Friends and Lovers (27 page)

I went to the bathroom, stared at myself in the mirror for as long as I could stand to see me, then headed to the kitchen and poured a glass of bottled water. Moved around like a man gone blind, did everything in the dark.

The phone rang.

Lorna woke and said, “Tyrel, you here?”

I’d hoped that by the time I’d reached thirty, I’d own a house filled with music, maybe overlapping and contradicting radio, television, and phone conversations, home-cooked dinner, children fighting over the remote, maybe sprawled out on the floor doing homework. I hadn’t
prepared for relationship after relationship, always starting the fuck over.

She repeated, “Tyrel?”

I stopped sipping the water and said, “Yeah.”

“Your phone is ringing.”

There was a phone on the wall, singing in front of my face. I reached for it, then I thought about Lorna. She was a PK—preacher’s kid—raised on character and integrity. Had a Ph.D. Good job. Good conversation. Good catch.

So as far as everybody else was concerned, good riddance.

The phone rang again. The chiming sounded like my conscience coming to life. Since John Donne didn’t live in this condo, the two a.m. bell must’ve been tolling for little old me.

I said, “Answer it for me.”

She sounded startled, “Answer it?”

“Yeah. Catch it before the machine clicks on.”

She cleared her throat, then said, “Hello.”

She said hello a couple more times.

Then she put the receiver back in its cradle.

I said, “Who was it?”

“They hung up.”

I crawled back in bed, slid in between the sheets with Lorna. For a second or two, I thought that phone call might’ve been Lillian, calling to reclaim her majestic drawers. Then this feeling of exemption from death, the one that shielded me day and night, that feeling left my soul. I felt so weak. So human.

I wondered if that phone call was Leonard. It was his time of the night. I wish I had known that the moments we spent riding the trolley cars and having serious conversation would be one of the last times I saw him.

Two police officers were at my door. I saw them through the peephole, then spied through the venetian blinds to make sure there was a real LAPD patrol car out front. Any actor or psycho—sometimes there wasn’t a difference—could rent a police uniform from anywhere on Melrose or Hollywood Boulevard.

It was three a.m. Police were at my door. Leonard was late.

I reached for the door and jumped when our phone line—the business line—started ringing. That was the phone line we gave anybody who wasn’t a true friend. Leonard always checked the messages when he came home. I had hoped that it was the other line, because I had been thinking about Shelby a lot lately. Over the past seven or eight months, I hadn’t seen her too often. She used to call every day, now she hardly called at all. Her life had taken a life of its own; she was always too busy.

I pulled my red-hooded housecoat around my pajamas, pulled the coat tight, then tied it loosely, and stood barefoot in front of the door. Had a sudden feeling of dread.

Radios were squawking, destroying peace and quiet.

The doorbell rang again.

I prayed that nothing bad had happened to Shelby. Prayed that another plane hadn’t crashed.

A long second went by before I wiped my damp hand on my housecoat and touched the doorknob. I tried to let the chill pass through me. I’d felt that same chill around midnight. That was what had woken me up. What had made me turn the burglar alarms off so I could peep out the windows and wait and wait.

It was three a.m.

A news van was coming down Don Diego, toward our cul de sac.

I wished my husband was here to open the door to these strangers. Leonard was later than normal. We had a rule: If he was going to be more than fifteen minutes late, he had to call so I’d know not to wait up.

The doorbell rang again.

I freed the dead bolt and opened the double door.

The police officers identified themselves.

Sounded as if they were saying an awkward speech.

Maybe just following procedure.

The female officer asked if I was Mrs. DuBois.

I said I was.

The officers’ faces were solemn.

I made mine smile, tried to smile the fear away.

Wanted to let them know that it was okay to say what they had to say. That what had to be done, had to be done.

The taller officer said he was sorry to tell me that there had been an accident. On Crenshaw near Venice. Where the street curves.

I nodded.

He told me my husband was dead.

My body wanted to swoon, but I wouldn’t allow it to. I took a deep breath, held my right hand out and gently touched the doorframe. My left hand stopped opening and closing. Then I wiped the new dampness on my pajamas and put both hands on my stomach.

I asked if he had suffered. They said it was instant.

I wanted to laugh, to tell them that their joke wasn’t working. I’d just made love to my husband this morning; we’d showered; he’d rubbed lotion on my body; asked me to rub some on his back. He’d told me I was gaining a few pounds; I’d thrown my towel at him and made him apologize. He wouldn’t apologize because he said he loved the way I looked with the weight. We laughed our way into a lovers’ argument about that, he started teasing and messing with me, tickling me here and there, then tried to get frisky again.

The officer said something about the coroner, spoke
about identifying and claiming my husband’s body, asked me if I was all right. Before his words finished their flow, his face changed, made an expression that said he regretted the question.

I nodded, blinked a few times, said I would be fine. Then I asked them if they would like to come in for some herbal tea.

I don’t know why I asked them that.

They said no.

Again, they asked if I was okay.

I told them I needed to notify friends, call family. Funeral homes would be calling soon. That’s what I had to do.

My words told the officers to be safe as I closed the door.

Then the doorbell rang again. It was somebody from the news van. An independent channel. I didn’t answer the door.

When I was walking down the hall, it felt more like I was anchored and the room was moving by me. The room quit moving and left me on the spot where I’d first made love to Leonard.

A moment passed and I realized the cordless phone to our private line was in my hand. And I was sitting on my bed. On the dresser were the three keys Leonard gave me when we were dating.

The other line was ringing; I heard the noise floating up the hallway from the den. As soon as it rolled over to the answering service, it would start ringing again.

Who’ll be on the program? Casket. Funeral home.

I had to call somebody; I had to call my mother in Montana. Had to call out to Palmdale and talk to my cousin Bobby.

No. Bobby moved to Pasadena. Didn’t he?

My mind led my fingers, dialed Shelby’s number.

A man answered. I didn’t know she was seeing anyone. He was wide awake with the television loud in the background.

In front of me, on the dresser were wedding pictures. Me, her, Tyrel. And Leonard. In the album near the
foot of the bed were pictures from Europe, photos taken in Africa.

The man said hello for the second time.

I asked for Shelby.

He repeated, Shelby?

Words rolled from my tongue, very stiff, pained words. I told him my husband had been killed. That I needed her to help me make preparations. I wanted to know how soon she could get over here to take me to view the body. I needed to go now.

He said my name.

I stopped explaining, made a sound, a noise that came when words were weighed down by grief.

I asked with whom I was speaking.

He told me he was Bryce.

I apologized for calling them so late.

He told me I’d dialed the wrong number, had dialed a number from way back when, back before I met my husband.

I felt like I’d lost time. Maybe not lost time. Everything that constituted then and now was jumbled.

Bryce said he hadn’t seen Shelby since she’d walked out, then told me he was sorry about what had happened.

Then he hung up. I hung up.

Dropped the phone, let it thud into the carpet.

My hands roved back and forth over my belly.

I tried to think through the tears that wouldn’t appear.

My husband was dead.

My car became an eagle and flew me toward familiar ground. My neck was tight, like I was being strangled by a rope. A hundred toads were in my stomach, leaping around a rising fire.

I don’t remember seeing anything on the 101. Didn’t remember crossing the Golden Gate bridge. Didn’t see the windmills in Solvang. Didn’t notice the sign welcoming me to L.A. I know I did, but I don’t remember when I stopped to refuel.

I checked into the Red Lion in Culver City, right across from my old office at the Steel building. Near my old condo. After I showered, I took out my cellular and let my job pay for my call to my mother in Chicago. She was enjoying her first few months with her new husband. She told me to send her condolences to Debra, asked me to send her a program from the funeral.

When I hung up, the phone rang.

It was my sister. My Twin.

She said, “It’s all over the news.”

A baritone voice said, “Young buck, how you holding up?”

“Daddy?”

Twin had Daddy on the three way. He’d seen the news too, then called his daughter. We talked about Leonard, about the situation, had a conversation like time had never derailed us.

For moments we were three adults. Then we were children talking to their father. A father who was consoling his children.

In the middle of a feeling of bad, it felt good.

I said, “I’ll call my travel agent and make reservations for everybody. The tickets should be ready in a couple of hours.”

Twin said, “I’ve already made reservations.”

“Daddy?” I asked. “You coming out to the homegoing?”

Twin said, “I’m bringing your grandchildren. We can get together. This, what’s happened, puts things in perspective for me. I couldn’t imagine losing my husband. Or you, Daddy.”

He made a sound that said he was afraid. He said, “Thangs are pretty tight back here.”

Mye said, “I’ll pay for it. I’ll take care of everything. Hotel, food.”

Daddy paused. “I ain’t been back that way since I left.”

“Old man?”

“Yeah, son?”

“Cat’s in the cradle.”

Time slipped a moment into the future.

Daddy perked up and said, “Who gonna pick me up from the airport?”

I said, “I am.”

We sealed the deal with Daddy; he hung up. Part of me already knew he’d come back to see Leonard.

Twin said, “He surprised me.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to take seeing him.”

“Why’re you paying his way if you feel like that?”

“Because I don’t know how I’d take seeing him dead. I don’t want my kids looking at their grandfather in a coffin. It’s not for me. Believe me, I feel the same way I’ve always felt.”

Me and my sister talked a little longer. She changed the subject, talked about friendship, talked about Leonard’s wife, discussed Shelby.

Twin asked, “Is she there?”

“Don’t know.”

“Three keys.”

I let her statement go unanswered. I said, “Kiss the dynamic duo for me. See you when you get here day after tomorrow.”

“Tyrel, call me if you need to talk. No matter how late.”

“Will do.”

“Love you, Twin.”

“Love you, Twin.”

* * *

Debra was in a purple dress, worn rabbit houseshoes, thick white socks. The first thing she did was lick her fingertips and rub underneath my eyes where salt had dried.

She saw my car parked in the cul de sac. About ten other cars were parked there too.

“Tyrel, you should’ve flown.”

“I know.”

“Anything could’ve happened on the road.”

There were about ten people in the house. Flowers and telegrams were in the living room; the house smelled like I supposed people wish paradise does. I spoke to grieving people from church, show business, and politics. Debra’s eyes were dried out, puffy. A plastic smile and a paralyzed expression.

One of the church people led a prayer. Then, one by one, everybody left. Went back to continue living.

Debra closed the door and asked, “You all right, Tyrel?”

“Cool.”

“Sure? Don’t lie to me. It’s just us.”

“Yeah. For now.”

Her stomach was starting to round out, but not too much. She was barely showing. Even at six months, it looked like she was hiding a small ball under her clothes.

I asked, “Anything I can do for you?”

We hugged and rocked side to side. Her body was tight and rigid. Fragile. If I held her too tight, she’d snap in two.

She said, “Not right now. I’m just glad you’re here.” “Just let me know what you need me to do, okay?”

“Your being here is enough.”

Debra’s expression changed. Pretentiousness had been removed. She weakened enough to show what was inside. Water dripped from her face, splattered on her blouse. She didn’t wipe it away. I held her tighter.