She and Hap were both shaking violently as he entered her, and her gasp filled his open mouth. Their caresses grew more languorous and then ceased entirely as he moved within her or she undulated around him. She thought only of the exquisite sensations of the moment. All at once she gave an involuntary, wavery cry. Every cell in her body was suspended, absolutely still, poised waiting. She was no longer conscious of the room, nor of Hap, nor her own body, just of the anticipatory stillness. Then the frenzied spasms began, and she thrashed without control, clinging to Hap’s waist as she gasped out, “Darling, ahh . . . ahhh . . . ahhhhhh Hap . . . darling. . . .”
It hadn’t happened the first time. Hap had been too quick, she too nervous; but since then she always reached climax—climaxes. The first took a long time: after the initial powerfully relentless waves of pleasure that turned her body inside out, every part of her skin wet, tingling, alive, she would drift, then feel herself rising higher and higher, hovering until she fell in gentler yet equally blissful release, drifting again and again in that orgasmic sea. She considered her perennially fresh joys a physical manifestation of the tender yet violent emotions that bound her to Hap.
As she dressed, she thought, The worst thing we do to Barry is my going back to him afterward.
• • •
“Barry,” she said, pausing. “Have you ever thought about, uhh, moving in with your folks?”
Slumped over his typewriter, he heard her voice but the question didn’t register. Looking up, he grunted, “Huhh?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you slept at your parents’?”
“That’s a wondrous strange question. This is where I live, remember?”
“You’re not here all that much and—”
“Are you giving me an ultimatum?” he interrupted, his freckles showing darkly.
“It makes more sense, that’s all.”
“Am I receiving an ultimatum?” Barry raised his voice because she’d gone into the bathroom to undress. How long, he asked himself, had she been changing in there? It went back to when she’d bought two sets of baby-doll pajamas—before that she’d slept in the raw. A couple of months ago, give or take a week, he decided.
She returned, the short froth of white nylon ruffles not quite hiding the curves of her body. “Barry, look, this is the first night you’ve been home all week.”
As Alicia bent to open up the bed she reminded Barry of a Degas bronze ballerina at the County Museum, pliant and feminine yet also magnificently, casually strong. Then the light bulb flickered and she seemed to dwindle and fade, moving farther from him. In this instant he recognized the full extent of his dependence on her earthy strength, her ability to cope, and yes, even her inferiority.
“You can’t hold Mom’s illness against me,” he said hoarsely.
“I’m not accusing you, Barry.” She tucked in the corners of the sheet. “I’m just saying we already both go our separate ways.”
“Have you been seeing somebody at the studio?”
“This is about us—you and me,” she said.
“Yes, absolutely!”
Concentrating on the other corner of the sheet, she said, “Can’t we talk sensibly?”
“Why don’t you talk sensibly with him?”
If Barry had not been so distracted by his fear and jealousy, he would have noted her increased pallor.
“Talk about what to who?” she parried.
“The guy you’re going your separate way with!” Grabbing up his old windbreaker—he’d never worn that loud checked sport jacket that she’d given him at Christmas—he rushed out.
He drove to the nearest bar, a dim, narrow place with an outsize television screen tuned to a pro basketball game. At every Laker basket, the clientele roared approval and thumped on the counter. Barry, uninterested in sports, hunched in a booth, ordering Schlitz after Schlitz, attempting to drown the memory of Alicia’s huge, concerned blue eyes as she suggested that he move out.
Two hours later, reeking of beer, he managed to steer the De Soto home. In the darkness he stumbled, sprawling on the rug. The light went on and Alicia bent over him. He pressed his cheek against her bare foot, beginning to sob. “Hon, don’t leave me.”
She stroked his heaving shoulders. “Barry, get up.”
“Sorry I’ve been spending so much time with Mom.”
“Here, let me help you.”
He did not take her hands. Instead he pressed his lips to her polished, lotion-scented toes. Even drunk, he understood the ridiculousness of his abject pose, but he could not prevent himself from begging. “Promise you won’t go?”
“Come to bed, Barry.”
“We’re married . . . on an eternal basis. . . .” His sobs were loud, hoarse, agonized.
Finally she sighed, “It’s was just an idea, Barry, that’s all.”
In bed, he kissed her breasts, sucking noisily on her nipples, an overgrown, bristle-faced baby nursing as his limp penis pressed against her thigh.
The incident saddened her and reminded her of her vows, which she had certainly never taken lightly. Yet each time she entered a room at the Cahuenga Inn the idea of divorce filled her mind.
13
On a damp, smoggy afternoon in early May, groups of costumed extras waited on the folding chairs strewn at the south end of Magnum’s Western street. Alicia, swathed from neck to ankles in calico, sat a bit apart, engrossed in The Idiot. A passionate reader, ignorant of which author was designated as a genius, she approached every novel on Barry’s eclectic shelf—Melville, Agatha Christie, Thomas Wolfe, Balzac, Flaubert, O’Hara, Hersey, the Russians—with a near carnal abandon: teach me, compel me, carry me away. She was oblivious to the extras as well as the crew.
“Alicia Lopez?”
Blinking and startled, Alicia left nineteenth century, mystical Russia to look up at a young messenger who was extending an unstamped envelope. Inside she found a small memo sheet: Report to Mr. Cordiner’s office at six thirty.
Shivering, she stared at the note until the assistant director bawled through his megaphone, “Extras! We’re ready for you!”
At the end of shooting, she returned her costume, which would be cleaned for the following day, hastily creamed off her makeup, then jogged the quarter mile to Magnum’s red brick and stucco Executive Building, an exalted place where she had never set foot. In the decades before television had put the stamp of decline on the industry, the Executive Building had been overcrowded. Now, the curving staircase to the unoccupied second and third floor was blocked by a long table.
Desmond Cordiner’s outer office, however, retained its aura of prosperity. Behind the curves of two elegant old mahogany hunt tables sat a pair of equally decorative secretaries, neither of whom appeared cognizant that the workday had ended. The young, voluptuous blonde continued her rapid typing while the trim, fortyish brunette looked up, questioning Alicia with a demi-smile.
“Mr. Cordiner sent for me. I’m Alicia Lopez.”
“Oh, yes,” said the brunette, her smile fading. “Will you take a seat.”
There was no clock in the office, Alicia didn’t own a watch, so there was no way to properly gauge the passage of time. The blonde typed, the brunette put through a minimum of five calls to her boss, while beyond the undrawn maroon plush draperies the dark blue dusk turned black.
A peculiar thought occurred to Alicia: I won’t be kept waiting when I’m a somebody.
Not if, but when.
Although she thought of herself as being a mere worm amid the lordly Cordiners, undeniably her association with them had elevated her ambition level. As a child she had fantasized about being any one of the beautifully dressed girls on the screen, but now she understood that the clothes of extras and bit players belonged to the costume department, while their stately homes were shells. What she yearned after was respect. If she were a star and respected, she would not be waiting in this outer office, perspiring lightly, a sharp knot of anxiety in her empty stomach.
Fin
ally a buzzer sounded on the desk. “You can go in now,” said the brunette secretary.
When Desmond Cordiner had taken over as head of Magnum, he had not altered Art Garrison’s office. Garrison, a near dwarf, had placed his desk up four steps, forcing all visitors to walk the near fifty feet like supplicants to his altar. Here, Desmond Cordiner hunched over papers without acknowledging her entry. Alicia, gazing up at her husband’s uncle—her employer—was struck by awe and fear. Throwing her head back, she traversed the distance in her Movie Person strut, worrying her quivery legs might give out.
As she reached the dais, Desmond Cordiner looked up. “Listen, you little cunt—” In this flat, conversational tone, the obscenity, one she loathed above all others, rang more venomously than if he had ranted. “—I’ve had it up to here with you.”
“Now what have I done?” she said, inwardly astonished at the contrast between the strength of her voice and the weakness of her body.
“None of that big blue-eyed innocence. You know the fuck why you’re here.”
“Give me a clue.”
“I will not have you screwing up Hap’s life.”
Her breath expelled loudly. A blinding light expanded painfully within her brain. Believing those clandestine meetings at Cahuenga Inn to be totally secret, she had never once considered Hap as the reason behind her summons. “How did you find out?” she asked in an oddly pitched tone.
He ignored the question. “Stay away from him or else he’ll hear about the shithole you crawled out of.”
“He knows,” she said, digging her nails into her palms. “And it doesn’t matter to him.”
“The kid’s always been too decent for his own good,” Desmond Cordiner said in that same restrained tone. Then suddenly his rage broke its dam, inundating her. He slammed his fist on the massive desk, rattling papers. “I want you away, cunt!” he bellowed.
“You mean out of the country? Or the world?” Her mouth was dry, yet somehow she managed a note of defiant humor.
“You get out of Los Angeles! If you don’t I’ll phone the cops and tell ’em you’re peddling ass and horse.”
“Ass and horse. Cute.”
Desmond Cordiner’s eyes narrowed. Braced for further assaults, possibly physical, she tensed her muscles. But he took off his black-rimmed glasses, wearily rubbing the bridge of his scimitar nose. “It’s been a bitch of a day,” he said, descending the steps to mortal level. “Let’s start over.”
In an industry of wily, often dishonest negotiators, Desmond Cordiner was famed: a real pro, his peers and underlings called him admiringly. Fury, obscenity, blackmail, threats, offers of advancement or prestige, sympathetic gentleness, appeals to human decency—he could switch from one to another deftly and with unparalleled success. “Here, sit down,” he said.
Her legs were about to give way, so she didn’t argue but sank into the deep, comfortable leather chair.
He sat opposite, leaning toward her. “Alicia, a few months ago you refused to give up Barry. Now you think you’re in love with Hap. You’re very young. Isn’t it possible that this is another infatuation?”
“It’s totally different,” she said. “And Hap’s twenty-one.”
“A veritable Methuselah,” Desmond Cordiner said with a tired smile. “What about your marriage?”
She shrugged.
“I talked to Hap this morning, asked him what the hell was going on.”
“What did he say?”
“That it was none of my damn business.” He paused. “By now you’ve certainly realized that Hap’s thoroughly decent—he must’ve inherited the virtues from his mother’s side—she comes from good blood. So I cannot believe he enjoys sneaking into motel rooms with his cousin’s wife.”
Alicia tried to control her expression, but she had not yet learned acting technique: her bleakness showed.
Desmond Cordiner went on. “Granted Barry’s been goofing off in the worst way.”
“His mother—”
“I respect that loyalty of yours, Alicia. But Clara’s been out of the woods for a while now. Barry should be home nights with you. What’s with that boy? Leaving a wife who’s not only gorgeous and sexy, but has brains and spunk. And not keeping up his grades—”
“Last semester he got all As.”
“Ds and Incompletes. I checked.” He shrugged sadly. “The dean says he’s killed his chances at a good law school.”
“But it’s only one semester!”
“The grades are on record. Now listen to me, Alicia. We both know Barry’s always fiddled with writing. I’m suggesting we give him a chance at it. Clara’ll threaten another coronary, I grant you that. Damned if I know why she’s so hot to have a lawyer for a son. Probably has something to do with her being Jewish. What a family! Catholics, Jews, Episcopalians, a Christian Scientist—even a crazy Rosicrucian.”
And one itinerant farm worker. “You’re positive he won’t get into law school?”
“Maybe one of those shyster mills.” Desmond Cordiner laced his fingers. “Alicia, I have a good friend in France, Philippe Saint-Simon. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
Who hadn’t? Saint-Simon wrote, directed and produced. He had put his stamp on French film as Fellini had done in Italy, as Bergman was doing in Sweden. Even the most vituperative critics mellowed when reviewing a Saint-Simon movie, often using the word genius.
“If you could become one of his troupe, you’d have a go at an important career.”
Career. . . . The word had a rich patina, like fine old silver. Despite her innocent pride at being an extra, she knew it was merely a job. Career?
“You and Barry could learn your respective professions.”
Profession, another evocative word.
“It’s become a damn rat race here, but it’s different in France.”
France. In France she’d be separated from Hap by thousands of miles. Not to see him, feel him, taste him, smell him?
Desmond Cordiner was watching her. “Have you ever considered how much this is damaging Hap?”
“I’m not hurting him,” she said through numbed lips.
“Not you, Alicia, the situation. Before this, he’s never behaved in any way that wasn’t absolutely aboveboard. I pride myself on being a judge of character. You’re too good a woman to turn him into something less than he is.”
“But what if—”
“If you leave Barry? Hap would feel even more rotten. It would gnaw his guts constantly.”
“I’m not hurting him,” she repeated.
“Think about it, at least.” He got to his feet. “Saint-Simon is a good friend.”
Drained and hopeless as though she’d been tried for murder by a hanging judge, she closed her eyes, thus missing Desmond Cordiner’s satisfied little smile.
14
When Alicia left the Executive Building, she saw by the round clock above a sound stage door that it was nearly eight. Since Barry was to be with his parents, she had arranged to meet Hap at the Cahuenga Inn. He always waited in his car until she arrived. How else could she see him emerge from the office with the key? How else could she follow him to the right room? She accepted now that these were the clumsy maneuvers of a man unskilled at adultery—or any other form of chicanery.
As she trudged shivering toward the parking lot, the chill wind that gusted along the dark, empty studio street seemed a fit companion. Once Henry Lopez had beaten up on her with a plank of wood, and that was how her interview with Desmond Cordiner made her feel. Bruised, weak, dazed. She—low-life Alice Hollister—had corrupted Hap, a knight nonpareil. In her demoralized state, she rushed into an anguished decision.
I won’t show up tonight.
I won’t talk to Hap. I’ll end it now. Quickly. Quickly. Quickly.
Halting, she leaned against a cement-block wall, overcome by sobs. She remained hunched and gasping, the cold wind tearing at her clothes, then a passing car’s headlights bathed her in yellow light and she straightened, heading for her VW
and home.
When she opened her front door, the phone was ringing. Positive it was Hap, she stood over the instrument with her hands tightly balled into fists until the insistent sounds ended. When, a few minutes later, the ringing began again she pressed her hands over her ears.
The following night Barry stayed home. His realization that he needed Alicia had combined with its frightening corollary: she might walk out on him. He was trying to cut down on the number of dinners he ate with his parents.
Alicia was doing the dishes when the phone rang. Barry answered.
The conversation lasted no more than thirty seconds, and he replaced the instrument with a baffled frown. “That was Hap,” he said. “After lo these many moons, he calls. And for what? To ask when Mom’s birthday is.”
The next night, Saturday, it was raining, and Clara begged her son not to risk driving the slippery roads. So again it was Barry who answered Hap’s call. And again they spoke briefly. “What’s come over Hap?” Barry said mystified. “He’s the reliable, steady type, never discombobulated. And you know what he wanted? To find out what to get for Mom’s birthday—and I told him yesterday it’s not until August. Sometimes I can’t figure the guy out.”
Sunday was brilliantly clear and Barry elected to spend the day with his parents. The phone rang on numerous occasions but Alicia did not answer. And neither did she on Monday, when Barry stayed late at the UCLA Research Library.
Tuesday she worked at Columbia on a ballroom sequence: having invested in a black sequined minidress and a fake mink coat, she was eligible to earn the higher wage scale available to dress extras.
She arrived home to find the familiar note propped against the lamp. Am at the folks. Be back around 10.
She felt light-headed, as if she might pass out. Since her summons to Desmond Cordiner’s office five days earlier, she had drunk gallons of black coffee and bottle after bottle of Pepsi, but downed no more than a few forkfuls of solid food. Telling herself she must eat, she peeled a small russet potato, slicing it into cold salted water, lighting the stove. She hung up her formal, sliding out of the cheap nylons that bit uncomfortably at the thigh. In the bathroom she slathered Albalene cream on her face, neck and shoulders, tissuing off the greasy layer of brownish cosmetic. As she soaped herself, the front door buzzer sounded, but with the faucets on she didn’t hear.
Dreams Are Not Enough Page 10
