by Dyan Sheldon
And I am? But that isn’t what Jack says. What Jack says is, “Look, Maria, I think maybe you’re overreacting here.” It’s the Latin temperament; more emotion than logic. “Paloma’s car doesn’t work, right? The Minnicks’ cars are with the Minnicks. The limo’s programmed so it won’t let Paloma drive. And she sure as hell isn’t going to walk to town. Which means she has to take a cab. So all you have to do is wait by the front door and send the cab away when it comes.”
“He’s here.” Maria’s voice is sharp with urgency. “He’s here.”
“Who’s here? The cab?”
“No, not the cab. A man.”
“A man? What man? Maria, what man?”
“A young man. I don’t know. I never see him before. He has a beard.”
“A beard?” At least it’s not Drachman. But it could be someone else from the show. He thinks there may have been beards in the cast at some time.
“And a ponytail.”
Ponytails are the kind of thing that appears among the crew. Ponytails. Earrings. Tattoos. Good God, now she’s dating workmen.
“And a ring in his nose like a bull.”
“A what?”
But Maria is no longer talking to him.
“Miss Paloma!” yells Maria. “Miss Paloma, you must stay here. Your mother—”
Paloma bellows back, telling Maria what she can do with Leone Minnick in words clear enough to crash through any language barrier.
“But Mr Silk he is on the phone. Mr Silk he wants to talk to you,” calls Maria.
Paloma comes close enough to Maria to tell Jack what he can do with his talk herself.
“So long suckers,” shouts Paloma. “See ya later!”
Too late, perhaps, Jack realizes that, just maybe, he should have taken the housekeeper’s concern more seriously. Should have paid more attention. He suspects that there are things he hasn’t been told. Possibly a lot of things. He knows how rude and unlikeable Paloma Rose can be – it’s not a secret, it’s a legend – but he’s never known her to throw things before. He knows about the car – he should, its distributor cap is in his office – but he was told Paloma wasn’t allowed to drive because of the speeding and the time she smashed through a fence and ended up on somebody’s lawn. And of course there were the pictures and a couple of other unfortunate incidents and, most unfortunate of all, Seth Drachman. But he thought all that was behind them. Paloma had seen the error of her ways and had straightened out. Isn’t that what Leone said? Now he wonders why he believed her. Leone Minnick didn’t get where she is today by always telling the truth. Certain words of Maria’s echo in his ears. Losing Miss Paloma again… Staying out all night… She has friends… Real friends… Crazy… Worse… If Mrs Minnick says go left, Miss Paloma will go right…
“For God’s sake, do something!” orders Jack. “Stop her!”
“Mr Silk,” says Maria, “I am the housekeeper, not one of your football tacklers.”
Jack hasn’t been having a good couple of years, and it doesn’t look as if things are going to get better any time soon. He leans his head on the steering wheel. Why doesn’t God just have him run over by some crazed, disgruntled actor while he’s crossing the street one day and send him straight to hell? Why play with him like this?
A new volley of honking sounds behind him. Traffic has finally started to move.
His phone goes dead.
Bad moods here and bad moods there – bad moods happen everywhere
Like many of us, El Paraíso started out life with high hopes. A simple, two-storey complex, it was never intended to define luxury, but it did offer efficient, modern apartments with good views, parking and a swimming pool at reasonable rents to people who also had high hopes. It shone with newness, and everything worked. The tiles surrounding the pool were squash-blossom yellow and the water was clear and blue as a tropical lagoon. But that, of course, was a long time ago. These days El Paraíso is cheerless and rundown, and what does work doesn’t work well. Where they aren’t missing, the tiles surrounding the pool are broken, and the only thing that fills it are weeds. A wire screen stretches over the top to stop garbage, rodents, birds and drunks from falling in. The views are only good if you like strip malls and traffic. You park at your own risk. The first time Oona Ginness saw it her immediate thought was: If this is Paradise, I really don’t want to go to Hell. She had to carry Harriet into the apartment because Harriet, who is sensitive to atmosphere, didn’t like it either. Oona’s father wouldn’t get out of bed for two days.
But now, on a day as bright and full of promise as El Paraíso is dilapidated and defeated, Oona whistles and Harriet wags her tail as they cross the ruined pool area, both of them looking completely at home. Which, of course, they are. El Paraíso may not be much, but it is a home. For their bodies if not their hearts. It’s a lot better than sleeping in the truck. As Oona herself would say, if you can’t change something then you have to learn to live with it. That’s her motto. You do the best you can.
Mrs Figueroa is waiting for her, peering through the curtain of her living room window. Mrs Figueroa is always on guard. She starts talking even before she opens the door. “I’m so sorry to ask you. I know it’s not really the super’s job.” And Oona, of course, is not really the super. “I know it’s Saturday and you have to get to work, but I really can’t do it myself. Not with my arthritis.” The wonder is not that Mrs Figueroa can’t change a light bulb, but that she manages to do anything – dress or eat or shop or turn on a tap or sweep the floor – with her crimped and crippled hands and her dissolving bones. Mrs Figueroa, however, is a warrior, even if she doesn’t look like one (no muscles, no weapons, and a fondness for bright red lipstick). She may never have heard of Emiliano Zapata, but Mrs Figueroa would agree with his opinion that it is better to die on your feet than live on your knees. She’s not going to let the pain defeat her. She and Oona have a lot in common.
“It’s OK, Mrs F. It’s no trouble.” Oona doesn’t like everyone who lives in the apartments, but she likes Mrs Figueroa. “I would’ve been here sooner but I had to sweep the stairs and get the cans out, and Mr Janus locked himself out again, and then I promised Andy in number six I’d walk his dog because he sprained his ankle.”
“There’s always something,” says Mrs Figueroa. “Your father not feeling well today?”
“No,” says Oona. Although he rarely leaves the property, sometimes her father can get through a whole week – maybe even two – before he has one of his “setbacks”. And sometimes he can’t. “He had a bad night.” It’s either a bad night, a bad morning, or a bad afternoon. (Though, to be accurate, this current bad night happened two days ago.) If he cuts back on his medication it can be a bad week. There hasn’t been a good year since Oona was twelve.
Mrs Figueroa nods. “Life is a hell of a thing.” This, of course, is merely a statement of fact. You don’t live at El Paraíso because you want to. You live here because luck deserted you, and Fate dealt you a lousy hand, and then things got even worse. The people here don’t judge; they sympathize. They all know what it’s like. “You’re a good girl to help him out like you do.”
As if Oona has a choice.
“He’s my dad,” she says. She’s all he’s got. And vice versa. Except, of course, for Harriet.
The burnt out bulb is in the bathroom. While Oona changes it, and then does a few other small things that Mrs Figueroa can’t do because of her hip, her knees and her hands, Mrs Figueroa chatters on and feeds Harriet the dog biscuits she buys just for her.
When she’s done, Oona refuses the tip Mrs Figueroa tries to put in her hand. She often does Mrs Figueroa’s shopping when she’s not well enough to get out in her walker; she knows how much money she has.
When Oona and Harriet get back to their apartment, her father is exactly where they left him two hours ago. Which is on the sofa, in front of the TV. The plate and cup from the breakfast she made him is still on the coffee table. He is still in his pyjamas. He might still be wa
tching the same show, for all she knows. The expression on his face is also exactly the same as it was when Oona left. If Abbot Ginness were a piece of property and not a person, he would be a vacant lot. But he turns as soon as he hears the door shut behind her.
“There you are,” says Abbot. “What took you so long? I was getting worried.” He may not do much, but he can manage worry.
“I had a couple of odd jobs to do. Mrs Figueroa… And Andy. Remember, somebody shoved him off the bus?”
“Right. Right. I should’ve realized.” Abbot nods. “It’s just that I was texting and you didn’t answer.”
“Sorry, Dad. I left my phone here.” She makes it sound as if it was an accident, but in fact Oona always leaves her phone at home unless she’s at work or at school – somewhere that keeps her away most of the day and where Abbot knows he can only call in a real emergency – or he’d be texting constantly to make sure she’s all right.
“You should try never to forget it.” This is something Abbot says at least once a day. “I know you were only outside, but things can happen, Oona. You know that. People get killed just taking a shower.”
“You want me to bring my cell into the shower with me?” teases Oona.
Once upon a time, that would have made him laugh, but he doesn’t laugh now. “Of course not, honey. I’d hear you if you fell.”
Unlike Mrs Figueroa, Abbot Ginness is not a warrior. He lives firmly on his knees, though he wasn’t always like this. He used to go to work and ride in cars and walk up streets and run down stairs and take showers and laugh and sing and have dreams and never think about what disaster was huddled around the corner, waiting to jump him. Until his wife got sick with a cancer. She was only in her early thirties. The doctors got rid of that cancer, but then she got another. And then another. And another after that. That was when he stopped praying.
The bills mounted. Abbot was trying to work and look after Lorna and look after Oona, but he couldn’t keep up. Lorna’s death didn’t make anything easier. He had debts he could only pay if he were a gambler on a serious winning streak or a criminal. He was too depressed to go to work most days, and when he did go he just messed up. The job went, then the house went. He and Oona and Harriet wound up living in his truck. And now here he is, so defeated he thinks that the world is trying to destroy him; so terrified of all the bad things that could happen that he can barely leave the house. And so worried about losing his daughter that he’d be happy if Oona never had to step outside their front door.
“Anyway,” says Oona, “I did all the Saturday chores, so unless somebody locks themselves out or knocks out the power there shouldn’t be anything you have to do. I’ll bring the cans in when I get home.”
His eyes are back on the screen. “Thanks, honey. That’s great.”
“You not going to get dressed today?”
“No. No, not today. I think I’ll just stay in today. Stay here.”
When he’s OK, she tries to get him to at least step outside because she read that sunshine is good for depression. But when he’s like this it’s better to keep him inside. The sun may shine the blues away, but it also shines on the liquor store down the road. The last thing he needs is a drink. Even one beer will make him cry.
“Right. You take it easy. I’ll make a sandwich for your lunch and leave it in the fridge.”
“You don’t have to do that,” says Abbot. “I can fix myself something.”
But he probably won’t.
Oona makes him a sandwich and leaves out a packet of crisps and a tin of soup. Then she changes her clothes and puts Harriet in her backpack. She always takes Harriet to work with her. Brightman, the manager, lets Harriet stay in his office, and all the staff take turns walking her during their breaks. If Oona left Harriet at home she’d never get walked; and she’d be lonely with only Abbot and daytime television for company.
When she’s ready Oona goes back to the living room and gives Abbot a hug. “OK, Dad, I’ll see you later.”
He looks up at her. “You’re going already?”
“’Fraid so. It’s Saturday, Dad. My shift starts at eleven.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” says Abbot. “As soon as I get back on my feet—”
“As soon as you do, I’ll quit the job,” Oona quickly agrees. This is something else Abbot says fairly frequently. “But for now I need it.” Weekends during school; at least five shifts a week in the summer. She saves every penny she can for college. Oona has plans.
Behind Abbot’s head twin sisters who were separated at birth and have just been reunited in front of the entire nation after fifty years are crying. Abbot looks as if he may cry, too.
“I just wish—”
“I really have to get going, Dad. The bus—”
“I know, it’s a long ride. But you’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“You just rest,” urges Oona. “I’ll be home before you know it.”
“No you won’t,” says Abbot.
Age does nothing to improve the day
Jack has called an emergency meeting of the Dependents of Paloma Rose. Which means him and Leone, since Arthur, apparently, is still at last night’s dinner. As far as Jack Silk is concerned, a heart-to-heart with Leone gives him no more pleasure than having a tooth pulled, but he has no choice. He may have lost sight of the ball for a while, but now that his eyes are locked on it he can see the clawed foot of Disaster trying to kick it out of his way.
They meet at Ferlinghetti’s late in the afternoon. Ferlinghetti’s is designed to look like a beatnik coffee house in the 1950s. The chairs and tables are all mismatched, the walls are covered in yellowed newspapers and old book jackets, the floorboards are scrubbed but worn. The lighting’s so low that the room is dark and shadowy, and though public smoking is, of course, no longer allowed, it feels as though clouds of smoke are drifting past the tables.
Leone sits down as if she expects the chair to collapse. “I don’t know why we had to come here,” she complains. “I feel like somebody’s going to start reading some depressing poem about foot fungus in a minute.” Leone likes cutting-edge modern – and astronomically expensive. Places where the customers who aren’t celebrities are only there to see the ones who are. “Why couldn’t we go to Funky Monkey or Z? They have coffee.”
“I like it here,” says Jack. “It’s quiet. A good place to talk.” He’s passed Ferlinghetti’s a couple of times, but he’s never been in here before, either. Which is why he chose it. If they went somewhere Leone wanted to go she’d run into at least a dozen people she knows, and then the only conversation they’d have would be hello and goodbye.
“It makes me itch,” says Leone.
“You can take a shower when you get home.” Jack hands her one of the menus stuck between the sugar bowl and the salt and pepper. It’s stained. “Let’s just get the ordering over with so we can discuss the matter at hand.”
Leone is as enthusiastic about discussing the matter at hand as she is about being in Ferlinghetti’s, and starts prattling on with talk so small it’s like a dust cloud, obscuring everything. By the time the waitress comes over neither of them has more than glanced at the menu.
“What do you recommend?” Jack isn’t hungry, but he doesn’t want this to be a quick cup of coffee and go.
The young girl with the order pad is dressed more like a pallbearer than a waitress, but she has a nice smile. “Well…” Her eyes move from Jack’s face to his suit, to the gold rings on his fingers and the clear polish on his nails. Leone might be fooled, but she knows he’s never been here before. She leans towards him conspiratorially. “You’re pretty safe with the On the Road all-day breakfast. The home fries are epic.”
“On the Road it is.” He shuts his menu, still looking at the waitress. There’s something about her… He almost feels that he knows her. No, that’s not it. He feels as if he should. Maybe it’s just that she seems like a good kid. Pleasant. Uncomplicated. Unlikely to sling an egg your way. Simpática,
as Maria Trudenco would say. And she does have a nice smile. “How’s the coffee?”
“It’s really good.”
“Right. Then I’ll have a large Americano. Soy milk, no sugar.”
The girl turns her smile on Leone. “And for you?”
She might as well have stuck out her tongue. Giving the impression that she is only here because her companion has a gun on her, Leone shoves the menu away from her with the very tip of a fingernail. “Just a double espresso. And make sure the cup’s clean.”
“Yes, ma’am,” says the waitress. Though that isn’t what she mutters under her breath.
Their order comes, the waitress goes, and Jack says, “Right. So now, if it’s not too much trouble, Leone, how bad is it? What exactly is going on?”
Leone stirs the tiny spoon around and around in the tiny cup. “I would’ve said something, but I didn’t want to worry you, Jack. I know you have enough on your plate.”
“You’re all heart.” It wasn’t the extraordinary talent and beauty of the infant Susan Minnick that made Jack take her on as a client. It was the extraordinary determination and single-mindedness of her mother. She was going to make her daughter a star or kill them both in the attempt. She has about as much heart as a machete. “So how bad is it?”
Leone switches on a smile. “Not that bad.”
“I’ll repeat my question, shall I? What’s going on?”
“Oh, you know…”
“If I did, Leone, I wouldn’t be asking.”
She finally stops stirring. Very carefully, Leone places her spoon on her saucer. “Well she has been acting up a little lately.” Staying out to all hours. Disappearing for whole days. More photos turning up on the Internet. Nothing really scandalous, just slightly provocative in underwear and bikinis. “No worse than your average magazine ad,” promises Leone. She doesn’t mention the one of Paloma on the Mad Tea Party ride at Disneyland, wearing mouse ears and swinging her T-shirt over her head.
