Night Swimming

by Robin Schwarz

  “The love of your life. Wow. I would love to have a love of my life.” Blossom took Dolly in with a new regard. She had lost the love of her life and survived. She might as well have climbed Mount Everest, for the enormous amount of strength it must have taken.

  “Someday I’ll tell you all the endlessly amazing things about him, but I’d need a day. Of course, he could be quite the pain in the ass at times, but he was a wonderful, wonderful man.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Well, his family had money, so it allowed him to follow his bliss. He was a philanthropist, really, particularly for animal rights, saving endangered species, stopping big business from clearing wildlife refuges. I wanted him to spend all that money on people, patients who had heart problems. Millions of Jews have heart problems. His whole family had heart problems. Spend it there, I said. But he ignored me and set up funds for researchers to be able to continue their work in the field to save endangered species, animals I never heard of.”

  “Wow, Dolly, that’s incredible. He has a legacy.”

  “He certainly does.” Dolly loved to talk as much as Blossom loved to listen. Blossom was a perfect audience.

  “I wish I could make a mark.”

  “You can, my dear.”

  “How? What can I do?”

  “Something good every day.”

  “No, Dolly, that’s not enough.”

  “It doesn’t have to be big; it just has to be kind.”

  What kind of mark was that? Blossom wondered. Was that even leaving a mark? She didn’t think so. Now, Douglas Fairbanks Sr., he left a mark. He had a whole mountain range named after him. That’s a legacy. I’d settle for a park bench or a plaque or even a directional sign. Blossom didn’t want to contradict Dolly, who thought perhaps that she was leaving her mark by just being kind. Somehow, Blossom had forgotten that the real Blossom McBeal had left her mark by doing just that. Blossom McBeal had left behind love. She’d said it herself at Blossom’s wake. But it didn’t feel enough to her now. All she could think of was that in the end we’d all be laid out in uneven rows, where the wind and weather would eventually blow our names away. We’d all march into eternity without testimony, without signature. But someone like Mr. Feingold might be remembered. He might have an animal named after him. Feingold’s marmot. Feingold’s aardvark. Feingold’s squirrel—a rare species found only in Guadeloupe.

  Blossom looked far away again. Perhaps she was still in the underbrush of the jungles and mangroves with Mr. Feingold and his rare species, but Dolly could read Blossom’s face.

  “Blossom, living moment to moment and getting joy out of the smallest things can be enough. I believe it goes something like this: If you try to find happiness in the infinite, there’s a good chance it won’t happen. It’s just too big. Small things hold wonder, and there is infinite wonder in a blade of grass. The same holds true for making your mark. It doesn’t have to be some great, gigantic thing, a cure for cancer, world peace. Sure, that would be wonderful, but it doesn’t have to be that. It can be simple kindness. I rescued Jigsy and Pip. Somehow, I made a little difference . . .” she paused. “Speaking of which, where’s Vinny? He wasn’t here last time I was over, either.”

  “Oh, Dolly, I have to confess something.” Blossom didn’t mince words. She just told Dolly the way it was. “Vinny isn’t my dog.”

  “He’s not?”

  “No, he’s Skip’s. When I got your invitation, I wanted to come to the party, but I didn’t have a dog. Skip gave me Vinny to make it legal.”

  Dolly laughed. “Silly. You could have come without a dog. I would have let you in.”

  “I was going to tell you at some point, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself. Yup, I crashed your party with a mongrel.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. It’s why we’re sitting here right now. And who would listen to me go on and on as I do? Jigsy and Pip have heard it all—twice. If they could, they would gag and bind me. Fortunately, I picked animals that don’t have opposable thumbs.”

  “How about a cup of tea, Dolly?”

  “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  “With a shot of brandy?” Blossom had bought this expressly for Dolly’s visits.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll just be a minute,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen. Dolly rose and moved toward the Hockney painting to look at it again. It was inspiring.

  “I almost forgot to ask, how was the concert?”

  Blossom was suddenly grateful Skip wasn’t still in the room.

  “It was fantastic, Dolly. I can’t thank you enough for those tickets.”

  “Who did you end up going with?”

  “Just myself.” The old feeling grabbed Blossom around the throat. She wished that when she said “myself,” she could feel as happy as Dolly did. Maybe one day... maybe one day.

  CHAPTER 39

  MAKLEY HAD BEEN BACK AND FORTH to L.A. twice, trying to put the pieces together, but the jigsaw puzzle never quite formed a whole picture. On a hunch from MaryAnn Barzini, he set out one more time, hoping to make some new inroads.

  He was becoming a regular at a cheap little motel on the east end of Sunset. Once again he began posting pictures and contacting the local authorities. They gave him the names of some local FBI agents who were ready to help him.

  Charlotte’s friends in Gorham had seemed reluctant to cooperate with the police. Whether it was an old and abiding respect for their friendship or just that good old Yankee tight-lipped sensibility, nothing much was emerging in the way of clues. But when Hobbs called MaryAnn for the second time, it seemed she remembered more than she had at first, and was quite happy to share.

  “Do I have news for you,” Officer Hobbs began when he called Makley. “First of all, MaryAnn Barzini was full of information. They used to be best friends. It seems they always talked about going to California, to find what they figured was everything they ever wanted. It all started when they were young, watching reruns of Magnum, PI. ”

  “Didn’t they film that in Hawaii?”

  “I have no idea. But if that’s true, they missed their mark by a few thousand miles. Anyway, they both loved this guy Tom Selleck, and he kind of became their Hollywood idol, and they’d always talk about what it would be like to go and meet him.”

  “Go on.”

  “MaryAnn said at one time they both planned to vacation out there together, but she ended up getting married, and their lives went different ways.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She said they were going to live in Hollywood and make money by becoming game-show contestants. Basically, their big goal was to meet Tom Selleck.”

  “How old were they, Hobbs?”

  “Thirteen, fourteen.” Makley was relieved to hear they weren’t thirty. “But she said they even talked about it in high school, and MaryAnn had gotten some brochures on Hollywood and began trying to figure out where they would live once they got out there. She said they’d even saved fifteen hundred dollars. It was all going

  to happen after they graduated from high school.”

  “So what happened?”

  “So far as I can make out, a friend of MaryAnn’s got killed in a car accident, and it kind of took the wind out of their sails. They both got a job in the bank, and MaryAnn married someone shortly after that.”

  “Did any of her other friends have anything to say?” asked Makley.

  “Only that Charlotte was a very caring sort of person. She always put others first, always tried to make things better for other people. But they all said they never thought she would do something like rob a bank and take off. They said she was quiet—shy, even—that she changed after high school. Maybe it had something to do with her mother dying. She’d once been livelier, funnier, wanted to see the world, but after high school she became more withdrawn, gained a ton of weight. They all said they were particularly surprised when questions came up about Charlotte actually pulling off a stunt like this. Som
eone said we’d be better off dredging the river, ’cause we were more likely to find her there than in Hollywood.”

  “Did you ask them what happened after high school to make her change like that?”

  “No.”

  “It might be a good question. I’m shooting with blanks out here.”

  “Maybe I’ll get that MaryAnn Barzini in again. She’s the most forthcoming with information so far.”

  “Good.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m gonna nose around a bit again. Check with more Realtors. If she always wanted to live here, chances are, she bought a place. She couldn’t rent—they’d want references. She could buy, though, and buy outright. No one would say no to that much cash. I’ve got a whole list of agents to contact. If you need me, I’m at the same place as last time, the Buena Vista Motel on Sunset. Oh, by the way, how’s Kelly doing?”

  “Acting cool, but I can see the feathers spilling out of his mouth. It’s very hard to swallow a canary and not be obvious.”

  This made Makley laugh. “That’s funny, Hobbs.”

  “Hey, I can be funny, even charming sometimes.”

  “Yeah, a regular Cary Grant.”

  “John Wayne, boss, John Wayne.”

  “Okay, Duke, call me when you have any more news.”

  “For what it’s worth,” he continued, “she had a lot of people who liked her here. Said she had a real kind heart.”

  “Oh, okay, I’ll be really nice to her when I find her,” Makley said sarcastically. The deputy heard it in his voice. Makley hadn’t talked to all those people who had something nice to say. It annoyed him some. His response was one he thought Makley had coming.

  “If you find her.”

  When they hung up, Hobbs looked at Charlotte’s picture on his desk with a bit of wistfulness. He knew Makley, and he knew that whatever it took, Makley would find the elusive, ever unpredictable, ever generous Charlotte Clapp. Damn.

  CHAPTER 40

  DECEMBER CAME IN WITH A WHISPER, nothing like the winters of New England. And as the days passed, Blossom’s face began regaining the definition it once had. The plumpness that gathered around her jowls was slowly shrinking away, and the fine line of her prettiness was emerging. The same was true of her body. Her waist seemed to be finding its way to her middle. And yet, toward the end of December, she was still hiding beneath the big, floppy ponchos, unready to expose any part of her new femininity. It was nearly impossible for her to begin to let go of her fat mentality, she had hidden beneath it for so long. And the truth was, she had miles to go and many other things to put in order and settle.

  As she figured it, she had several months left to live. Christmas was only a couple of days away, but it wasn’t Christmas that was on her mind. The idea of wanting to leave a mark in this world resonated heavily with her. The real Blossom McBeal had left a mark, which was why this Blossom had been so attracted to her. Blossom McBeal had truly lived through her kindness, and she finally began to see Dolly’s point more clearly: It was through her kindness that she was remembered.

  But the real Blossom’s kindness was spread over a lifetime. A few months of kindness is like putting a dollar into a homeless person’s canister. Not much.

  No, simple kindness just wasn’t enough. She wished she had enough money left to make some large donation to cancer or diabetes or Greenpeace. Then someone would certainly remember her for her unsurpassed generosity. Her money, however, was dwindling. Between the apartment, the Hockney painting, and just day-to-day living, she figured she only had about six hundred thousand left. Of course, she’d have to put some money aside for her funeral arrangements. A plot, a stone, a fund to keep her area mowed.

  God, what did she want on her stone? She hadn’t even thought about that. And who would preside at the end? Would anyone say anything about the fact that she had lived? Maybe Dolly would give her a nice eulogy. Maybe Skip would go, too. This was too depressing even to think about. Right now, all Blossom wanted to think about was leaving her mark and understanding why she had been on this earth, why she had lived and breathed and loved and lost. She was desperate to make sense out of the whole thing before it was too late.

  Every day she woke up struggling to figure out what it was she could do in the time she had left. For the first time since Dr. Jennings had given her the news, she was afraid. She saw the sands spilling through the hourglass just as Dorothy did in The Wizard of Oz when the bad witch told her she would die when the sand ran out. For the entire month of December, she found herself searching more than ever.

  She found a church and went there every day. She sat there, with light streaming in through the stained-glass windows, quietly talking to the statue of Jesus. But he did not call her in. She read chapters of the Bible and conferred with members of the clergy. But this, too, seemed to be a pragmatic and ungratifying route. She left more disillusioned than when she went in.

  She began reading Scriptures from the Old Testament: For I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, “Do not fear, I will help you.”

  However, Isaiah did not help her, either, so she turned to Hindu prayer, Buddhist sutras, The Bhagavad Gita, and The Tibetan Book of the Dead. And still no answers came.

  She stayed up all night watching Worship TV, and listened to the benign music that played over each clichéd scene of nature. She waited for the righteous poetry to impose itself over every waterfall, a field of flowers, a sleeping cat, and still she felt no closer to her salvation. She could have been looking at one of the many Gorham calendars given away free with a gas purchase.

  Unable to sleep, she twisted and turned night after night, scared that everything she had ever wanted was beyond her reach. She would never have the love she desired in this lifetime, would never leave any kind of legacy. She would die alone. She turned to prayer in the dark of her room, whispering up into the airless night. Silence. She did not sense the calm presence of something greater offering her hope; she did not hear celestial messages coming to relieve her fear that held her in its grip. Her inability to envision her future in any positive way was utterly undermined by the present moment. The final reality was that she was trapped in Hollywood, California, the land where dreams do not come true.

  Everything she ever wanted was beyond her reach, and the words that Dolly had spoken so eloquently seemed meaningless now. She had allowed herself a few moments of hope, but the feeling did not stick.

  She gathered her suitcases filled with the remaining money and dragged them down to the car. What had she been thinking?

  Hollywood, land of dreams. Whose dreams? How crazy was I to think everyone was happy here? Movie stars roaming the streets, Tom Selleck sitting next to me at Barney’s Beanery.

  How are you, Blossom?

  Fine, Tom, how are you?

  Just great, thanks for asking. Oh, you must stop by the set. I’m making a sequel to Magnum, PI.

  Wonderful. I’ll be there this afternoon.

  We’ll grab a bite after.

  Perfect, Tom...

  Am I crazy? What kind of whacked-out fantasy was that in Gorham? What did I think? People just make friends with their favorite stars? Who said dreams come true here anyway?

  Blossom put her bags into the trunk and drove out into the still of the night. She passed under plastic reindeer hanging over the streets, swinging in the wind as if they, too, were trying to fly as far away from Hollywood, California, as she was. She passed houses lined with Christmas lights that looked like nothing more than hard candy to her, the type of candy a woman might have stuck to the back of her skirt as she rises from her seat and exits the train. Christmas in California. Fake snow, fake trees, fake everything. Blossom didn’t want this to be the final image of her last Christmas on earth, so she drove. Toward what, she had no idea.

  She was driving for about two hours when she saw a sign: I-15 Barstow, Las Vegas. Las Vegas! That was it! Yes, she would go to Las Vegas and win money, and the
n, like Mr. Feingold, she’d leave it to a worthy cause.

  This was fate, kismet. These were the good-luck gods, calling her to her destiny. She did not see the irony in spending her last Christmas in Las Vegas. No matter. She believed she was meant to be on this road at five in the morning. She was meant to see that sign and go to Vegas. She was meant to gamble her money in order to win more for the greater good. Yes, Blossom would leave her legacy after all.

  It was daybreak when she checked into the Golden Nugget, but people still sat at the tables, bleary-eyed and rumpled, acting as if they’d just arrived. Gamblers who’d been going at it all night were still in their losing positions.

  Blossom got a suite with a bedroom overlooking the pool. It was the most beautiful pool she’d ever seen. But she wasn’t here to swim. No, she was here to cash in, to make her money, to make her mark. She grabbed her first fistful of thousands from her suitcase, stuffing them into her bag, her pockets, her bra, until she was literally weighted down with her entire net worth.

  As she wandered through the casino, she had no idea how to begin, so she simply asked someone. An obese man with a camera hanging around his neck and wearing ugly shorts explained to her that she needed to buy chips. It was his sixteenth time in Las Vegas, and frankly, he told her, he just couldn’t see going anywhere else on his vacation. He worked for the phone company, and they even had their annual conventions here. Blossom listened politely, but the whole story gave her the heebie-jeebies. It reminded her of Gorham in some indefinable way, and she was happy when he looked at his watch and gasped that he was late for the bus that would take him to King Tut’s tomb.

  She got a bucket of chips and walked from room to room, trying to figure out what to do next. Baccarat, roulette, craps, poker, and blackjack all seemed out of her league. She didn’t know the first thing about any of these games. So she decided to start off with the slots. She certainly knew how to pull a lever, and when she gained more confidence, she would move on to one of the tables.