All That Glitters (52 page)

Her
long suffering may have had its point;
his
was needless, there was nothing to be gained by prolonging things. Ugly as the facts were, they were nonetheless facts: those woebegone buildings weren’t about to surrender their prisoner; she’d drawn a life sentence, no time off for good behavior. This, his friends agreed, was the better way. Love her but leave her; goodbye.

Lap dissolve: another two years and here we were at Sunnyside, and the sun was truly shining, that golden California sunshine the Chamber of Commerce raves about; the sweet orange juice was flowing in the streets and the world had turned and everything was nifty once again. I couldn’t think of a grander pleasure at that time than to be a witness to this new love affair, to watch this ex-hotshot lover and man about town, pal of Bugsy’s, wooer of Babe and Claire and the rest of the broads, shyly holding hands with the ex-tootsie and movie-blonde whose initials were imprinted like dinosaur prints in the cellar cement of my boyhood house.

So Frank came and went, a constant visitor to Sunnyside, and a welcome one—to most of us. But not to all.

Tap tap tap tap-tap-tap-tap.

George Sand is hard at work on her latest “thing,” her “magnum opus.”
The Life and Times of a Hollywood Brat.
Good title, no? (It’s mine; I doubt she’d think of it.) Under the umbrella she sits in her atoll bikini, eyes hidden by shades, plastic bracelets rattling on her wrist, a vodka tonic beside her.
Tap tap tap.
By God, she’s really doing it. Every day the pile of pages grows; that thin little stack is getting thicker day by day.
Tap tap tap.

Our Jane Austen has been laboring at this enterprise for some weeks, really going at it as though her life depended on its getting done. Her little get-rich scheme, and why not? It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. Lillian Roth did it (Lil’s the one who started this whole “celebrity confessions” number—
I’ll Cry Tomorrow
—but at least she was showing herself naked, not her family). They say it’s a way of ridding yourself of your doubts, fears, repressions, and so on. Put it all down on paper where you can see it, where the ink is dark and legible, and you can deal with it. Out goes paranoia, in comes the Greater Peace of Mind, while other folks’ reputations fall by the wayside.
Tap tap tap.

The radio is playing that Glière symphony, I can’t remember the name, but it’s the one that sometimes sounds like Respighi, sometimes like “The Poem of Ecstasy.” Maude’s over there in the pavilion, reading a new book. She looks quite comfy in her chaise, face shaded by that old straw hat that’s become such a favorite. I’m laboring over a legal-size yellow pad on my lap this morning—not the play; I’m working out a new monthly budget.

No sign of Belinda yet; she must be sleeping late. The white-winged flickers are twittering about the branches of the trees, the gardeners are sweeping, the sun is bright and warm, you couldn’t ask for a grander day. All is serene, happy, content, cozy.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.
Phew!

From time to time she glances my way; once or twice she lowers her glasses to make eye contact. I know she wants my involvement in this sublime piece of literature, if only for me to tell her she mustn’t do it. She’s been leaving typed pages lying about invitingly, just asking for little glances, comments, “How’s it coming today?” or “Is it all working out?” I never say a word. Naughty girls who pen memoirs of their famous mothers for the public’s edification and their parent’s sorrow, should be squashed like the nasty bugs they are.

Maude would be the first to agree with this, and I can see how worried she is. Here is something that she has no means of governing, something threatening to those she cares for. Sometimes while the typewriter taps away our looks connect, Maude’s and mine, we speak a silent language. Then her look drops to her page.

Now she has laid her head back, thinking. What to do? What to do, what to do, that’s what everybody around here is thinking—what to do? I’m fantasizing that maybe an accident could happen, a small fire or a large wind—a “mysterious disappearance.” Maybe the trolls could come out of the woods and slip dear Faun away, no one the wiser. Or maybe—ha ha!—she’ll decide to go on her own steam. What’s a twenty-four-year-old woman doing living at home with Grandma to begin with?

Sometimes I’d catch Maude observing her, absently biting her lip and reflecting, as though over the sad flaws in her granddaughter’s character. Wasn’t it a mean trick of fate, I thought, that the Antrims had descended to this—this one—all that was left of that great acting tribe? Why couldn’t
she
act? Why would the klieg lights no longer light up the sky with that illustrious theatrical name? And why must that name now be dragged through the mud, because of some slip in the genes, the bad seed making mischief through the House of Antrim? These days “Sunnyside” was not so sunny.

Tap-tap.

April was upon us; the last of the rains came and went; the bright sun shone, opening up the world and making a beautiful spring. At Sunnyside everything burst into mad bloom, Maude’s gardens were glorious, and there were times I imagined I was back east, after a winter of deep snows, seeing the welcome buds opening in green New England landscapes. May, often deceptively gray and overcast, was this year clear and bright, auguring good things. My divorce was “in work,” my work was proceeding, there were no clouds on the horizon—unless we’re calling Miss Faun Miss Cloud. And that wouldn’t be right; nothing soft or lamb-fleecy about her.

She certainly wasn’t lamblike around Frank but, rather, seemed to go out of her way to be bitchy, even insulting. Her disdainful look always seemed to be saying, “What business have you here today?” But Belinda, not her daughter, was the star attraction at Sunnyside whenever Frank turned up. As soon as Faun had glowered her way across to the Playhouse, Belinda’s hand would slip into Frank’s, they would move closer, share looks, smiles, half words, and only the profoundest entreaty would keep Maude and me from beating a tactful retreat so they could be alone. Useless for them to pretend otherwise, for they’d been bitten and the love poison was spreading in their veins. Those were happy times, sweet times, I thought; and I allowed myself the sin of envy, for I was still feeling the sting of marital failure. I let it get into the columns that I was currently seeing a certain young lady, a new client of Frank’s who reminded us both of April Rains. Her name was Lily, but she was young—too young—and our mutual interest faded in the gloaming, leaving me Looking but Not Finding.

But Lily or no, Faun was always interested in my comings and goings. Sometimes when I came home the phone would ring and there she’d be, calling on some silly pretext or other, wanting to know where I’d been, with whom, but it was only feigned interest. She was lonely, I knew, but not good enough company for me to do something about, and while I tried to be agreeable I really didn’t try too hard. Besides, she had Bobby Spurting—whom I’d come to think of as Bobby the Goon.

One Saturday morning late in June—I had a lousy cold and my ass was really dragging—I drove down to the drugstore to buy some cold medicine and when I came back and got out of my car I heard the phone. It was Maude. Belinda was having a bad morning; could I leave work and come up to the house and talk to her?

“I’m truly sorry to interrupt you,” Maude said, “but perhaps you won’t mind. You said—”

“It’s all right, don’t worry, the world can wait another day for this piece of Euripides.”

Laying a towel over my work to discourage investigation from any stray trolls, I went up to the main house and found Belinda. She’d had yet another row with Faun—over Bobby Spurting, naturally—she’d lost her temper again and told Faun to get him out of her life.

“Hey,” I said, “I thought we agreed, no harsh words.”

She gave me a helpless look. “I
know
what we
agreed
, only—damn it, Chazz—you don’t know what it’s like—she gets so wickedly nasty, just plain down-home corn-row mean, I want to hit her, I really do. They were sniffing coke, right here in this studio. What if Maude had walked in? I’d be so ashamed. And—do you know what she said, that little—?”

“No, I don’t,” I broke in quickly. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“She said, ‘Well, I guess this will all make another interesting chapter in my little opus.’ And, damn it, she means it. Don’t you see—it’s blackmail, pure and simple. The minute I take exception to anything, she threatens to get me with whatever’s in that goddamn book. She’s forever holding it over my head. Charlie, I’m getting scared.”

“What are you afraid of?” I asked her.

“You
know
what I’m afraid of.” She sounded desperate. “I’m afraid she’ll get me so riled up that I’ll take a drink. Just one—but that’ll be all I’ll need. That was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life—I’d never be able to do it again, never!
You
know it’s true! I wouldn’t…”

She began to sob and I took her hands in mine, pressing them hard.

“Look,” I began, “in the first place nobody’s going to drive you to any drink, certainly not Faun. If you
take
a drink it’ll be because you
let
yourself, because you
wanted
to have it. But you’re not going to take a drink. No matter
what
, you’re just not going to do it, so stop thinking that way. And in the second place you’re going to be able to handle this situation. You know it’s just threats. You know she’s only doing it to get your goat. She’s never going to publish that thing, so put it out of your mind, just ignore it, or laugh at it. But whatever you do,
don’t let her see you’re scared.
Catch?”

“Yeah, catch,” she said ruefully, and blew her nose. Then she began softly weeping and I held her close, her head against my shoulder, stroking her hair. I was digging for my handkerchief when I saw two figures pass the doors—Faun and her Goon.

“Oh Jesus, get a load of that,” I heard her say to Bobby as they passed by, “not him
too
?”

She shot me a look of contempt and rage, as if I’d somehow betrayed her. Then, grabbing Bobby’s arm, she dragged him along, whispering in his ear. The shrill sound of her laughter drifted to us as they disappeared down the stairs toward the tennis court. “Have fun-n-n, Mumm-eee,” we heard her call as they dropped out of sight.

Belinda shook her head wearily and pushed her hair back. As usual, she tried to take the blame on herself. “I know it’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, but I wish someone would tell me, where did I go wrong? Is it that I’m just not cut out to be a mother? Like——?” (She named a famous Metro star who would never get the Mother of the Year award.)

I argued that the man or woman didn’t live who could answer a question like that, not even the most skilled psychiatrist. Faun herself had been to see enough of them, hadn’t she?

I put off my morning’s work and stayed close by, talking on and on, trying somehow to get Belinda’s mind off darling Faun. Maude wasn’t having a good day, either; she sent Ling out with her apologies—she’d lunch in her room but hoped to speak with me later. I swam and sunned with Belinda for the rest of the forenoon, got her laughing again, and we had lunch sitting at the bar in the studio. Afterward we walked around the gardens, talking about Frank, who’d gone to New York and Europe on business and whose return was now overdue.

“I spoke to the office,” Belinda confided. “Minnie said, ‘Expect him definitely on Monday but don’t count on it altogether but look for him absolutely on any other day but Tuesday through Saturday—maybe.’ Whatever you’re able to make of that—Charlie, are you listening?”

“Hm? Oh yes, sure.”

I’d paused at the top of the stairs and was peering down through the trees to the Cottage, finding the scene exceedingly strange. I could see directly onto the gravel drive; my front door was ajar, the gates were flung wide—and my Mercedes was gone.

I glanced at Belinda, hoping she hadn’t noticed. As usual, I’d left my keys in the ignition. Obviously this negligence had been discovered, and Faun and her boyfriend had taken the car for a joyride. Well, what the hell, I wasn’t going to need it until four, when I had my A.A. meeting, and when she brought the car back I’d just have to exercise cool judgment in the way I dealt with her.

But by four, when the car still wasn’t back, I had to miss my meeting. I could have borrowed Belinda’s car, but I didn’t want her to find out what had happened. When Faun and the Goon finally showed, it was way past ten and all my “cool judgment” went flying out the window; I was really pissed off. To make things worse, the left front fender had a dent. When I asked for an explanation, I got glazed looks and foolishness. I put my damaged car away and locked up. When I switched off the outdoor lights, they were still silly-giggling as they made their way across the gravel toward the garden steps. As they mounted in the dark, I heard a laugh float down from on high, derisive, contemptuous, inane: Bobby’s.

I had the dent taken care of on my insurance (one hundred dollars deductible), and said nothing to anyone. It only encouraged her. One afternoon not long after this, when I came down from my swim Bones began growling as we approached the door: someone was in the Cottage, and it wasn’t Suzi-Q. I crept up to the window and sneaked a look. At the writing table, in my chair, sat Miss Trouble herself, and in the window seat lounged the Lizard of All He Surveyed. Faun was bending over my typewriter, reading aloud from my typescript, while Bobby lay on his spine, his sneakered feet crossed on the plaster wall above him, his head lolling off the seat, his long hair hanging straight down. I banged open the door and Bones bounded in, scaring the hell out of them.

“Christ! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” roared the terrified Bobby.

I called Bones to heel and said, “Maybe you’ll tell me just what the hell
you’re
doing in here.”

“We just stopped by.” As if that were totally normal.

“You just stopped by—for what? To trespass? To walk into my house uninvited? To help yourself to my bar, to read my pages? Just who the hell do you think you are, anyway?”