Belinda (13 page)

I saw her come into the lower hallway, and then she saw me.

"Is everything all right, baby darling?" I asked.

"Oh, sure!" She came up towards me with her arms out, slipped them around my waist. Her face was open, full of simple affection. "I was just talking to an old friend of mine, had to tell him I was OK." "It's so early," I said sleepily.

"Not where he is," she said, offhandedly. "But don't worry, I made the call collect."

She led me back to bed, and we climbed under the covers together. She was nestled in my arms.

"It's raining in New York City right now," she said, her voice low, already drowsy.

"Should I be jealous of this friend?" I asked her in a whisper.

"No, never," she said. Slight scoffing tone. "Just my oldest buddy in the whole world, I guess ...." Voice trailing off.

Silence.

The warmth of her; and then finally her deep, even breathing.

"I love you," I said softly.

"Prince Charming," she whispered, as if from the deepest sleep.

[8]

BY noon the next day she had posters all over the guest room walls: Belmondo, Delon, Brando, Garbo, as well as the new faces, Aidan Quinn, Richard Gere, Mel Gibson. The radio blared Madonna by the hour. She played with all the new clothes, neatly stacking sweaters on the closet shelves, ironing blouses, polishing old shoes, experimented with new bottles and jars of expensive makeup.

I only looked in now and then on my way down from the attic to the coffee maker in the kitchen. The three carousel pictures were almost complete, and I was lettering in the titles at the bottom of the canvases, as I'd done years ago with my first paintings: Belinda on the Carousel Horse One, Two, and Three. The effect of the trio, set up to dry, was making me giddy.

I cooked dinner for us around six-steaks, salad, red wine-the only meal I know how to cook. She came down with her hair braided and the braids tied across the top of her head. I kissed her a lot before we started eating.

"Why don't you watch those videotapes tonight?" I asked. I told her she could have the den to herself. I almost never went in there. Maybe, she said. She'd watch some TV, if I was going to work, or read some of my books on painting.

She went down to the basement library after we cleaned up, and I could hear the click of the pool balls down there as I sat at the kitchen table with my coffee letting the wine wear off, gearing up to go to work again. Last bit of background, then done on those three up there.

The whole house smelled like her perfume.

SHE was sound asleep in my four-poster when I came down. She had taken off the flannel gown and pushed the covers away, and she lay on her face, her mouth only a little open, her long slender hand limp beside her face on the pillow.

Her naked bottom was small, almost boyish, a glint of gold pubic hair showing there. I touched the silky backs of her knees, the little crease that was so sensitive to touch when she was awake. I touched the silky soles of her feet. She didn't move. She slept with the perfect trust of childhood. "Who are you?" I whispered. I thought of the all the things she'd said. At dinner she'd mentioned something about a trip to Kashmir, traveling by train across India with two English students, her companions for that summer. "But all we talked about was the States. Imagine there we were in one of the most beautiful spots on earth, Kashmir, and all we talked about was LA and New York City."

I bent down and kissed the back of her neck, the little bare patch of skin that showed through her thick hair. Sixteen.

But how can you give me permission. And how can I give myself permission? If only them was no one else, no one who cared. But then you wouldn't be running, would you?

Dark in the hallway.

The guest room, her room. All these new faces staring at each other across the dark, the brass bed glimmering, her purse open, things spilled out. A hairbrush.

Closet door open.

Videotapes. 'x~h
o
e them xh~x~gh
h
'
'
s~
ad so l
ttl› else? A sack, a suitcase. Something to do with a past life? What was in the suitcase?

I was standing in her doorway. Of course, I wouldn't pry a lock, wouldn't even lift a suitcase lid. I mean, these were her things. And what if she woke up, came down the hall, discovered me here?

Just look in the closet. Crammed now with new clothes.

But there was the suitcase on the floor, and it was locked. And the videotapes now stood in a neat stack on the shelf behind an empty purse, folded underwear, a hair dryer.

I examined them in the light from the hall. Strange labels on these cassettes. Only the name of a dealer in New York: Video Classics. And on one a check mark had been scratched in the black plastic as if with a ballpoint pen or a bobbie pin. Nothing else to say what they were or why she would want them.

Her magazines: quite a stack. And many of them foreign. Cahiers du Cinema on top, L'Express, copies of German Stern, more French, some Italian. And film the theme always. What she had in English was Andy Warhol's Interview, Film Arts, American Cinematographer.

Fairly sophisticated for a girl her age it seemed. But then with her background, maybe it wasn't so unusual.

Many of these journals were old. In fact, they had second-hand store price labels on them. Only the Film Arts was new, with a picture on the front of "Up-and-Coming Texas Film Director Susan Jeremiah."

Inside was tucked an article torn out of Newsweek, also on Ms. Jeremiah-"Thunder in the Southwest"-a tall, lean dark-haired Houston woman with deep-set black eyes, who actually wore a cowboy hat and boots. I didn't think Texans really did that.

As for the older mags, there was no immediate clue to why she had bought them. Film and film and film. Some went back ten years. No marks anywhere that I could see.

I put all of this back carefully. And only then did I notice an old TV Guide under the tapes. And when I pulled it out, I saw Susan Jeremiah again, smiling under the shadow of her white cowboy hat. Handsome woman. The issue was two months old. I scanned quickly for the article.

Ms. Jeremiah's first television movie, something called Bitter Chase, had premiered in April. The article was short, said she was one of the new generation of talented women in film. Her first theatrical feature, Final Score, had gotten a standing ovation at last year's Cannes festival. She'd grown up on a Texas ranch. Ms. Jeremiah believed American film was wide open for women.

There was more, but I was getting nervous. Suppose Belinda woke up. I thought I heard a noise, and that was it. I put the magazine back and closed the closet.

The key to the suitcase might be in her purse. Her purse was on the brass bed. But I had done enough. And I could not bring myself to snoop in her purse, no, there had to be a limit to this.

But these little discoveries were tantalizing. Just like her chatter about Europe. Just like her, whoever she was.

No surprise that a girl her age was interested in film, no surprise that her tastes would be good. But why this focus on a female film director?

Of course, it was just the sort of thing to interest a modern girl-the strong independent Texas woman not out to be an actress but a filmmaker. Rather irresistibly American. The press certainly liked the hat and the boots, that was obvious.

The fact was, none of this explained anything much about Belinda. It only added to my questions.

I LOCKED up the house for the night, put out the lights, went into the bathroom, and felt my face. Real scratchy beard, as always this time of night. I decided to shave.

When she woke up in the morning in my arms, I didn't want any face scratching her babycheeks.

As I lay there in the dark, I kept thinking: Who is looking for her? Who is crying over her? Dear God, if she were my little girl, I'd move heaven and earth to find her.

But then, she is my little girl. And do I want them, whoever they are, to find her?

No, you can't have her back. Not now.

AT nine A.M., I was sitting in my office and she was still asleep. I picked up the phone on the desk and called my lawyer, Dan Franklin. He wouldn't be back from court till eleven, his secretary said, but, yes, he could probably see me then. Come on over.

Now, my lawyer and I went to school together. He's probably as good a friend as I have, and the one person in the world I trust more than any other.

Agents, no matter much they love you and how hard they work for you, are really go-betweens. And they often know the movie people and the publishers better than they know their authors. Often they like the movie people and the publishers better. They have more in common with them.

But my lawyer worked only for me. When he went over a contract or an offer for rights, he was on my side completely. And he was one of the few really good entertainment lawyers who did not make his office in New York or Los Angeles.

Not only did I trust my lawyer, I also liked him, personally. I trusted his judgment, I considered him a nice guy.

And I knew now that I'd avoided him at Andy Blatky's exhibit the other day because I hadn't wanted to explain Belinda.

I made the appointment to see him at eleven. Then I showered, shaved again, put two good head shots of Belinda in a manila envelope, and put that in my briefcase.

I had hoped to have more for a start. But the more could come later.

BELINDA was eating potato chips and drinking a Coke when I came down. She'd gone across the street to the corner store for them while I was in the shower.

"That's breakfast?" I asked.

"Yeah, cuts through the smoke," she said. She gestured to the lighted cigarette.

"That's trash," I said.

"Cereal's got just as much salt, do you know that?"

"What about eggs and toast and milk?" I said. I went to work fixing enough for both of us.

Yeah, gee, thanks for the eggs, but she was full of potato chips. She opened another can of Coke and sat down to tell me how wonderful it was being here.

"I slept last night, I mean, really slept without thinking somebody was going to climb in the window or start playing the drums in the hallway." I got an idea.

"Have to see my lawyer downtown," I said. "Some stuff about one of my mother's books, a movie deal."

"Sounds exciting. I loved your mother's books, you know."

"You're kidding, you never read them."

"Not so! Read every one, absolutely loved Crimson Mardi Gras." We stared at each other for a moment. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said. "just business on my mind. I'm taking the van downtown. Do you really know how to drive a car?"

"Of course, how do you think I got the fake license? I mean, the name's fake, but I was driving on ... driving in Europe when I was eleven."

"You want the keys to the MG, then?"

"Jeremy, you don't mean it." I tossed them to her. Bait taken.

She was down not ten minutes later, dressed in a new pair of snow white wash pants and a white pullover. It was the first time I'd seen her in pants since she wore the cutoff shorts around the house, and I was unprepared for my reaction. I didn't want her to venture out the front door like that.

"You know what that makes me want to do?" I said giving her the eye.

"What?" She missed the point. "How do I look?" She was brushing her hair in front of the hall mirror. "Rapeable."

"Thanks."

"You going to wear a coat?"

"It's eighty degrees out there, you must be kidding. First time this city has warmed up to a civilized temperature since I got here."

"It won't last. Take a coat."

She threw her arms around my neck, kissed me. Soft hot crush of arms and cheeks. Babymouth succulent, sweet. "Don't need a coat."

"Where are you going?"

"Tanning studio for fifteen minutes under the hot lights," she said tapping her cheek with one finger. "It's the only way to stay brown in this town. Then riding, Golden Gate Park stables. I called from upstairs. I've wanted to do it since I got here."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know. Didn't seem appropriate, you know, the way I was living." She was digging in her purse for a cigarette. "You know, I was on the street. All that. Didn't seem to mix with horses."

"But it mixed with the tanning studio."

"Sure." She laughed. Her hair was beautifully full from the brushing. No paint, just the cigarette on her lip.

"And now you can go riding again."

"Yes!" She laughed in the most open, delighted fashion. "You are truly beautiful," I said. "But the pants are too tight."

"Oh, no, they feel fine," she said. Snap of her lighter.

I took out several ten-dollar bills and gave her that with the keys to the car and the house.

"You don't have to, really-" she said. "I have money-"

"Look, don't bother saying that ever again," I said. "It's like when I ask you questions about your parents. Don't mention money. I hate it."

Another sweet soft tight hug and she was off, just dashed out the front door, in fact, like an American teenager.

And probably with the key to the suitcase in her purse. ButI WAITED till I heard the car roaring up the street before I went upstairs and opened her closet.

The key was in the damn suitcase and the suitcase was open.

I took a deep breath, then knelt down, laid back the lid, and started going through it.

Fake Linda Merit passport! My God, she was thorough. Two New York Public Library books, one a Vonnegut novel, the other a Stephen King. Typical enough, I figured. Then there was my signed copy of Bettina's House and a picture of me over a notice of the booksellers autograph party cut out of the San Francisco Chronicle.

Lingerie-even that looked second-hand-old-fashioned midnight blue taffeta slips, lace brassieres with wire, which I don't think girls wear much anymore. Cotton panties, beautifully plain. A brown paper sack and in it programs from several recent Broadway musicals. Cats, A Chorus Line, Ollie Boon's Dolly Rose, other things. The Ollie Boon program had been autographed, but no personal note above the signature. Absolutely nothing here that was personal.