An American Love Story (58 page)

“Just asking.”

“Why would you ask a thing like that?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Where do you want to have dinner?”

“Home. I’m tired.”

“I’ll drive up the hill and get a pizza, all right?”

“Fine. Unless you want me to do it.”

“I’ll do it.” She bit her lip. “I have something to tell you,” she said. “Starting next week I’m going to go to work for Vaughan Soskins.”

“Oh?” he said. Calm, so calm. For that long moment she got a glimpse of what he must have been like in the old days stonewalling at a meeting, the days when he had been great.

“Yes,” Bambi said. “As his assistant.”

Clay looked contemptuous. “Mr. Ugly. We all laughed at him.”

She thought of Vaughan Soskins’s nose like a flying pickle, the lush black nose hair sprouting out of it, and thought how it didn’t matter since she just had to look at him, she didn’t have to sleep with him. He didn’t have the slightest interest in her. “You shouldn’t make fun of someone’s unfortunate looks,” she said. “He’s got a development deal.”

“We laughed at him because he’s a jerk,” Clay said. “His development deal won’t amount to anything. They’re a dime a dozen.”

“Why didn’t we ever get one then?” Bambi said, annoyed.

For the first time Clay looked angry. “What’s he paying you?” he asked.

“What I’m getting now.”

“What you say you’re getting or what you’re really getting?”

She pretended to gloat and didn’t answer. He knew, anyway.

“You’ll be back,” Clay said.

“No I won’t.”

“The guy’s not going to make it.”

Neither are you, she thought. “No hard feelings, I hope,” she said.

“None.”

“I learned a lot from you.”

“You learned everything from me,” he said.

“I’m grateful.”

“You’re not a bit grateful,” he said, and actually chuckled.

“Yes I am.” She thought she had better get the rest of it out too. “You know,” she said, “it will be difficult for me, starting a new job. I’m going to be very busy. And I really need more space for
my computer and all my files. I’m going to need this whole house. I’d like you to go to live in your apartment.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sorry,” Bambi said. “I don’t want you to think for a minute that this means you and I won’t always be the best of friends.”

“I would never think that,” he said. She couldn’t figure out how he managed to stay so calm, but she had to admire him for it. For an instant she remembered how wonderful she used to think he was, how much she had respected him, as if working for him and living with him were the greatest thing on earth, and she felt a little sad. “I’ll start to pack tomorrow,” he said.

“If you like, I’ll help you.”

“Nobody’s ever packed for me and nobody ever will,” he said.

“Just being a pal,” Bambi said lightly. “I’ll go get the pizza.”

She drove up the mountain to get their food and thought how well the T-bird still looked. A classic was a classic. She was going to keep it, there was no doubt about that. She would have to change the license plate though; it was much too denigrating. What about STAGE 3, if it wasn’t taken, to go with her script and the new part of her life? Or maybe she should just lay out her dreams for the world to see and put SPECIAL.

She zipped back to the house with their hot pizza in its box and a cold six-pack of light beer under the seat. That little shit actor who had moved in next door had taken her parking place again so she had to park way down at the end. When Clay moved out she would have his parking place. That would be convenient. She really was relieved that he had taken her news so well.

She walked quietly around the house to let herself in the back door. She could see the light on in the bathroom window, and Clay silhouetted against the rolled-down bamboo blinds. He had his hands over his face and he was shaking. She realized then that he was sobbing.

She waited in the bushes awhile until he stopped.

40

1989—NEW YORK

T
iny Tombstones
came out in the spring, with good reviews and better sales than Susan had ever dreamed of. “A serious and timely subject, done with style and verve,” one reviewer said. “Will touch a nerve in almost every family,” wrote another. Her publishers took out more ads. It was excerpted in magazines, was sold to paperback for a great deal of money, sold to European publishers, and she was sent on a ten-city tour. It had already had four more printings. She appeared on television, her picture was in bookstore windows, and when she went to charge things the saleswomen often told her her name sounded familiar, which she supposed was fame of sorts. In all, life was exciting.

She was in Los Angeles doing publicity when
Tiny Tombstones
made the
New York Times
nonfiction best seller list. It seemed an apt revenge. Her publisher sent her flowers, and so did Clay. He called.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m very happy for you,” he said. “You’ll make your reputation with this one.”

“I still can’t believe all this is happening,” Susan said.

“Will you have any free time this trip to have dinner, or a drink with me?”

“Is it all right if I let you know?” she said.

“Of course.”

She didn’t want to be seen with him, to have him use her again, to have him tell people he had the rights to this book when he never would. She didn’t even want him to be able to get any more mileage from her last book. She sensed a strange new vulnerability in him, but she didn’t trust him. Of course she could never trust him again.

“I can come over to the hotel and buy you a cup of coffee right now if you have a few minutes,” he said.

“They’re coming to pick me up,” she lied. She remembered when she would have done anything for a glimpse of him. Even now there was a tie. She wondered what he looked like and felt deprived not knowing. They had not seen each other for a very long time.

She had the little clipping from
Variety
in her tour folder, still in the envelope Dana had put it in when she left it at the desk. Bambi Green, who had been with Vaughan Soskins Associates for six months, had been promoted there. She had a title: Associate for Drama Development, whatever that meant. Susan hadn’t even known Bambi had stopped working for Clay. Dana had said that Vaughan Soskins was actually producing things that got on.

“I saw in
Variety
that Bambi is working for someone else now,” Susan said casually.

“Yes,” Clay said. “I got her the job. Vaughan is an old friend of mine.”

“Why would you do a thing like that?”

“There wasn’t much to do here—I really didn’t need her.”

“That was nice of you,” she said.

“Well, you go to your interview,” Clay said, “I don’t want to make you late. Talk to you later.” And hung up.

As always when he hung up she had the strange feeling of things unresolved. She wondered if it would always be that way. She was busy in Los Angeles, she had friends there for her free time, and of her own choice she didn’t see him. It was her own choice, but still she missed him, even while she knew she was in love with a man who no longer existed, missing only the man who used to be, the past pushed away but still imprinted on her life.

When she came off the road she found herself being invited to parties, to weekends in the Hamptons, to dinner in New York. She was still doing tag ends of publicity for the book. She was meeting men now, but no one she wanted to date. Nina was dating, but no one she wanted to live with. They commiserated about their mutual predicament and took up bike riding.

They rode together in Central Park on weekend mornings before the bike lanes got too crowded. “I know I’m doomed,” Nina said. “I’ll always be alone.”

“No you won’t,” Susan said, “but I will. Look at all the happy couples in the park; everybody has someone. Look at those two sweet fags over there running with their dog.”

The dog was big and cuddly and so were the two men. “No way,” Nina said, and started to laugh. “That’s Uncle Edward.”

“No! Who’s the other one?”

“His friend Larry who he runs with, and Larry’s dog.”

“That’s your uncle Edward, your mother’s best friend?”

“Yes, and now they’ve seen us …” Nina waved and smiled through gritted teeth. “I’m going to have to introduce you.”

“Just tell him I’m your father’s ex-girlfriend.”

“He knows, don’t worry.”

“Larry’s cute,” Susan whispered. “Is he attached?”

“No.”

He had a nice smile. He was smiling at Nina, but mostly he was smiling at her. It was a long time since she had had a feeling of such instant power, knowing someone liked her before she even said a word. “I could go out with
him
,” she whispered.

Nina collapsed over the handlebars in laughter. “Wouldn’t that be a scandal!” she said.

“And you’d love it.”

She looked him over. He seemed kind. Yes—she thought cheerfully, while they all made small talk, while Edward pretended not to know more than he should, while it turned out Larry had actually read and admired her book—I think my next one should be someone kind. It’s about time; I deserve it.

And if not him, then there will be someone else.

“Coffee? Sure …”

41

1989—BEVERLY HILLS

“I
s there anything more you want me to do before I go?” Penny asked. Clay tried to think of something, to keep her for just a little longer before he was all alone in his apartment office and the long evening closed in. Summer evenings were too long.

“Nothing that won’t keep,” he said. “See you Monday.”

She left. He looked around the little apartment at the clutter of scripts, books, magazines, newspapers, letters, that were his life. The scripts were unproduced, the magazines and books were largely unread, the letters were mainly junk mail. He should get someone in to clean it all out, make some order of this mess. He supposed Penny would do it; she would hate to, but she would. Awfully high pay for a filing clerk.

He went into his bedroom. Even that was a depository. At night he pushed things off the bed; you couldn’t say this place wasn’t a tax deduction. Of course, he had no income to deduct anything against.

He missed Bambi; she had complained a lot the last year, but he deeply missed having her around. His days were claustrophobic now. He got up to his alarm, made the coffee, read the newspapers and the trades at his desk, set up lunch meetings with his few old friends as often as he could. They went to the places where they felt comfortable, and reminisced. There was always industry gossip to be shared, people to attack. They made fun of the men who had worked for them years ago as gofers who were now titans and still had no talent; of the current industry powers, those young faces all shiny and eager, kids who had grown up on television and actually loved it. Those TV brats thought their ideas were new. He knew there was no such thing.

Weekends were the most difficult. Sometimes there was a small dinner party, but most of the time he spent alone. He was depressed and slept a great deal, huddled under the covers, waiting for the dream that would change his life. He was almost sixty; there wasn’t much time left. He felt there was no more miserable a creature than a man who had lost his success, his identity—a fallen angel. He felt much older than his years, perhaps because he had started so young and so much had happened to him, or perhaps because he had been struggling so hard for so long now, the past only a lump in his throat.

He poured a glass of wine and went out on his terrace. The plants were dead. Why had no one thought to take care of them? He vaguely remembered Penny saying something about getting a plant service, but he had said it was too expensive and why the hell couldn’t she water them? She’d said she had a talent for killing. It had been irrelevant when Bambi was there.

He went back into the living room and called Bambi. “Hi,” he said.

“Oh, hi, Clay.”

“How are you?”

“Great.”

“I just took a chance and wondered if you were free to have dinner with me tonight.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I’m making my costume. I’m going to a Woodstock party tomorrow night.”

“A what?”

“The twentieth anniversary of Woodstock. Some friends are having a party. We’re all going to wear tie-dyed clothes and love beads, and long-haired wigs. They’re going to play the great old music, and have hash brownies.”

“You be careful now,” he said.

“Please.”

“Were you there the first time?”

“Of course not,” she said. “They were, though. I have to run. I have people here.”

“I’ll call you again,” he said, feeling his heart sink. “Maybe we’ll get together. I’ll give you more notice.”

“Sure.” It was the new Bambi voice: cheery and noncommittal. He hadn’t seen her in over three months, although he called at discreet intervals, asking in the most paternal way he could muster about her career, her life, her well-being. He supposed they were still friends.

“Have a good time tonight,” he said, and hung up.

He watched the evening news on television for a while and had another glass of wine. Soon he would have to think seriously about dinner. There was no food in the apartment but he didn’t much feel like eating alone in a restaurant. He didn’t want to drink too much or else it would be difficult to drive. He wasn’t hungry anyway. He sat there, paralyzed with inertia, until the news was over, and then he called his daughter in New York. He hadn’t spoken to her for quite a while and it would be nice to touch base, find out what she was up to. But Nina wasn’t home. He left a message on her machine: “Just calling to say hello,” and tried not to sound low. She had a life of her own, she always had.

He dialed New York again and called Susan. But she was out too. He didn’t want to leave a message on her machine so he just hung up. That way he could call again later when she might be back, without sounding eager or pathetic. He looked at his watch.