by Susan Kandel
“Yes,” said Lael, beaming.
“Four different fathers, too,” added Bridget helpfully.
Ignoring her, Dot said, “Then you should have no trouble demonstrating how we play.”
The game involved having the mommy in question perform various tasks simultaneously without losing her temper. “First, she will talk into a phone while holding a baby on the same arm.”
“No problem,” said Lael, taking the doll that Jackie handed her and tucking it in the crook of her arm. Then she propped the cell phone under her ear. “What’s next?”
Dot instructed her to bend down and tie her shoe.
“I’m wearing Birkenstocks,” said Lael. It was true. Bridget, shod in a pair of Andrea Pfister white suede court pumps with a die-cut instep, which she kept in their original box with the original tissue paper, cringed.
“Pretend,” instructed Dot.
Lael bent down and pretended to tie her Birkenstock without dropping the phone or the baby. Good thing the doll didn’t need to breathe.
Now Dot set a pitcher of water and a glass on the coffee table. “Have a drink,” she said to Lael. By this time, all pretense of a demonstration was gone. The guests were on the edges of their seats. It was Lael versus Dot, winner take all.
Lael secured the doll against her rib cage, clamped the phone down between shoulder and ear, poured herself a glass of water with her left hand and drained it in a single gulp. She raised the glass overhead in triumph. Bridget, Annie, and I cheered.
“Jackie,” said Dot, unruffled. “The tray, please.”
Jackie hurried into the kitchen and came out with a bag of flour, two sticks of butter, some baking soda, brown sugar, white sugar, a measuring cup, a salt shaker, a bottle of vanilla, two eggs, three spoons, and a bag of chocolate chips arranged neatly on a green plastic tray.
“Everybody loves homemade baked goods,” said Dot, an evil glint in her eye. She had no idea who she was dealing with.
Thirty minutes later, Dot was forced to admit that Lael’s chocolate chip cookies—sweet, but not too sweet, crunchy but yielding—put all others to shame. Then it was present time.
Annie received little hats, little socks, little towels, a bouncy seat, a mobile, a silver spoon, and, from her friend Maureen, a zebra-striped blanket. Dot had knit the baby a sweater—in yellow, not pink, which surprised even Jackie. In addition to the antique crib, Lael had bought Annie a red negligee trimmed in black lace for a few months hence. Bridget gave Annie a gold locket that had belonged to her grandmother, which made Annie cry.
Then it was my turn. I handed my present to Annie. She ripped the paper off and when she saw what it was, looked at me in disbelief.
“Is this the one, Mom?”
“The same edition. I found it at a used bookstore. Here.” I handed her a tissue and she blew her nose.
It was Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid. I used to read it to Annie every night. Her favorite page showed the little mermaid in the window of the sea king’s castle, gazing out at the blue-green water, wondering about life up above. It was my favorite page, too. When Annie and I came out to California after the divorce, the book got lost. I’d searched and searched for another copy with the same iridescent pages, the same haunting picture of the mermaid dressed in a golden gown made of fish scales, having given up a life on earth for love.
She doesn’t really die, Annie had always insisted. No, I’d reassured her. She becomes a daughter of the air. She lives forever in the sky.
I’d finally found a copy. On the flyleaf, the previous owner had written “Rose Baden, Age 8.” Rose was the same age Annie was when she and I started our new lives.
This book was for Annie, and the new life inside her.
“Too bad we didn’t have time to play Taste the Baby Food,” said Dot, folding up her blindfolds after everyone had gone a few hours later.
“Next baby,” I answered. “You were a great help, Dot. Thank you so much.”
“What were those little white napkins for?” Annie asked Dot.
We were all outside now, helping Annie pack up her car.
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” said Dot. “I forgot about them. It’s a game called Dirty Diaper. I put a chocolate kiss in one of the napkins. The person who finds it is the winner.”
“Gross,” said Jackie, slamming Annie’s trunk shut. “Thank god you forgot.”
I burst out laughing. “I couldn’t agree more, Jackie.”
“I’m so happy Jackie and I are part of your family now,” Dot said to me.
Annie started tearing up.
“Hormones,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Group hug,” said Jackie.
The strange thing was, I was happy they were part of our family, too.
Then Richard showed up and spoiled all the fun.
CHAPTER 41
ne hour with Richard. That was all I needed. Jackie kindly agreed to let me steal him away (her phrase, not mine). I told him we could walk up the hill to the Sunset Strip in less than ten minutes, but he insisted on driving, then wasted at least double that amount of time backtracking when he turned up Sweetzer instead of Flores, which is where I’d told him to turn in the first place.
I’d picked the Sunset Tower Hotel for its old-Hollywood pedigree. Bugsy Siegel had an apartment there in the thirties so he could be close to the Clover Club and the Trocadero. Howard Hughes once occupied both penthouses and the entirety of the fourteenth floor. John Wayne kept a milk cow on his balcony, currently part of the spa. With its art deco zigzags and white plaster friezes of pagan goddesses, it exuded the kind of Tinseltown glamour I loved and Richard loathed. He preferred boat clubs, faculty clubs, country clubs, golf clubs— any kind of club, as long as it kept people out who didn’t wear navy blue blazers and Princeton ties. I was hoping for at least one baby-faced music mogul wearing fat gold chains and drinking Cristal, but I’d settle for a half-clad starlet and her grandpa.
The maître d’ led us past the fire to a corner table near the piano. Richard, in characteristic fashion, shoved in front of me to take the brown suede banquette, so I sat down in the chair opposite. Without so much as consulting me, he asked the waitress to bring us two glasses of white wine but I changed my order to a Scotch on the rocks, despite being of the opinion that Scotch on the rocks tastes like cleaning solvent. It was the principle of the thing.
We waited in silence for our drinks. The piano player picked out the sultry notes of “Rhapsody in Blue.” I studied the walls, covered with framed black-and-white photographs of long-ago studio hopefuls with their bobs, their Brylcreem, their ready smiles.
The drinks finally came. Richard popped a handful of nuts into his mouth and said, chewing, “I’m glad you called this meeting, Cece. It’s high time I established some ground rules.”
All those beautiful young men and women. Would-be starlets, leading men, character actors. So many hard-luck stories. Such hope. They came to Hollywood from Tulsa, Des Moines, Phoenix, the hills of Appalachia to make something of their lives. I’d come here to do the same thing. Through the window, I could see the city spread out before me—the palm trees, the flat roofs, the stately old apartment buildings on Fountain, the chilly office towers along the Wilshire corridor. This was my city, my home. Richard was a visitor here. And visitors don’t make the ground rules.
“This is a drink,” I said, turning to him. “Not a meeting. A drink. If we can just sit at this nice table and have a drink, then maybe there’s some hope for us. We haven’t managed it before, but with the baby coming, it’s the least we can do for Annie and Vincent, don’t you think?”
Richard paused. “What is this sudden obsession with alcohol, Cece?”
Jesus. “It doesn’t have to be an alcoholic drink. It could be juice. It could be water. It could be soda. Does it really make a difference?”
“I think it does. It makes all the difference in the world. It’s a small detail, but small details coalesce into big pictures. It’s the way sch
olars think.”
“There isn’t only one way to think, Richard.”
He smirked condescendingly, which would’ve given me déjà vu if his condescending attitude hadn’t been the defining feature of our marriage. Well, that and his infidelity.
“You seem to be stuck in a place of anger,” he said. “It isn’t healthy. Are there are some lingering resentments you want to get off your chest? Because if there are, I suppose this is as good a time as any.”
“How can you say that to me?” I asked, trying not to lose my temper. “You cheated on me every day we were married!”
“Can we get back to the point of this meeting, please? Excuse me,” he corrected himself. “This drink.”
“Yes, let’s do that.” I bit my lip.
“The first thing is, Jackie wants the baby to call her Grandma.”
“Fine.”
“That’s it?”
“As long as Annie and Vincent have no objections, it’s fine with me. Next?”
He wrinkled his brow. “So the baby will have three grandmothers?”
“The more the merrier.”
“You don’t think it’s confusing?”
Now I understood. He didn’t want the baby to call Jackie Grandma. But he wanted me to be the bad guy.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think it’s confusing.”
“Does your fiancé want to be called Grandpa?”
“I don’t know.” I rooted around in the nut dish for a cashew. “We haven’t discussed it.”
“I see.”
I waited, wondering if he could control himself.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, Cece, your communication skills have always needed work. That kind of problem can sabotage a relationship.”
Nope, he couldn’t control himself.
“In any case,” he said, “the second thing is, I want to pay for private-school education for the baby.”
“You should take that up with Annie and Vincent.”
“I have. They have a problem with it. I was hoping you could intervene.”
“I most certainly will not.”
“I should think you would be passionate on this subject, given the way your lack of a college education has hindered you.”
I sighed deeply. “Having unprotected sex with a man who seduced me when I was seventeen and then put me to work supporting his education is what hindered me, but I’ve come out all right in spite of it.”
He nodded. “I realize that’s the way you see things. I see them quite differently. Why don’t we agree to disagree?”
“Why don’t we agree that you’re an—?” I swallowed the word that came to mind. “No. I am not letting you do this to me.”
Eyes wide, Richard said, “Do what?”
“You know what.”
“I’ve had just about enough of you,” he said, his face suddenly contorting with anger. “Why don’t you get off your high horse? You know what you did.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“I wasn’t the only one to blame. You cheated on me, too.”
The room went still.
The piano player stopped playing, the waiters stopped serving, the young couple at the table next to us froze midkiss.
My first impulse was to deny it. I wasn’t that kind of person. Cheating went against everything I believed.
But instead I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I whispered it over and over again, until the words were nothing but hollow sounds in my ear.
It was so long ago.
And I was so good at forgetting. Forgetting was easier than remembering.
We were living in Chicago. Annie was in first grade. The marriage was in trouble. I was trying to work up the courage to leave. He was a colleague of Richard’s, a young assistant professor. Luke. We’d known each other for years, but had never so much as flirted. He was quiet and serious. I was somebody’s unhappy wife. One night, when Richard was away, it just happened. Afterward, I was filled with regret, but Luke saved me the trouble of ending it by suddenly backing off. A month later, he left to take a job in Michigan. I never heard from him again. Two years later, Richard and I were divorced. I’d never dreamed that he’d known.
“Stop saying you’re sorry,” said Richard. “I never did.” He reached for my hands, then dropped them the minute he had them. The gesture was somehow symbolic.
“Richard?”
Now he was running his finger along the outside of his glass, catching the beads of condensation and crushing them.
“Richard.”
He looked at me.
“How did you find out?” He must have seen it in my eyes.
He sank back against the velvety banquette. “Luke told me.”
Luke? My head started to reel. I had to stand up, to get out of there, but I couldn’t trust my legs. No more alcohol. I pushed my glass away so hard it slid across the table and crashed to the floor. The waiter instantly appeared. He picked up the cubes of ice and shards of glass and placed them in a wet rag. The Scotch had already been sucked up by the thick brown carpet.
“Can I get you another one, miss?” the waiter asked.
I shook my head.
“I’ll take another,” said Richard.
After the waiter left, I asked, “Why would Luke do such a thing? Did you confront him? Did you threaten him?”
Richard shook his head. “I didn’t go to Luke. He came to me. He wanted to talk.”
“About what?”
“He wanted to know if our marriage was over.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said desperately. “We agreed to keep it to ourselves.”
Richard looked down at his lap as he spoke. “He asked me about our marriage being over because he was in love with you. He wanted to be with you. Okay?” He looked up. “Surely you knew that?”
“No,” I whispered. “He never said a word.”
“Shit,” said Richard. The waiter set another drink down in front of him but he waved it away, saying, “Bring it back later.”
I took a deep breath. “What did you tell him?”
Silence.
“What did you tell Luke?” I repeated.
He waited a long time before answering. “I told him no. That our marriage wasn’t over.”
“God!” I shook my head. “You knew it was over!”
“No.”
“Yes! You were the one who destroyed it.”
He looked down at his lap again.
“Did you tell him that to spite me?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you hate me so much that you’d take any possibility of happiness away from me?”
“How stupid can you be? It was just the opposite. I told him the marriage wasn’t over because I didn’t want it to be over.”
“But why?” I asked.
“Because I still loved you.”
There was a sudden, deafening silence.
“Look,” said Richard, pulling out his wallet. “It’s late. I think we should call it a day. We’re all exhausted, and Jackie and Dot are waiting for me back at your place.” He slapped his credit card down on the thick linen tablecloth. We sat there without saying a word to each other. The waiter took away the credit card, ran it through the machine, came back with a receipt for Richard to sign. Richard signed it and shoved the copy into his pocket. Still, we didn’t speak. At the valet station in front of the hotel we waited for the car, both of us staring straight ahead. When Richard’s rental appeared, I let him get into it alone.
“I’m going to walk,” I said, stepping across the asphalt into the neon glare of the Sunset Strip. Cars cruised by, honking their horns. People crowded the sidewalks. Billboards bore down on them, promising perfect lives if they bought these sunglasses, that CD, that perfume, those jeans.
Just east of the hotel was a set of stairs that led down to a pocket park whose grass never seemed to grow. It was named after the silent screen’s first western hero, William S. Hart
, whom nobody remembers anymore. I stumbled down the stairs and sat down on a concrete bench opposite a homeless man who was railing against god knows what. He didn’t seem to notice or care when I put my head in my hands.
I stayed there until the sun went down, thinking.
About the things I chose to remember.
About the things I chose to forget.
Then it struck me like a thunderbolt.
I’d given myself amnesia.
Just like Agatha had.
CHAPTER 42
gatha wrapped her fur-trimmed coat more tightly around her. The winds were up, but the cold was a welcome relief from the overheated rooms at the Hydropathic.
Agatha’s steps quickened as she walked past the offices of the Times. She laughed to herself about what the clerk had said to her the other day. How quickly he took back his words. She wasn’t sure if his demurral was a testament to his politesse or to the efficacy of hiding in plain sight. The latter, she decided.
Good day, said a gentleman, tipping his hat.
Good day, she nodded, daring to look him in the face. What did it matter now? Certainly it had been long enough. It was time.
The windows of the Harrogate shops were festooned with Christmas decorations. Colored string, candied garlands. She drank in the smell of pine and cloves.
She was homesick. Tired.
In front of the photographer’s studio she stopped and peered at the black-and-white pictures he’d put up. Other people always managed to look so charming in photographs. A little boy in a sailor suit. A group of friends by the seaside, lined up along the sand. A little girl with dark hair who reminded Agatha of her daughter, Rosalind. How clever he was with the camera—now she glanced up to the hanging sign—this Mr. R. W. Cadgeley.
There were a great number of wedding pictures. Strange, this one of two couples standing side by side. Both of the men were in formal dress, their top hats at their sides. Both of the women were in gowns, carrying sweet peas. The woman on the left was wearing a lighter-hued dress, with some sort of veil spilling off the brim of her hat, but the woman on the right was carrying the larger of the bouquets.
