Death of an Orchid Lover

by Nathan Walpow

  “This is Sybil,” Eugene said.

  I shook her hand, invited them in, and offered them something to drink. They declined. Everyone stood around awkwardly. Then we all sat, maintaining the awkwardness level. Eugene clutched Sybil’s hand.

  “Eugene’s told me so much about you,” Sybil told me.

  I gave him a look. “Well, he’s been keeping you a secret.”

  Eugene fluttered his eyes. “I, uh, I didn’t want to jinx things by telling anyone I had a, uh, a …”

  “A girlfriend,” Sybil said.

  “Yes,” he said. “A girlfriend. Isn’t it odd? Isn’t it strange?”

  I stopped him before he broke out into a chorus of “Send In the Clowns.” “It’s not so strange, Eugene. You’re a good-looking guy.” I was stretching things there, but the cause was just. “Why shouldn’t you have a girlfriend? And a beautiful one at that.”

  The two of them turned various shades of red. “Oh, Joe, you’re too sweet,” Sybil said.

  We made chitchat. Eugene and Sybil, mostly Sybil, told us about their ice-skating date at the rink over on Sepulveda. But it was clear a crowd of five—Vera didn’t count; she was by this time in the kitchen clearing out my refrigerator—was more than Eugene was comfortable with. “Come on, Syb,” he said. “It’s time to go back to—to go.”

  I escorted them to the door. Eugene hadn’t let go of Sybil’s hand for an instant. “You’ll be at the conservatory Tuesday afternoon to help move the euphorbias, right, Joe?” he said.

  “Sure will.”

  “Good. See you then.”

  I shut the door behind them. When I got back to the couch, Vicki stood and gave me a hug.

  “What was that for?” I said.

  “For being so sweet. For telling her she was beautiful.”

  “She thinks I’m sweet. You think I’m sweet. Yesterday my bug-commercial wife Diane thought I was sweet. Every woman in the world thinks I’m sweet. So why can’t I get a date?”

  Austin rolled his eyes. “Not this again.”

  “No,” I said. “I mean it this time. I mean, even Eugene Rand’s got a girlfriend, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I’ve heard you say he was making great strides,” Vicki said.

  “Yeah, but he’s only been seminormal, and thereby eligible for a girlfriend, for a month or two. Whereas I, whatever strangeness I may exhibit, have been in the running for years. Decades, even. So what gives?”

  “Man,” said Austin. He was shaking his head. His ponytail swung from side to side.

  “What?”

  “How many times have I told you?”

  “Jeez, Austin, don’t start in about Gina again.”

  “I don’t know, man. You’re like oil and vinegar together.”

  “Austin, honey?” Vicki said.

  “Yeah, hon?”

  “Oil and vinegar don’t exactly mix.”

  “Yeah, but they go well over salad.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “Time to go.”

  Austin shook my hand, and Vicki hugged me again, and they went home. Eventually Vera went away too, and I was left alone, picturing Gina and me lying limply on a bed of romaine.

  The phone rang while I was washing up. I would have let the machine get it, but it had a something’s-wrong ring.

  “She dumped me,” Gina said.

  “She what?”

  “She tried to make it sound like it was all about a job, but I know she’s just moving to San Francisco to get away from me.” Her voice was a little off.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “A little. I downed the wine after she left.”

  “A glass of wine’s not so much.”

  “Not the glass. The bottle. She came over and gave me five minutes and then she sprang it on me. ‘A great opportunity,’ she called it. ‘Everything I’ve always wanted in a job.’

  Bullshit.”

  “She’ll change her mind.”

  “She won’t change her mind. We talked for hours, for Christ’s sake. After a while we were talking about other stuff, and I realized I was already thinking of her as a former lover.” She wasn’t crying, but she was close, and that had me worried. The only time I ever saw Gina cry was at her father’s grave.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said.

  I actually made it in eighteen, though I nearly ran over a late-night skateboarder in doing so. I buzzed and ran up the stairs. She was waiting in her doorway. I wrapped her in my arms and held her. I could smell the wine on her breath, but she was entitled, I guessed, to get a little tipsy in a time of romantic trauma.

  After I got her inside and onto the sofa, I kept an arm around her and stroked her hair, just letting her go on about how she couldn’t keep a relationship going with anyone, and how she was so lucky to have me around to try to make things better.

  And still, she didn’t cry.

  Finally, when she was quiet, I spoke. “How long have I been here?”

  She looked at me like I was insane. “I don’t know. Fifteen minutes? Twenty?”

  “And in all that time did you even once mention Jill?” “What? Of course I did.”

  “No. The last time you mentioned her was on the phone. And even then you didn’t say her name. All you’ve been moaning about was how you can’t have a relationship with anyone. You’re more upset about that than about any particular person.”

  She considered it for a while. “You’re wrong.”

  “It took too long for you to say I was wrong for me to be wrong. Admit it. You weren’t that much into her.”

  “Sure I was. We really had something going.”

  “You could move to San Francisco with her.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’d never move up to America’s Most Impressed With Itself City just to—” She looked up at me, pursing her lips. Her eyes might have been wet. “Damn you, Portugal, you know me too well.”

  Silence for several minutes. Then she said, “I need to get drunk.”

  “You are drunk.”

  “No, I mean really drunk.”

  “Is this a good idea?”

  “Who gives a shit? I’m always in such control, and now I have a perfect reason not to be.” She shifted her position so she was looking squarely at me. “Come on, Joe, get drunk with me.”

  “Why drag me into it?”

  “Because it’s no fun drinking alone.”

  “You don’t drink enough to know that.”

  “I heard it on Oprah. Come on. Let’s tie one on.”

  I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else. “Okay.”

  She wanted vodka, which she was out of, so we went out and walked to the all-night Mayfair Market on Santa Monica Boulevard. We passed a pizzeria on the way, and Gina decided we needed a pizza. So we ordered one and continued to Mayfair while it was baking. Gina grabbed a couple of pints of Häagen-Dazs, then said we needed some beer to go with the pizza. I pointed out that she hated beer, but she said something about penance, and since she’s Catholic and I’m only half I figured she knew what she was talking about.

  When we got back, we dealt with the pizza in short order, each consuming a beer or two in the process. Then Gina filled a water glass half full of vodka and topped it with V-8 juice. She asked if I wanted one. I said, what the hell, why not. Soon we were seated on the sofa with our drinks and our ice cream.

  I brought her up to date on my visit to the orchid show. I left out the part about Sharon turning me down. One miserable social life an evening was enough.

  We turned on the TV and watched a terrible TV movie with Tori Spelling, which is probably redundant. We kept packing away ice cream and cut-rate Bloody Marys, and an hour later we were both in rather sad shape, sprawled at opposite ends of the sofa, with our legs in a jumble somewhere in the middle.

  “I’m going to pass out,” Gina announced.

  “Thanks for the update.”

  “I need to go to bed.”

  “A fine idea. You’ll sleep it off, and everything wi
ll look better in the morning.”

  “Everything will look like shit in the morning. And I won’t have the booze to make it look better.”

  “I’m glad to hear this trauma isn’t turning you into an alcoholic. Come on, I’ll tuck you in.”

  “No.”

  I tried to figure out what “no” meant. My vodka-saturated brain finally decided she was concerned about my well-being. “Don’t worry. I won’t drive home drunk. I’ll sleep on your sofa.”

  “You hate sleeping on my sofa.”

  “I’m not going to throw you out of your bed.”

  “So we’ll sleep in the same bed.”

  “Didn’t we have this exact same conversation about a year ago?”

  “Yes. And then we didn’t share the bed. Now I think we should.”

  “Bad idea,” I said. “Because when we did sleep in the same bed a couple of nights later—”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “But it almost did.”

  “And, if it had, would that have been so bad?”

  “That’s the alcohol talking.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I sighed. “It would have changed things.”

  “There’s a fresh toothbrush under the sink. Go use it.”

  I went and used it. When I came out of the bathroom Gina was sitting on the side of her bed in T-shirt and panties. She popped up, nearly lost her balance, righted herself, headed for the bathroom. When the door closed behind her I listened for retching sounds. When there weren’t any, I undressed. I kept my underwear on. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t ever seen me naked. But the last time had been seventeen years before, and it didn’t seem the right moment to break the string.

  I slid under the covers. Soon she came back in. “You’re on my side of the bed,” she said.

  “Right. Sorry.” It was my side too. But that time a year before when we’d shared a bed, we decided that, if we ever did it again, the one whose place we were at would have dibs on it. I shoved over.

  She turned out the light, got under the blanket, snuggled up next to me. She was cold, her feet like ice cubes. But she warmed up nicely.

  Eventually she said, “This is nice and cozy. Why don’t we do this more often?”

  “Because Jill would have minded.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t have told her.”

  I felt her pressed up against me. It was, indeed, nice. It was, indeed, cozy. My loins stirred. I willed them not to. Gina and I were, after all, just friends. My loins ignored me.

  “Do you think it would?” she said.

  “Do I think what would what?”

  “Making love. Screw up our friendship.”

  The moon was behind a cloud. I couldn’t make out her expression. I could, though, smell the alcohol on her breath. “I don’t know. This isn’t the right time to find out.”

  Half a minute later she said, “You’re probably right.”

  “You don’t sound too sure.”

  “I’m not. But how do we know?”

  “We don’t. Go to sleep, Gi. We can talk about this some other time. When you’re not quite so vulnerable.”

  “You promise? You promise we’ll look into being lovers?”

  “I promise.” I gently kissed her dry lips. “Now go to sleep.” Within a minute or so she did, and as soon as I saw she was safe in dreamland I joined her there.

  8

  I LURCHED OUT OF BED A LITTLE BEFORE NINE. GINA’D MUMBLED something during our alcoholic interlude the night before about having to be at the Pacific Design Center at noon, so I let her be.

  Outside, it was a bright Monday morning. Fluffy clouds floated over the Hollywood sign. I took La Cienega south, driving slowly, letting the cool spring air chip away at my hangover. Jefferson Airplane’s Surrealistic Pillow was in the cassette player. Traffic was light. Young women walked their dogs; joggers reinforced their hearts.

  As I pulled across Melrose I had to stomp on the brakes to avoid being squashed by a bus. I sat in the intersection screaming obscenities, staring as a bus-side placard, which told me I should watch Nash Bridges Friday nights on CBS, swept by six inches from my bumper. A man in a toga saw me yelling and gave me the peace sign. At his feet a lava lamp stood idle, with its white goop congealed at the bottom of the purple liquid. Then he held up a sign. THOU SHALT NOT LEND UPON USURY UNTO THY BROTHER. As I drove away I gave him back the peace sign.

  At home, I dealt with the canaries and went out to the greenhouse. I didn’t have time to do my rounds properly, but I thought I’d breeze through and see if anything startling had happened. I stumbled across the discocactus. The bud had done its thing. The spent flower lay across the cephalium. I cursed, told myself there’d be more buds, wondered about the conversation I was having with myself.

  Stoneburg Studios was on Hollywood Boulevard, east of the run-down tourist disappointment around Vine. All the street parking was metered, and I didn’t have any change. I parked in the lot at the Pep Boys across the street, went into the store through the lot entrance and out the front, jaywalked over to the studio.

  It was an audition for Mighty Blue toilet bowl cleaner. The copy reinforced my recent pigeonholing as the dumb husband with the smart wife. I was to be scrubbing my fixture when she came in with her squeeze bottle of Mighty Blue and showed me what a cleaning ignoramus I was. The tag was, “Don’t spend so much time in the bathroom.”

  I knew the actress I read with—you see the same faces over and over at these things—and afterward we stood on the sidewalk and talked. She told me she’d been in a pilot that had a good chance of making the next year’s midseason replacement schedule. She described it as “Melrose Place in Santa Fe.” She seemed very happy about it, and I congratulated her. She asked what I’d been up to. I told her about the Olsen’s mall things. “Wow,” she said. “Sounds great. Easy money. Ever do any near Studio City? I’ll come visit you.” I had one scheduled for Sherman Oaks that very weekend, but told her no, they did them only on my side of the hill. I didn’t want people I knew seeing me stand around a mall selling ladybugs.

  She went off to an acting class. I went off to the Pep Boys and thence to the truck.

  There were a couple of beat-up bikes lying in Laura’s driveway, with a couple of eight- to ten-year-old boys standing over them. At first I thought they were playing hooky. Then I remembered that a lot of the schools in L.A. are on a year-round plan. At any particular time, a third of the students are on the streets. The kids are in school for four months, take two off. Then four more on, two more off. No wonder they’re mixed up.

  I nodded a hello. The kids grunted back. I headed to Laura’s apartment. One of the cars under the overhang was a Honda Accord, close to twenty years old. Its light blue paint was wearing off in that peculiar way you always see on old Hondas. The car hadn’t been there the other night. Laura’d had a similar model back in the Altair days, and I was willing to bet this one was hers.

  She came to the door with Monty the cat flung over her shoulder, wearing jeans and an ancient red sweatshirt that said YOU’LL NEVER KNOW IF YOU DON’T TRY. I looked at her and asked myself, Could this woman have committed murder? It didn’t seem likely. But I still wasn’t sure.

  She ushered me in, gave me some iced tea, pointed me toward her sofa, took the Frasier chair. Monty sniffed my pants leg and lay down at her feet on the one-step-up-from-shag carpeting.

  “You know,” I said, “I still can’t get over how we hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years and now I’m playing Paul Drake for you.”

  “Paul who?”

  “The detective on the old Perry Mason series. The guy that went around digging up clues for Raymond Burr.”

  “You’re upset that I called you. Your resent that I brought you into this.”

  “Upset is too strong a word. Puzzled is more like it. I still don’t know why you didn’t call your friend Helen when the cops took you to the station. Or a lawyer.”

  “I don’t know any lawyers. And I can
’t afford one. As for Helen, she has problems of her own.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  She shook her head slightly. “That didn’t come out how I meant it. All I meant was that I didn’t think to drag her into this.” She smiled. “I thought to drag you into it.”

  “Because of my vast knowledge of the criminal justice system.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pay stub from Apple One, the temp agency, on the coffee table. “You’re still temping,” I said. She’d been temping when I’d known her fifteen years before. She’d be doing it forever.

  “I can’t hold myself down to one job,” she said. “When you get a role, it can tie you up for weeks at a time, or take you far away, and I would violate my responsibility to my employer if I were to leave suddenly.”

  It all came back to me, all the psychobabble her crowd had favored in the Altair days. Responsibility was another big word, like commitment and intention, and they flapped it around in the breeze like they were the only ones who’d ever heard of such a thing.

  “Did you ever consider just giving it up?” I said. “Saying, fine, I’ve given acting my best shot, but it just wasn’t in the cards, and now it’s time to move on with my life. Maybe doing community theater, just to keep the old chops honed.”

  She wasn’t angry, wasn’t sad, only amazed that I’d come up with such an idea. “Of course not. An actress is who I am. To be anything else would be to reject who I am. I couldn’t live that way.”

  I took a sip of my tea, stood, went to the photo of Werner Erhard. Werner—the est-holes all called him by his first name, like they were close personal friends—stared out at me with benevolent antagonism. His name was a pseudonym, I remembered. He was really Jack Rosenberg. Hiding his Jewishness. “So why’s Werner’s picture still up?” I asked.

  She shrugged and got up. “I guess I keep him around to remind me of the old days.” She went to the door, lit a Virginia Slim. “Why does anybody put things on their walls, other than those that are there for the pure aesthetics of it? Pictures of your family, things from when you were a child.”