Garden of Lies (62 page)

The walls a crazy quilt of old playbills and movie posters. Big plump Moroccan leather cushions

scattered across the floor in place of a sofa, a huge brass hookah in the corner like something out

of
Alice in Wonderland.

Patsy was an acquaintance of an acquaintance, a singer-dancer-actress. She’d been looking for

a roommate to replace her last one, another actress, who’d moved to L.A. Rose, feeling hemmed

in by her cramped, dark studio on the Lower East Side, had moved in that very week. And now,

with Patsy off on the road for a good year, she had the place all to herself.

Max will see through all this mess, see how wonderful it is,
she told herself.
And he’ll certainly

understand why I’m too busy to do a lot of cleaning.

She carried the gathered clothing into the bedroom, and dumped [376] it in the middle of the

bed—her wonderful bed, with its antique wrought-iron frame, painted white. The spread was

exquisite, hand-woven mohair, the color of a desert sunset. She had spent a fortune on it at a

crafts fair, imagining how Brian would love it. How good it would feel to be snuggled with him

under its fleecy folds.

Now with a pang of longing, she thought:
Please, God, let Brian come to me. I’ve waited so

long already.

The shrilling of the door buzzer startled her. Max. She buzzed him in downstairs, and then

hurried to unlatch the door.

In the hallway, she looked down and watched him slowly climbing the stairs. As he neared the

landing, she saw that he looked pale, rumpled, his eyes bloodshot. His gray suit was badly

creased, tie looped at an angle like a hangman’s noose.

“Hi,” he said, giving her a crooked grin.

Rose was taken aback, a little horrified even. She had never seen him like this.

“Max, are you
drunk
?”

He met her gaze with an expression of exaggerated sobriety. “As a matter of fact, no. I tried, I

sincerely
tried
to get drunk—the bartender at P.J.’s can testify to that—but sorry to say, no

cigar.”

Then she noticed he was carrying a small zippered overnight bag. “Going somewhere?” she

asked.

“You might say that.” He paused, and took a deep breath. “I moved out of the house. I was on

my way downtown. There’s a decent hotel near the office. But I guess I need a friend right now

more than a place to sleep. Thanks for letting me come.”

“You know, I kept waiting for the right time to ask you over.” She smiled nervously. “When

things would let up at work. When I got the time to do a thorough cleaning. But it never seemed

to happen.”

Stepping inside, his eyes sweeping about the living room, he said, “Don’t change a thing. It’s

perfect, just the way it is.”

Suddenly, she felt happy and relieved. Then she felt it sinking in; he’d just told her why he was

here now. He’d moved out. Left his wife.

She should have been surprised. But she wasn’t. Maybe because Max never talked about his

marriage. Yes, she had sensed his melancholy, a sort of hidden despair underneath his brisk

energy, his [377] quick smile. And she had noticed things, little things—like the way Max

unconsciously frowned when he was on the phone with his wife, sometimes pinching the bridge

of his nose, as if his head ached. And how his face would light up when his daughter, Mandy,

dropped by the office, but would seem tense, even a bit wary, when it was Bernice.

Rose, looking at him, felt the usual responses spring to mind,
I’m sorry ... maybe you can work

it out ... things always look better in the morning.

But she could see that what Max needed most now was someone who would listen. Not a lot of

platitudes.
I’ve known Max for how long? Years and years. And I know so little about him, really.

What goes on inside him.

Suddenly she wanted to be the kind of friend to Max that he’d been for her.

“Never mind a hotel,” she said. “There’s plenty of room here. You can have Patsy’s room. And

for heaven’s sake, come
in.
Sit down. I’ll make you a cup of coffee. You look as if you could use

a whole pot.”

“I didn’t mean ... no, I couldn’t do that.”

“My coffee isn’t as bad as all that.”

“You know what I meant. It’s sweet of you, Rose. But ... oh hell, this is my problem. I have to

handle it on my own.”

“For once in your life, Max Griffin,” she scolded, “will you stop being Mr. Tough Guy, and let

someone help you for a change?”

He hesitated, but before he could get another word in, she was sailing past him into the kitchen.

“The back room to your left, you can leave your things in there,” she called over her shoulder.

“Turn on the light so you don’t trip on the gym equipment. Patsy’s an exercise freak. Keeps me in

shape, too. One look at that torture chamber and I’m cured forever of hot fudge sundae attacks.”

When she returned with the coffee, Max was seated on one of the hassocks, looking ungainly,

out of place. Plopped on his rear with his knees sticking up in the air, ankles showing. He

reminded her of a tourist in a strange country doing his damnedest to fit in. But she kept from

smiling as she squatted beside him, and set the tray between them on the frayed Oriental rug.

[378] “Ever use that thing?” Max asked, pointing at the hookah.

“Lord, no. I’m not even sure what it’s for. Hash, I suppose.”

He looked thoughtful. “I defended this kid for Possession once. Ounce of marijuana. Judge

wanted to throw the book at him. I got it knocked down to a misdemeanor. Kid couldn’t pay my

fee, but he slipped something in my pocket as we were leaving the courthouse. A marijuana

cigarette, a joint. I brought it home, told Bernice we should smoke it, see what all the hoopla was

about. You know what she said? She said she’d just as soon stick her head in the toilet.” A smile

started, then faltered, and finally his whole face sagged with misery. “You wake up one day, after

almost twenty years, and realize, we’re farther away from each another now even than before we

met ... oh Christ ... if it weren’t for Mandy ...” He broke off, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Rose took his hand. “You don’t have to talk about it, you know, unless you feel like it,” she

said. “It’s not a requirement for being here.”

He looked at her, studying her face. Rose felt a light chill tiptoe up her spine, and remembered

the rainy day in London he’d kissed her in the taxi.

She wished he would kiss her now.

Crazy,
she thought,
I don’t love Max ... not
that
way.
But, oh, she ached to feel a man’s arms

about her, his breath hot against her neck, his naked body pressed against hers. It had been so

long.

Stop it,
she told herself,
it’s Brian you want, not Max.

Brian. Oh yes. Tonight, sitting across from him in that diner, she had wanted Brian more than

she had ever wanted anything.

Rose felt a hot thickness in her throat.
Oh Jesus, don’t let me cry,
she thought.
How selfish,

and how unfair. Max didn’t come here to console me.

She poured the coffee into thick hand-turned ceramic mugs, and passed him one, wishing she

could find exactly the right thing to say, or do, that would make his pain go away.

Max sat back, cradling his cup in both hands.
Something is different about her,
he thought.

She’s more alive than I’ve ever seen her. And so beautiful. Christ, she’s glowing like ...

[379]
Like a woman in love.

He felt his heart catch inside his chest.

Had she met someone?
Had
she fallen in love?

The thought hurt, especially after what he’d gone through tonight. Saying good-bye to

Monkey, who had sobbed, clung to him. The hardest thing he’d ever done. He ached as if part of

his body had been physically torn away.

Sure, he knew it would be better in the end. He would see her often. They’d take trips together.

He’d get an apartment in the city, a place where she could put her feet up on the sofa, have her

friends over for pizza without being afraid if someone spilled Coke on the rug it would give her

mother a heart attack. But still it hurt so goddamn much.

Tears stung his eyes like grains of sand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not very good company

right now.”

“Don’t apologize.” He felt her hand on his shoulder, warm, comforting.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? For years, I’ve been trying to work up the courage to leave ... and now I

feel like such a coward. Like I’m abandoning Mandy. All those Judy Blume books she’s always

reading, all that teenage angst—well, now she’ll be living it. A weekend daughter. God, I love her

so much. It hurts to love someone that much.”

“I know.” Rose’s dark eyes filled with pain. Then, she smiled. “I think your daughter is very

lucky. I would have given my soul to have had a father like you. Even part time.”

Max now felt the warmth of the coffee mug, as if it were stealing into his fingers, up his arms.

Dear, wonderful Rose. She knew exactly the right thing to say.

If only ...

Stop it, no.
He’d come here for what she was offering—friendship, a little sympathy. And

that’s it.

Max pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Neatly ironed, folded into a perfect triangle. Like a

parting shot from Bernice.

He thought of Bernice sitting on the end of the bed watching him pack, dry-eyed, stiff-faced.

She had asked only that he leave her a telephone number, “in case of an emergency.”

With Bernice, every moment of life was an emergency. The [380] straw that broke the camel’s

back was yesterday, coming home to find Monkey huddled in the bathtub, crying, her hair in wet

tangles plastered to her back, the water cold and scummy. “I’m dirty,” she’d choked. “Mom says

I’m dirty. And it won’t wash off. I don’t want anyone to touch me ever again.”

Max had felt sour panic rising in his throat. Jesus, was it a boy? Had some boy touched her,

forced her to do something? And had Bernice found out about it? Was that what this was all

about?

He had longed to scoop her up, wrap her up in a towel, as he had when she was little. But

seeing her like that, hunched over her bony knees, shivering, miserable, he had known what she

needed more than comfort was a little dignity. He brought her a towel, and held it stretched out so

she could stand up without his seeing her full nakedness. At fifteen, she was so shy, so self-

conscious about her body. And only when she was wrapped up did he hug her, and tell her that

nothing could ever make him stop loving her, or think she was dirty.

When Monkey was calmer, he’d gone looking for Bernice.

He’d found her in the laundry room. Hair bound up in a scarf. Hands encased in huge yellow

rubber gloves. Face grim. Stuffing clothes, sheets, pillowcases into the washing machine. A huge

pile of laundry at her feet, more in the blue plastic basket on top of the dryer.

“What’s wrong with Mandy?” he had cried, sick with worry, by now imagining even worse

things than a boy her own age touching her—a pervert exposing himself perhaps, an older man

coming onto her.

Bernice looked up at him, her face grim.

“She was sent home today with a note from the school nurse. Lice. She’s
crawling
with lice.”

Her mouth curled in disgust, and she backed away a step, as if she thought he, too, having

touched Monkey, might be infected.

Max understood then. How Bernice must have humiliated Mandy, made her feel dirty,

unloved. All because of something the poor kid couldn’t even help.

He did something then that he’d never done, and never would again.

He slapped Bernice, full across the face.

[381] He felt like a world-class jerk for having hit her. But he felt even more ashamed of all the

years he’d wasted staying married to a woman he didn’t love, who didn’t love him.

He’d stayed with Bernice because of Monkey. Stupid. How he and Bernice felt about each

other was hurting Monkey. No, it was time to get out, salvage what he could for himself and his

little girl.

So here he was.

Now panic was rising in him. What if he struck out all over again? What if now that he was

free, he didn’t stand a chance with Rose after all?

Where would he go from here? Would he become one of those pathetic middle-aged men who

grow their sideburns long, buy trendy clothes, hang out in singles bars trying to pick up women

half their age?

Then he looked at Rose, at her shining face.

She was the one, the only woman he wanted.

And if there was even the slightest chance, he would wait. However long it took.

Max began feeling calmer, stronger, better than he had all night.

“Thanks,” he said.

“For what? Letting you stay over?” She laughed. “Tell you the truth, I’ve been a little lonely

since Patsy went away. It’ll be fun.”

“Just for a few days,” he reminded her. “Until I line up something else.”

“Stay as long as you like.” She smiled at him. “There’s just one thing we’d better get straight.

I’m not the neatest person in the world, as you’ve probably noticed. And I don’t intend to change

just because you’re here.”

“Fine with me.” Better than fine. Wonderful.

“Now,” she said. “I have a confession to make.”