forward, watching for the first house. When she saw it, white stucco with red tile roof, just as it had been when she had ridden up the hill in the sheriffs bus, she realized that she had been holding her breath, afraid too much had changed, in just one year, for her to even recognize a house.

  She wanted desperately to see something familiar in this decaying neighborhood of graffiti-covered garages and boarded-up gas stations. All she saw was one frail, ragged, brown-skinned man pushing a frozen fruit cart. She would have to wait.

  They paused for the light at Eastern. Annie glanced at her, then moved into traffic and signaled for a left onto the freeway.

  "There are a few things I need to tell you," she said. "The family has decided against a celebration. We felt it would be awkward."

  "Celebration?" Marilyn realized that she had forgotten to think about what would happen when they reached the house. She had spent her first months in jail training herself not to think beyond the moment. It was only during the last week that she had allowed herself to remember the future. She hoped she hadn't lost the ability to plan ahead, the thing that happens to people with frontal lobotomies.

  "Your birthday."

  Marilyn shut her eyes.

  "I'm sorry—I really am." Annie's voice rose. "Turning forty has to be rough under any circumstances, and this—"

  Marilyn could feel Annie's struggle for control, but she couldn't find the energy to help her. She had to conserve her energy to hold onto that tiny bit of power she had re­ceived from the half hour of waiting in the sun. She leaned her head against the window. Her window. This was her car. Two years ago it had been her birthday present.

  "It was all I could do to convince Karl that you should have dinner and spend the night with us. I'm sorry, I really am," Annie repeated. "I'll help you find another place to stay tomorrow."

  "I'm not sure I can find a place in one day," Marilyn said. She wasn't ready to tell Annie, but she had another place to spend the night, a night that had been planned a long time ago. She remembered that—she had remembered it a lot the last few days, remembered that she had some­thing to look forward to. She could feel the blood surging in her veins, and she was glad her face had been already flushed from the heat, so she didn't have to explain. "Debbie and Buddy will probably want to stay close to the school, and there aren't that many rentals in the area."

  "That's another thing." The other thing had to wait until Annie was in the right lane for the Hollywood Freeway. "You don't need to find a place for three. Debbie and Ross have decided that they want to stay with us, and Karl and I are happy to have them. So is Meryl. She likes having her cousins living with her. We all think it's the best way to go."

  Marilyn froze at the name Ross. Then she realized that Annie was referring to Buddy—her son, not his father. She couldn't think of her son as Ross. And Annie didn't know that she wanted a place for four, not three.

  "Why? Why is it the best way to go?"

  Annie concentrated on her driving.

  "Why?" Marilyn repeated.

  "Come on, Lynn. You know why. You murdered their father. They haven't forgiven you for that."

  Murder. Both the word and the coolness of Annie's voice jolted her. It wasn't murder, Marilyn thought. It wasn't murder. It was voluntary manslaughter with the spe­cial circumstance the lawyers call extreme emotional distur­bance. Everyone had agreed to the plea bargain. She opened her mouth, but there was nothing she wanted to say to Annie about it.

  Annie glanced at her stiffly, reprovingly. Annie had probably expected her to cry, she thought, would have been happier if she were crying, but she felt too relieved to cry. Ross was dead, after all, and she was free.

  "Maybe I should stay in a hotel," she said. Saying it was easier than she feared. "I need to talk with Debbie and Buddy—need to explain to them. I could do that tomorrow. But maybe tonight I should stay in a hotel."

  "Okay. If that's what you want. Where?"

  "I'll let you know. Someplace where they will take care of me. Someplace where I can get a facial and a manicure and a massage." Did the Chateau Marmont have a spa? She wasn't sure. If not, she could take care of those things to­morrow.

  "I don't think that will help you with Debbie and Ross," Annie said. "They're looking for signs of remorse."

  Remorse. Marilyn had to think about remorse.

  "I'm not sorry Ross is dead." She searched for the right words. "I know you want me to say I am, but I'm not. I am sorry I couldn't come up with a means of getting away from him that didn't include bashing his head with an iron sculp­ture. But I don't think about that night anymore. I haven't thought about it for a long time."

  She had a flash of memory, of Ross, naked, throwing her down on the bed. Then another flash of Ross covered in blood, and a surge of joy. That was enough. She turned back to Annie.

  "What did you think about?" Annie asked. "You spent a year in a cell. What was more important?"

  Marilyn was startled by how angry Annie was. What did Annie have to be angry about?

  "I didn't think about the past. I survived, that was all I could do. I wish we could go back to where we were, though. You and I. Can we be friends aga
in?"

  "We can't go back to where we were as long as Ross is dead."

  "I didn't do very well, did I? Letting you know what it was like?"

  "What what was like? Marriage to Ross? What's to understand? That he screwed around? That he had too much to drink a couple of times and threw you against the wall? I can understand that. Shit happens, and Ross was a bright, funny guy, but he wasn't always a nice guy. So if you had divorced him, I would have been with you every day in the courtroom while you fought for custody and child support. That would have made sense. Murdering him didn't."

  "Voluntary manslaughter," Marilyn whispered. She would have said more if she thought Annie could hear.

  "They could have had you on second degree, but no­body wanted the trial, least of all Ross's partners. Ask Karl. They just wanted the scandal to go away before it ruined the firm. Temporary insanity would have been even better, but the DA's office wouldn't go for it." Annie's face twisted. She concentrated on changing lanes on the freeway, then continued more softly. "People can't just kill people, damn it. We live in a society that's falling apart, and it's all because people kill people."

  "I'm sorry you were hurt." Marilyn was tired of apolo­gizing, and she stifled an urge to respond with anger of her own. That had been a useful skill in jail, stifling anger. It was one she had acquired as a child, and she had only lost it that single time with Ross.

  "Unintended consequences," Annie said. "We all have to live with the unintended consequences of what we do."

  "You're making it sound simpler than it was—divorcing him. What you don't understand—what I don't know how to explain—is how powerless I felt. Until I picked up that small iron torso and hit him. He looked so stunned—so in­credulous—so amazed that I might fight back—that I had to hit him again. And then when he was lying on the floor—when he was powerless—I hit him again."

  "Stop." Annie's face had turned white. "I don't want to hear this. Please just sit quietly until I can get you to a hotel."

  "But this is my car. Did you forget? I didn't. This is my car. I'll leave you at your house. And call you tomorrow. We can talk then."

  "Oh, God. You think you got away with it. One year in county jail wasn't punishment. You think you got away with it."

  Marilyn was silent. They were leaving the freeway on Highland, skirting the edge of Hollywood to get to Hancock Park. She wanted to see the buildings, the people, the trees.

  Annie turned the car onto a street with houses set back from the street, houses with landscaped grounds. She paused in front of a gated driveway.

  "Thank you for picking me up," Marilyn said. "And for taking care of Debbie and Buddy. I'm not sure I ever really thanked you for that."

  "You're welcome." Annie said it stiffly, without looking at her. "You'll need money to stay in the hotel. I picked up fifteen hundred in cash to tide you over. I was going to give it to you in the morning."

  She took the bills out of her purse and handed them to Marilyn. Then she got out of the car and walked around it toward the house, leaving the engine running.

  "Thank you again," Marilyn called to Annie's back.

  Marilyn slid into the driver's seat. She touched the steering wheel and carefully released the parking brake. She eased the car away from the curb.

  Freedom. She could sleep wherever she wanted. Stay wherever she wanted. Starting tomorrow, anyway. She had definite plans for tonight.

  "Mrs. Bradford!"

  The voice startled her. A short, dark, middle-aged woman in a pink uniform with two shopping bags at her feet was standing in Annie's driveway, waving. It took a moment for Marilyn to recognize Consuelo.

  She pulled over to acknowledge the maid's greeting.

  "Welcome back, Mrs. Bradford," Consuelo called.

  "Thank you. Do you need a ride somewhere?"

  "Just to the bus stop on Wilshire, if it isn't out of your way."

  "No, not at all."

  Marilyn leaned over to open the door.

  Consuelo tucked the shopping bags under the dashboard and sat heavily.

  Marilyn again eased the car out into the street.

  "It's good to be careful," Consuelo said. "It takes awhile for things outside to feel normal."

  "How do you know?"

  "My nephew robbed a 7-11. He was in county jail for three months."

  "What happened when he got out?"

  "Nobody cared. Everybody robs a 7-11, nobody cares, except people who hire you. When he got out, he came home. His mother was glad to see him."

  "And he promised her he would never do it again?"

  "No. The next time it was an Arco AM-PM. Don't tell Mrs. Stenner, okay?"

  "I won't tell Annie. Where is your nephew now?"

  "Back in jail, waiting trial. It's bad, you know? He robbed the 7-11 because he couldn't find a job, and he wanted money for clothes and stuff. Then he had a jail rec­ord, so he couldn't find a job, so he robbed the Arco. What does he do next?"

  "I don't know." Marilyn concentrated on the signal light, on making the left turn on Wilshire.

  "Who will hire him? His life in prison, that's what he's looking at. His whole life in prison."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Could you maybe talk to somebody? To give him an­other chance?"

  "I'd be happy to, but I don't know anybody."

  "Mrs. Bradford, forgive me. But you got a year in county jail for a crime I would have got life in prison for. You know somebody."

  "I'll try to think." Marilyn frowned, not certain how one went about helping a petty thief. "I'll let you know if I can help."

  "Okay. Thanks. The stop is at the corner."

  Marilyn pulled over and Consuelo got out. She smiled at Marilyn the whole time she was retrieving her shopping bags.

  "I believe you will help, okay?" Consuelo gave her a little parting wave.

  "I'll do what I can." Whatever that was.

  She drove down Wilshire toward Beverly Hills, won­dering if anyone she knew would help Consuelo.

  Then she turned north to Sunset. She had a date, a date set over a year ago, a date to meet at the Chateau Marmont. Blood surged in her veins again, the feeling of being alive. The blood in her head, in her fingertips, in her thighs, was arousing her. She had to concentrate on driving.

  The traffic was picking up, and she had to drive slowly. Carefully. She didn't want anything to happen to the car.

  Seeing the hotel turrets was a relief. She eased the BMW into the narrow driveway that led down to the parking ga­rage.

  The young man in uniform opened the door and smiled at her.

  "Are you staying with us?" he asked.

  Marilyn did her best to smile back.

  "Just for the night."

  She took the claim check and left the car.

  Dealing with the clerk in the lobby was a little harder. But the reservation was there, in her name, guaranteed with a credit card number, even though hers had been cancelled long ago.

  "Do you need help with your suitcase?" he asked.

  "No. Thank you."

  The clerk directed her up the staircase to the second floor.

  The room was disappointing. Marilyn wasn't certain what she had expected, but something with a little more glamour. A newer bedspread, better upholstery on the chair. And a little less street noise. Sounds filtered up from Sunset Boulevard. Still, there was space. Space to swing her arms. A bowl of fresh fruit. And a framed poster from the Matisse exhibit on the wall, one of the pictures he had painted from inside a room of the view out the window, and she liked it better the more she looked at it.

  There were no bars on the window in the Matisse poster. The artist was inside looking out, but he could leave. Now there were no bars on her windows, either.

  She placed the few items of clothing from her suitcase in the dresser, her toothbrush and makeup in the bathroom, and lay down on the bed, enjoying for a moment the luxury of being alone, knowing she wouldn't be alone for long.

  In the mor
ning they could make the next round of deci­sions. Where to live, how to tell people about the relation­ship. How to tell Debbie and Buddy. The rare moments when she had envisioned her new life, it had included Debbie and Buddy. Somehow she had thought they would understand and forgive, and she still thought that. It would take awhile, but someday she would explain it and they would all understand and forgive her, Annie too.

  She was still lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, when the telephone rang. It had to ring three times before she remembered that she was supposed to answer it.

  "Lynn? Lynn? I thought you were going to call me at the office when you got to the hotel."

  She panicked for a moment, struggling to recognize the voice, one she hadn't heard in over a year. But it wasn't Ross. Ross was dead.

  It was Ed. Yes. They had agreed that he shouldn't come to the jail, but they would meet at the Chateau Marmont the day she got out. And he hadn't forgotten.

  "Ed. I'm just settling in."

  "Don't get too settled. I'll be there in less than an hour."

  "I don't have anything to wear to dinner."

  "Hell, Lynn, we'll order room service."

  "I'll see you in an hour, then."

  Marilyn hung up the phone. Ed Bradford was Ross's half-brother. And he had hated Ross almost as much as she had. That was what had first drawn them together. Mutual revenge against Ross for being Ross. Then it had become much more.

  Divorcing Ross had crossed her mind, but Ed had ar­gued against it. They had so much more to gain with Ross dead.

  By the time she heard a knock at the door, Marilyn was showered and dressed in her one change of clothes. Another blouse and slacks that were too tight. She was annoyed that she had to see Ed with a bad haircut, no manicure, and ill-fitting clothes. But they had both waited long enough for this night.

  "Lynn! You look great!"

  Ed walked in and kissed her on the cheek.

  His lips were full and rough. She turned her face, wanting more.