The Starter Wife

by Grazer, Gigi Levangie

  Gracie thought Joan must have hashed and rehashed the discovery of the night before with the whole gang before going to bed. Why wouldn’t they talk about it? Gracie thought. Sam was interesting without the homeless/murderer factor—with it, he was practically Time’s Man of the Year.

  “I let him massage my hand,” Joan pointed out. “It’s kind of sexy, really. The possibility of a handsome, refined psychotic in our midst.”

  Gracie looked at Joan as a ray of hope emerged. “It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a bad person, right? People make mistakes.”

  “Strangling someone is not a mistake,” Joan said. “It’s a life choice.”

  “I’m such a loser,” Gracie said, looking at her lathered reflection in the mirror.

  25

  MAN ON THE RUN

  “ANY PARTICULAR REASON why the cops are looking for you?” Lavender asked Sam without looking up.

  Sam shrugged and hoped the shrug conveyed a sense of conviction. But he knew Lavender was too smart to depend on gesture. “I believe … alimony payments,” he said, smiling. “I’m owed about twenty years.”

  Lavender cocked an eyebrow. “You were married?” she asked.

  “Why? Don’t you think I’m old enough?” Sam Knight asked, and then, “So, what’d you tell ’em?” He looked off past Malibu Road, feigning disinterest as he focused on a spot somewhere above PCH.

  “They showed me a picture of you in uniform,” Lavender said. “I said they don’t let ugly like that in here. We got regulations.”

  Sam allowed a smile. He’d been chased by the cops before, wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last. Happened all the time to people with his type of “undeliverable as addressed” location. Only, there wasn’t a reason he could think of this morning. Had he done something wrong? Or was this his past, catching up with him, like the stubborn child who eventually overtakes his father on the tennis court, the basketball court, in life.

  “I told him I hadn’t seen you,” Lavender said, forcing a casual tone as her eyes pored over her latest book, “but if I did run into you, I’d turn you in.”

  Sam looked at her. Lavender was smiling, her mouth closed in a quarter moon, turning the page.

  Sam gave her a little wave and started to walk away.

  “I’m graduating, you know,” Lavender said, soft as a passing cloud.

  “What’s that?” he asked, turning back. He wasn’t sure he had heard her right.

  Lavender pulled up her head, facing him. Color had risen in her cheeks. “I’m graduating. I’m getting my AA—the degree, not the other thing.”

  Sam hesitated for a moment—he was filled with the type of pride he would feel for a child. He put out his hand—which she accepted, breaching the awkward moment. They had never touched before. Years, Sam thought, as they stood facing each other. Years, I’ve known her, and this is the first time I feel her skin. Her hand felt dry and warm and pleasantly full, like a mother’s hand should feel.

  Lavender suddenly pulled him back with her arm, yanking him into the station. The sheriff’s car was rolling up slowly, silently. Lavender motioned for Sam to crouch behind a tower of boxes haphazardly stacked, with labels like COLONY, 1997.

  Sam saw Lavender touch her finger to her forehead and flip her hand out, a good-bye gesture to the men in the car.

  “It’s okay,” she said to him. He stood up.

  “They said this was the last place you were reported seen,” she said, as though talking to the air. “They said it was a personal matter.”

  Sam just nodded. “Could be, could be.”

  “What’d you do?” Lavender asked, though he could tell she was afraid of any possible answer.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. And this time, he didn’t.

  She flipped a card over to him. “I wanted you to …” Lavender said, faltering. “It’s this thing. Next week—I know you probably can’t make it, but, I figured, you know, we’re friends …”

  Sam was looking off toward the brake lights of the sheriff’s car as it rounded the corner and sped onto Malibu Road.

  It was only when he was walking away, toward Mrs. Kennicot’s, when he looked at the card Lavender had given him.

  It was a graduation announcement. Lavender had invited him to her graduation. Sometimes, Sam thought, you had to leave a little window open in your soul for the element of surprise.

  LATER IN THE afternoon, Joan was still in the kitchen, staring out the window, the sport of choice in a place where the view cost upwards of $1,000 a day.

  “The masturbator,” Gracie said as she walked in. “He’s gone.”

  She gestured toward the green blanket, lying there on the sand, between the house and the lifeguard station.

  “Wow,” Joan said. “Do you think Sam took care of him? That would make him some kind of hero.”

  “There were cops inside the Colony,” Gracie said. “I thought someone might be looking for him.”

  “You are getting carried away,” Joan said to Gracie.

  “You’re the one who told me he may have killed a man,” Gracie replied.

  “I was thinking about that,” Joan said. “And two things: One, that was years ago, ancient history. And two, it’s probably not even true. Suburban legend.”

  She went to light a cigarette. Gracie remembered when Joan had quit, years before. It had taken a long time and a lot of accessories—NicoDerm patches, Nicorette gum, the works, to kick the habit. Gracie stared at her as she brought the lighter close to her face.

  “What?” Joan said. “You’ve never seen a cigarette?” She lit it and, with much effort, opened the German window, sticking the lit side out.-“Don’t worry, never in front of the baby.”

  But now Gracie was thinking about Sam. She wanted to approach the issue of her homeless, perhaps murderous boyfriend in a methodical, logical manner, taking into consideration every aspect of his being.

  Mostly, she was curious to see if her need to have sex with him outweighed more practical considerations—like the fact that he may have killed someone.

  Suddenly Gracie understood why the Son of Sam and that guy who terrorized Los Angeles in the early eighties (not Rick James, the other one) had more than their fair share of possible booty calls. She was fighting something primal—the brute caveman who clocked the pocket protector-caveman and dragged off his woman by the hair survived. Who was she to fight off thousands of years of biology and evolution?

  Gracie grabbed a pen and a pad of paper.

  “What are you doing?” Joan asked, taking a drag off her cigarette, then peering over at her. Gracie took note on her morning walks of just how many cigarette butts were left on the beach—it was a wonder to her that people came to one of the few places left on earth that had clean air and proceeded to light up.

  “Deciding my future,” Gracie said.

  Gracie consulted Joan on the benefits of dating a homeless man—one who may or may not be homicidal. They divided the major categories into home, work, play, family, with various sub-categories for each.

  Over coffee, they discussed Gracie’s possible future and compared it to her past (with the horrible Kenny the Pig). Joan wrote:

  A. HOME

  Pro: Not underfoot. No early-morning comparisons of “the numbers.” No searching the L.A. Times, New York Times, USA Today and Post for bad news about your friends. Very little complaint about the size of Scott Rudin’s swimming pool as compared to yours. Not a lot of time spent on the Exercycle watching countless hours of Tivo’d Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood. Perhaps more interested in sex than in resting heart rate. Not big on fixtures. Could make own meals out of neighbor’s trash. GREAT kisser.

  Con: Tough living with homicidal maniac. Violence a key factor in marital happiness. Also … what does he eat? Would he sleep outside? Would he insist on showering from the hose? Who are his friends? Do they have teeth and are they clean enough to sit on furniture? Would have to hide all sharp objects (see: homicidal maniac, above).
Would have to monitor daughter’s use of the word “homeless” (perhaps by substituting the word “apple” for “homeless,” as in “why can’t that ‘apple’ get a job like everyone else?”).

  Questions for Future Reference: Sports fan?

  B. WORK

  Pro: Not a big upside here. However. Is available for babysitting. And sex. Doesn’t have to entertain work “friends.” Doesn’t scream epithets into the phone in front of three-year-old when the script “isn’t right.”

  Con: No visible means of support. Could get old.

  C. PLAY

  Pro: Heavily available for all activities. Movies, theater, sex, long walks, and sex. Tennis not a major priority. Also, there’s the matter of lots of sex.

  Con: May not like enclosed spaces. Have to check.

  D. FAMILY

  Pro: Not much of a problem with mother-in-law issues. Or any family issues, for that matter.

  Con: Can’t have homicidal maniac around three-year-old daughter. Tricky.

  “ALL IN ALL,” Joan said, taking a look at the list, “I’d say it’s a tough call. Care for a Bloody?”

  “No,” Gracie said, “I’m fine. The last time I had a drink in the morning was the last time I had a drink in the morning, if you get my meaning.”

  “I think every day should be like a vacation, don’t you?” Joan asked, without needing or expecting an answer. So Gracie didn’t bother answering her back. She just stood and watched Joan take tomato juice from the refrigerator and vodka from the freezer and proceed to mix them in a tall, slim glass, all the while squelching the terror seizing up in her stomach. Gracie’s stomach was the most dependable measure of her emotions. Though her stomach lately resembled a shopping bag more than a body part, she still trusted it like an old, seen-better-days friend.

  Gracie’s best friend was in the throes of a major problem; Joan was looking down the line at a future of morning Bloody Marys followed by mid-morning Tequila Sunrises followed by afternoon tugs on fat joints followed by bottles of Trader Joe’s cheap but amiable Chilean reds topped off with a mountain of wet cigarettes piling up in a sink somewhere in the Hollywood Hills where once-glamorous actresses and writers go to retire.

  “What is it?” Gracie whispered. She realized she’d been so caught up in her homeless boyfriend’s antics that she’d forgotten about her friend’s pain—the friend who had given her and her daughter a place to stay, the one who always made sure her needs were taken care of, the one who held her as she realized the love of her life ate out of trashcans and peed in alleys.

  Only a true friend could tell you these things and live.

  “Pappy called me,” Joan said. “He definitely wants a divorce.” She tossed the cigarette into the sink before it was done, then lit another.

  “I’m so sorry,” Gracie said, even though she wasn’t so, so sorry—she never thought Pappy was right for Joan or anyone who could get around without need of orthopedic shoes.

  “I know you think I never should have married him,” Joan said.

  Gracie just looked at her. When did Joan start reading minds? This could be dangerous. Gracie chided herself not to get annoyed at Joan’s more annoying tics. “Of course I did. You married Barnaby Jones. I thought it was insane. I still do,” she said, building strength. “In fact, you shouldn’t even waste your time being sad, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Instead of screaming at her, Joan nodded. “That’s the fucked-up thing about love,” she said, taking another long drag on the cigarette. “It doesn’t discriminate.”

  Gracie stared at Joan, at the sadness of her posture, the languid, tragic way she stared out the window. In the muted light of the morning fog, she looked like an actress in the kind of French film that seemed important when you talked about it, but that really made no sense at all when you watched it.

  Gracie found herself shaking her head with a sense of wonder. “Love has no taste,” she said. “You’re in love with your grandfather, and I’m in love with a guy whose idea of a job is squeegeeing windows.” Gracie mimicked being on the phone with her “husband.” “How’s work going, honey?” she asked. “Oh, yeah? Forty-three windows today? Wow!”

  “Damned profound, huh?” Joan asked.

  Gracie thought about this for a second. “Friends Über Alles. C’mon,” She continued, pulling on Joan’s sleeve. “Let’s go out on the deck and welcome the unwashed masses.”

  Gracie jumped up and ran out on the deck, leaving Joan to contemplate her sudden vivacity. “What’s making you so fucking happy?” Joan called after her. “Don’t you know your life is a complete shambles?”

  GRACIE STOOD out on the deck, which abutted the fence dividing Surfrider from the Colony. The fence was as ridiculous a deterrent as a constitutional monarchy on a third-world island nation. First of all, it was made of rusted chicken wire which probably started showing the effects of nature and age soon after it was erected thirty years ago. Secondly, though there was barbed wire woven onto the top of the chicken wire, it was a deterrent without teeth. Because thirdly, there was four feet of fence, and anywhere from three to five feet of open space underneath, depending on the tides. Also, as if all this were not enough, the fence was not built past the low tide line. Anyone could walk around the fence, if they were not eager to bend down the five inches it would take to walk under it.

  But what the fence did have was a sign. A simple sign, which read in big black block letters against a white backdrop: PRIVATE BEACH. DO NOT TRESPASS. And then, in fine print: TO THE MEAN HIGH TIDE LINE.

  Well, Gracie had checked out the mean high tide line. She had asked J.D., the bulky, world-weary security chief at Malibu Colony, what the hell a mean high tide line was.

  “You’re trying to get me in trouble,” he’d said to her.

  “I’m just curious,” Gracie’d said. She’d seen the news crews out by the fence from time to time. There was a class storm brewing—rich people did not want “others” in front of their houses on their private beaches.

  There was only one catch: The California coastline—all 1,100 miles of it, was public. There was no private beach in California.

  Oopsies.

  J.D. had taken a walk with Gracie along the beach and pointed out the mean high tide line.

  The mean high tide line could be found in the spacious living rooms of most people living in the Colony. The mean high tide line could reach all the way to their plasma screen television sets, to the minor Picassos they deemed worthy of their second homes. The mean high tide line was definitely beyond the French chaises and $20,000 barbecue grills gracing the deck.

  In other words, the hoi polloi could legally eat out of their KFC family-sized tubs right at the dinner table, alongside the chateaubriand and Cristal.

  For days after her conversation with J.D., Gracie had watched in earnest as people would walk up to the unassuming fence with the intimidating sign. She could predict their behavior, depending on what the person was wearing, what they were carrying, how many children they had, their ethnicity. She could do her own sociological study, based on people’s reaction to what she regarded as an infamous sign, now that she questioned its legality.

  American tourists—usually a mother bogged down by an enormous tote which held everything, Gracie surmised, from Handi Wipes to psychedelic Fruit Roll-Ups to pepper spray (this being Los Angeles, after all), a father toting a camera and a fat wallet in his waist purse, two prepubescent kids exposing their soft white bellies for the first time in a year to sunlight—would walk slowly up to the fence, their eyes never leaving the sign. They would read very, very carefully, then look up the beach, then reread, then look up the beach again, consult each other for a minute or two, read the sign again, take note of the people walking onto Surfrider from the Colony. Then, in a towering gesture of defeat, they would turn and walk away.

  German tourists, tall, broad, tan, and violently blond, would try to read the sign, take note of the barbed wire, and then take pictures of Joan’s, er, Pappy’s
house. They, too, would stay on the Surfrider side of the beach.

  Mexican families would barbecue and lay out their picnics on the other side of Joan’s, er, Pappy’s house, but generally they would ignore the damned sign if they felt like sticking their toes in the water or even fishing on the rich, pristine side of the beach (thus, and so, Fourth of July).

  Surfers carrying their boards under their arms would just bend down far enough to get under the fence, chatting loudly. The sign wasn’t their concern. The sign was there to keep the landlocked out.

  Gracie and Joan stood at the foot of the deck nearest the sand, where Gracie could see the fence most easily. Just as she predicted, there was a family standing there, the father’s face red from exertion and sun, the mother staring quizzically at the sign. Two kids. Gracie waved at the family, signaling that it was okay to make the seemingly verboten trek to the other side of the fence. They looked at her and smiled. They always did.

  “You can’t do that,” Joan said.

  “I do it all the time,” Gracie replied. She grabbed the drink in Joan’s hand and placed it on the outdoor table. “Come on. It’ll make you feel good,” she said to Joan.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Joan and Gracie sat on their chaise longues waving in a steady stream of people who wished to continue their walks along the beach.

  “You know how this feels?” Joan asked her as the sun set over Point Dume and the Great Painter washed the sky with reds and oranges and purples.

  “It feels like we just had a party,” she sighed. Gracie just nodded and watched as her friend bounced back inside the house.

  26

  CHILI’S REVENGE

  THE MALIBU CHILI Cook-off is traditionally held on the hottest day of the year, no matter the actual date. The scent of twenty different types of chili mixes with the smells of perspiration and popcorn and the sounds of ten different thrill rides spinning and twirling and rising and dropping and kids screaming and parents yelling for their lost children, and generally speaking, it’s the kind of thing that looks like great fun from a distance of about a quarter mile.