"I don't think so."
The room wasn't far down the narrow hall with its ancient brocade-pattern paper in gilded trellises that gave a sense of greater vistas beyond, and yet of confinement.
"I've got to call Kit and tell her I won't be coming back tonight."
"She knows."
"How do you know she knows? Yes, she's pretty hip for an aunt, but she might worry."
"She might worry more if you did go back tonight."
"Oh, really. That sure of yourself?"
"Of me, maybe. Of you, never. Just of her."
"I'll call."
"Fine. Now do you want to come in, or not?"
"Of course I do." Temple turned around when she was in the room. Small, high ceiling, high bed, lots of mahogany furniture from the forties, once splendid, and still pretty spiffy. A narrow door to a closet. A narrow door to a bathroom. And probably a hundred and eighty dollars a night, as a single. Oh! She was an illegal guest. A smuggle-in. A New York wetback.
"Temple. We've been here before. This is nothing new. Calm down."
"Where's the phone?"
He pointed to the bedside table, and to one of the closed doors.
"A phone in the bathroom? In a place this small?"
"They pride themselves on modern conveniences."
"I'll dash in, then."
She dropped her tote bag on the floor, and her coat and earmuffs and gloves, or Kit's rather, and vanished through the indicated door.
All white tile, with that ancient octagon-of-white-tiled floor grouted with black. Twenties. The phone was a wall model. Brand-new. She punched in Kit's number, glancing at her watch. Almost midnight. Going to get the old girl up . . .
It was answered on the first ring. "Hello." Kit, no doubting that husky contralto.
"It's Temple."
"No kidding."
"I just wanted to let you know that I. . . we .. . wouldn't be making it back to your place tonight."
"No kidding."
"Kit! You're my aunt."
"That doesn't make me dumb, does it? Don't answer that."
"Oh, Kit. I... I don't know. I'm not ready ... I just have the dopey clothes I had on at your place and--"
"Tut-tut. Look in that ludicrously large tote bag of yours, Cinderella."
"Tote bag?"
Temple opened the bathroom door an inch. "Max," she said sweetly, "can you just hand in my tote bag? Thank you." Temple grabbed it and kicked the door shut. "What do you mean 'look'?" she demanded of the phone.
"Just look."
Temple pawed through the usual flotsam of her bag and felt something filmy snag on her fingernails. She dredged out a great deal of sheer black chiffon.
"Kit! What is this?"
"An example of a postmenopausal woman's optimism. Don't do anything in it I wouldn't do. I expect a full report whenever. Within the bounds of good taste, and close relatives, of course. Bye, dear. Sweet dreams."
The phone droned at her. Temple pulled and pulled and pulled black chiffon out of her bag until she felt like a magician doing the scarf trick. Well, Kit and she were the same size, and this certainly had to be better than second-best undies . . . and who knows what those European Mata Haris had worn just to the beauty parlor?
She peeked out a few minutes later, relieved to hear the homely drone of the television set on low. Only one small bedside lamp lit the room besides the eerie glow of the TV screen.
She ankled out, casual, aiming a comment at the man in the bed.
"It's all yours. The bathroom, I mean!"
Why did resuming a love affair after an interim feel so much like starting one all over again?
A hand stretched out from the bed. She mounted it, and this high, narrow, old-fashioned bedstead required mounting.
"Guess what's on?" Max's profile was directed toward the TV. How . . . domestic. How . . . easy.
"What's on?"
"Mary Tyler Moore reruns."
"Really? It must be weird to be an actor and see yourself as you were thirty years ago."
"Must be."
Max had one hand on the remote control, and one hand on her. Men! God bless 'em.
Temple snuggled down next to him, and sighed.
His free hand trailed through a stupendous excess of sheer black chiffon at her hip. "Must have caught something exotic in there."
"From the forties, probably."
"Forties noir."
"Exactly."
The remote control clicked, and the TV went black, forties noir black.
Temple woke up in the night, hearing the mechanical wail of an ambulance or a police car. For a moment she panicked, not recognizing the shape and shadows of the room. Everything was dark except for a blot of white shadow at the big old window. She reached out in the bedclothes, touched a figure, sleeping.
The white blot of window was a spotlight. Temple stretched in the comfortably rumpled covers, realized she was missing something, and finally found a heap of black chiffon on the floor.
She yawned.
The bathroom door was closed.
She stretched out an arm.
And stretched.
And stretched and found only empty bed linens.
Temple frowned for a moment, then relished her unexpected privacy. She felt wonderful, all over. Body, mind, soul. Like an unused instrument that had performed a very private concerto. In the muted daylight, the alien ring gleamed on her left hand. A band, winding like a road. A stone, glittering like a rainbow pond. Diamonds like dew. Everything was. . . like, groovy.
She bent over the bed's edge to fish up the fallen chiffon. Might as well see in daylight what this thing had looked like last night.
Max should be out of the bathroom soon. She didn't hear the shower spattering . . . She got up, wriggled into the nightgown and tiptoed to the bathroom door.
A small desk crouched against the wall beside the bathroom door. An oblong of stationery caught her eye. An oblong of written-upon stationery.
She stopped, braced her arms on the desk and read the bold, left-leaning script.
Temple darling,
The salutation stopped her heart. It could only lead to one thing.
I hate this, but the call came last night and you were dead asleep. Somethings happened in Las Vegas I need to look into right away. I thought of taking you with me, but remembered you and Louie may still have business at the advertising agency. I'll tell you everything as soon as you get back, and call you at your aunt's this afternoon. This isn't the way I planned to wake you up in the morning, believe me.
All my love, Max
"Max!" Temple repeated aloud, making a fist and hitting the paper.
On her white-knuckled hand, the broad gold ring looked like a weapon.
She relaxed her fingers. What else could he have done?
Max.
Chapter 39
The Billie Holiday Blues
"How did it go?" Kit wasted no time in greeting Temple at the door. She peered beyond her, hopefully, into the hall.
"Mixed reviews," Temple said shortly, barreling past her in the warm red coat and bunnie-cute earmuffs and gloves.
Inside, she ripped them off and tossed them on a chair.
"Mixed reviews?" Kit collapsed atop her discarded outerwear on the chair. "You surprise me. Max surprises me."
"Me too. Oh, the main event was fabulous. It's just that the encore was sadly lacking."
"Encore?"
"He's gone. Left last night. Sometime. I was sleeping. Called back to Vegas."
"A magician is on call?"
Temple cast her aunt a quelling look. "Oh, it's not his fault. I understand. It's just that it was a teeny bit anticlimatic, you might say." Her smile felt wan, even to her. "Thanks for the radical gown. I really needed that."
"But the performance was . . . adequate?"
"Auntie Kit, your best gown did not serve in vain, that I can assure you. I just like to wake up next to the man I slept with the night before. Like I said, it's
not Max's fault. He has. . . obligations
"I went out with a fireman once. Don't laugh, I did. Sweet man, sexy man, but he did keep odd hours."
"Odd hours. That's the way to put it." Temple glanced down at her left hand. "My Christmas present."
"Oh, honey! That's gorgeous. And very promising."
Temple nodded. "You're right. I'm being immature. The evening was wonderful, the restaurant, the food, the hotel, Max. I needed every bit of it too." Temple leaned against the wall. "It all just happened so fast. My emotions feel like they've been on a roller coaster."
"I can understand that. How long since you and Max have been together?"
Temple calculated. "Almost ten months."
"Sounds like things went better than most people would expect after all that time."
"He's going to call this afternoon."
"But he won't be here for your party tonight?"
"No. What did you really think of him, Aunt Kit?"
"Oh, my. Don't ask the deprived. Of course, I've been smitten ever since you reported that he told you that going to bed again would resolve all your doubts. I do like a confident man. Did it?"
"Yes, and no."
"Hmm. You're wearing the ring."
"I loved him, and he loved me, but I don't know if we can work out what needs to be worked out."
"Past tense?"
"Past tense bleeding messily into present and future, especially now that we've tumbled into bed again. I can't really explain what stands between us, Kit. It's very serious, and not either one's fault. We're caught by past circumstances. Nobody to blame. But sad just the same. For now, there's hope. I guess that's what I should concentrate on."
Temple shrugged. "Do you want your, uh, thingamajiggy back?"
"It's your memory now. Keep it and wear it in good health."
"It's not wearing it that's so good for one's health, Aunt."
"Whatever," Kit said coyly, looking pleased.
The day would have been anticlimactic, like any morning after the night before, except that at 4 p.m. Kit's phone rang.
She dashed to get it, then stretched the cord as far as it would uncoil to check on Temple's location: brooding at the Manhattan cityscape for one of the last times this trip, a slick magazine lying open and unread on her lap.
Kit laid down the receiver and ran to get Temple.
"It's a man," she whispered like any roommate.
"What man?"
"I didn't ask, but who do you suppose? Who said he was going to call from La Vegas?"
Temple checked her watch as she rose and clomped over to the phone in deliberate contrast to Kit's hush-hush manner.
"It's only one P.M. there." She was about to point out to her aunt, who like most Easterners had a very vague idea of where time zones changed and what that meant, that Max would barely have had time to get to Las Vegas and tend to whatever was so urgent by now, much less call her. But she was at the phone, so she picked it up and said a slightly less perky than usual "Hello."
"Yes?" she repeated, as if something was wrong with the line.
"Oh!" She went on, aware that her whole tone had changed. "I didn't recognize your voice at first. Must be the long-distance lines. No, I'm not disappointed. Just. . . tired."
Kit came racing over on her even noisier scuffs, primed for eavesdropping, even if the act was fated to be one-sided. She leaned against the window ledge and concentrated so much Temple feared she could hear through long-distance lines.
Temple sat slowly on one of the tall kitchen stools, feeling bemused.
"Not too tired to talk, no. You are? This afternoon. How did everything go?
"Oh, really.
"That's. . . good. I mean, wonderful!
"Yes, I am pretty tired out." Here Temple glanced at her aunt with a significant look. "Yes. Up late. Maybe that's why I sound a little .. . 'down.'
"Well, I can't wait to hear the details.
"Yes?
"Yes?
"No!
"All right. I'll be back about noon tomorrow. No, don't meet me at the airport. Really, I mean it. It's such a hop, skip and jump home, and my luggage arrangement worked great, even with Louie the pouch potato aboard.
"Think we got the job. Pretty solid. Yeah, I'm excited. Solved the murder too.
"I'm sure you are too. And I'm glad, I'm really glad that your trip was so productive.
"Yeah. That's wonderful."
Kit had come nearer with every answer, watching Temple's face contradict her words all the more the longer the conversation continued.
"I'm so happy for you. Can hardly wait.
"Yes.
"Yes, I do."
By now Temple's face looked as empty as a deserted parking lot, but her voice had increased enough in energy and an upbeat volume with every answer to fill a Broadway house. Then suddenly that booming optimism failed. Her face crumpled.
"Bye," she whispered into the phone at last, her voice starting to shatter like a crystal metronome.
"Honey!" Kit took the phone from Temple's limp fingers, and checked for a dial tone, which there indeed was. She hung up the receiver, still warm from Temple's death grip.
"Temple, what's the matter? I've never heard such an inane half-conversation outside a post-modern play, but you look as if you'd gotten your own death notice."
Temple shook her head no, but let her aunt guide her back to the living nxnn couch.
Kit sat her down, not releasing Temple's hand until she sat beside her.
Tell me, Temple. Who was it? What was wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." Temple sighed abruptly, as a dog will sometimes do for no reason. Temple had a reason. "It was Matt, calling from Chicago."
"Something must be wrong."
Temple shook her head in a dazed way. "No. His trip home was not a cakewalk, but he resolved a lot, learned a lot. Now he's ready to go back to Las Vegas and take care of a lot, including any leftover problems with his stepfather. He feels his phone-counseling job is a dead end, that he needs to find something more in keeping with his education level, even his earning level."
"That's sensible. That's great."
"Oh, yeah. Terrific. I hardly recognized his voice. It was so sure, so happy. He sounded like another ... person. He has so much to tell me. He can hardly wait. He can hardly wait--well, I don't have to go into everything. But he can hardly wait to see me again. Tomorrow. Kit. I've never heard him so up, so high, so . . . committed."
"Committed to what?"
Temple swallowed and finally looked at her aunt with truly tragic eyes. "To . . . life. To . . . love. To . . . us."
"Oh, honey."
Kit just took her hands again, and held them.
Chapter 40
Stompin' at the Algonquin
I cannot explain it. Karma is not within three thousand miles of this place, yet my conscience is bothering me. Some may think that one of my ilk cannot have a conscience, but I assure you that mine is in exquisite working order.
Much as I am pleased that the Sublime Solange is likely to partner me in a continuing series of film endeavors, I am not pleased by the shabby treatment meted out to the Divine Yvette. Sisters they may be under the skin, but the Divine Yvette was there first, both in my heart and on the television screen. I cannot let her think that I am a party to the cowardly way she has been victimized, betrayed and cast aside in a maternal condition. A certain once-royal British princess comes to mind.
So I must leave the cozy nest Miss Kit Carlson has fashioned for herself down in the Village, and travel uptown (as far as midtown, anyway) to my love's current hostelry, the Algonquin Hotel. I have heard Miss Savannah Ashleigh boasting of her address to the advertising personnel, though how one who is about as high-brow as a Barbie doll would appreciate staying at a joint famed for hosting the Mount Olympus-browed Round Table wits of the thirties is beyond my Ken.
Such puzzles of human misbehavior aside, this small jaunt uptown is sure to be no cakewalk on a catwalk. Ye
t I am an intrepid as well as an inventive soul, and I figure if I can do Las Vegas blindfolded, I can certainly manage Manhattan with my eyes wide open and all four sets of shivs on intruder-alert.
Frankly, I am more concerned about traffic plain and simple than such evil elements as drug traffickers, gangs, personal electronics salesmen and predatory street people (as opposed to just plain street people, who are usually in no condition to prey on so much as a stray cat, more's the pity). I decide to make my trek at dusk, when nature conspires--even in such an urban center as New York City-- to render my natural coloring an advantage.
My escape from Miss Kit Carlson's Shangri-la in the Sky will be my first challenge.
Luckily, Miss Temple and her aunt are consumed by the problem dujour: which Las Vegas swain is the more promising for Miss Temple's future happiness? Miss Temple has also grown complacent after having successfully carted me to New York and about Madison Avenue. She now views me as a furry pouch potato. Something she can tote here and there. I can see that ground transportation in this town is hell, but I am not ready to give up locomotion for life.
So I work my way to the front door, sit down facing it, and contemplate my options.
They are "poor" and "none."
I have seen neither hide nor hair of the vaunted "super" for this building, and from what I have heard of building superintendents in New York City, they definitely have both hide and hair, and probably two-inch fangs to go with them.
Such an individual would not willingly help out one of my kind.
My entry to this residence was effected by a visitor opening the front door, an easy invitation for one of my subtle tendencies to eel in, or out, unnoticed. However, this poor bloke is as dead as Christmas's hottest gift item will be in return lines next week. I am forced to reinvent the wheel, or, in this case, the hinge.
I am so discouraged that I leap to the window ledge. I often do my best thinking while reclining artistically between two potted poinsettias. By "potted" I do not mean polluted in a liquid sense, although these two could use some watering. I gaze on the building across from me. If I could only dream up some little act that would alarm a friendly, voyeuristic neighbor and send him or her rushing over to warn the ladies of an impending danger.
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