Parachutes and Kisses (41 page)

This was a great district of the city to be walking through while having such gloomy thoughts. The bums were out in force. Isadora felt about bums the way she felt about dead animals in the Connecticut roads: heartsick. She saw the chilblains on their fingers and she wept. She wished the bums of New York had gotten that $200,000 and spent it on sweaters and hats—instead of Mel Botkin spending it on Lotus Ltd. If she'd ever known how much money she'd had in one place (before the crash of Lotus Ltd.), she'd have distributed it freely among the bums. The truth was—she identified with them. Homeless, seeking shelter in doorways, sticking out their reddened hands for the quarter that might or might not come along, they were as dependent on the vagaries of the Great Goddess as any artist.

The book would come—or not—in its own sweet time. The public would buy—or not—depending on the fickleness of public taste, the vagaries of reviewers, the happenstance of newspaper strikes. You could write your heart out and have the ill luck to publish during a strike, a flood, a fire, a plague. Isadora might as well be a bum, she thought, as be an artist. And then she thought of her grandfather, her grandfather who had lured the bums off the streets and taken them home to his studio to paint them. They had eaten her grandmother's chicken soup, warmed their toes on her Oriental rugs, stank up her velvet upholstery, and Papa had painted them, caught their pathos for all time—or at least for a little while, until the canvas rotted or was lost.

Isadora stopped in a doorway and stared at a sleeping vagabond who reminded her of one of her grandfather's paintings. His nose was red and covered with exploded capillaries. He wore a tattered green ski cap and he rested on a pallet of old newspapers, snoring loudly. What did he dream of in his addled bum-brain? Bum dreams? Dreams of foods eaten in childhood, of hellfire tales told by an old nanny (was he a formerly
rich
vagabond?), of loves lost and fortunes slipped through his fingers? The bum stirred, heaved, muttered something unintelligible like a sleeping child. Isadora wrapped her coat tightly around herself and ran all the way back to the garage where QUIM was parked.

While she was driving home, it began to snow again and the road grew slippery. There was a huge wreck on 1-95 and she sat in traffic for nearly an hour while the police cleared away the wreckage of two jackknifed trailer trucks and three smashed cars. When she finally got back to Serpentine Hill Road, she was exhausted and it was nearly suppertime. Mandy was happily watching “Sesame Street” in Danae's care (oblivious of the fact that she and her mother might soon be broke) and Renata had gone home, leaving two pages of phone messages. Mel Botkin's office had called three times since she'd left; her agent had called; there were various calls from various boyfriends; a call from Kevin; two dozen nuisance calls concerning celebrity auctions (Isadora always thought they meant to auction
her,
but they only wanted her old clothes or manuscripts) and the sort of free speeches she was always asked to give at fund-raisers; there were also three phone calls from Bean Sproul (aka Bean Sprout).

The first thing she did was call Mel's office. No answer. Then she called Renata at home.

“Isadora ...” Renata said gravely, “Mel died of a massive coronary this afternoon—not less than two hours after you met with him. He was at the office of another client on Fifth Avenue. That's really all I know about it.”

“You're kidding—” Isadora said, sitting down and pulling off her boots.

“Would that I
were,”
said Renata. “You can call his secretary at home if you want more information about it.”

“Should I really call
now?”
Isadora said.

“She said to. I think she'd like to talk to you. Let me know what happens. The number is on your desk with the messages I left.”

Isadora called Gladyce, Mel's secretary, a chubby lady in her fifties who was as motherly as Mel had been fatherly. Isadora's psyche was a mass of conflicting emotions. Here she had always been expecting Mel to sail away to Venezuela—and instead he had sailed away to Hades—leaving her affairs in utter turmoil! Isadora was too shocked to register grief or loss. The whole sequence of events had such an air of unreality about it that it
had
to be true.

“Gladyce,” she said, getting Mel's secretary on the phone, “I just heard the news. What exactly happened?”

“He went over to Ham Garland's office to go through some computer reports on the new movie and he apparently had a heart attack. I came right over and arrived just about when the medics did. But he was already gone. He passed on about four in the afternoon.”

“It's unbelievable,” Isadora said. She noted the delicacy of the euphemism
passed on.

“It certainly is,” said Gladyce. “He was such a wonderful man. No one will ever take his place.”

“We all loved him,” said Isadora. And it was true, too. She
had
loved him. What a cheat to discover at the last moment that he was not all he appeared to be. She felt a little the way a loyal wife must feel when she goes through her husband's effects and finds that he has left his whole fortune to some doxy. (Speaking of which—Mel's wife would now be in for quite a little surprise, too.)

“When's the funeral?” Isadora asked Gladyce.

“Well—the family hasn't made arrangements yet. In the next few days I should think.”

“Let me know,” Isadora said.

“Of course, dear,” said Gladyce in a voice that implied that everything would still be taken care of as usual. Mel might be in heaven—or hell—but you could still send the bill to Mel and Mel would still pay. He was only promoting tax shelters in heaven—in between strums upon his harp. Had God made too much money this fiscal year? Was He in hock to the IRS? Mel would take care of it.
Leave it to Mel.
Of course, the Almighty might wind up owing back taxes
somewhere
along the line—but the main thing was: He had the use of His money. Or should we say: His Money?

The absurdity of Mel's dying at a time like this suddenly changed Isadora's mood from gloom to mad abandon. It was so insane—first to be told your affairs were in a total mess and then to have the perpetrator of that mess die and leave you high and dry. Isadora would have to sort it all out somehow without his paternalistic guidance. What a lesson in impermanence and letting go! What a lesson in the unreality of worldly things!

The phone rang again just as Isadora was sitting near it. Though it was the answering-service line and not the private line, she picked up at once. What
more
could have happened? Were Ham Garland
et al.
organizing an expedition to heaven to get Mel to return their money? It would be something like the Warren Beatty version of
Heaven Can Wail—
sets full of fleecy clouds and she and Ham skipping arm in arm through heaven singing like Judy Garland and Ray Bolger. No, wait—that was
Wizard of Oz.
What matter? Mel Botkin had proven to have his share of humbug, too. They had followed their own yellow brick road straight to disillusionment.

“Hello, Isadora?” came the voice on the other end of the phone. “This is Berkeley Sproul—you know, Bean ...”

“Oh, hi,” said Isadora.

“I just happen to be in your neighborhood and I'd love to come by for a glass of wine. Would you invite me?”

Well, he certainly was direct about it. Normally, Isadora would have said no. She had an ample stable of young men to choose from and she wasn't planning to add Berkeley Sproul III to it. He was too beautiful, too appealing, too much potential trouble. Unemployed young actors spelled trouble. So did employed
old
actors. So did everyone, in truth—after a while. Young men were trouble. Old men were trouble. Life was trouble. So was death. But Isadora felt so giddy with abandon following Mel's sudden death and the sudden disappearance of her assets, that she heard herself saying to Bean:

“Sure, come over. Maybe I'll even give you dinner.”

“Great,” said Bean. “I can't wait.”

“Me, too,” said Isadora.

She put down the phone and gazed out the window. It was snowing even harder now and her icy driveway—which had melted during the day and refrozen at sundown—was covered with fresh powder, making it still more treacherous than usual. Was she
crazy
—to invite a total stranger? She was drained from the day's exertions—drained and disillusioned. Her period was at its heaviest; great quantities of blood had been pouring out of her all day—growing more copious with each new stress she faced. She had no nanny—only the irrepressible Danae, who hadn't been planning to stay the night, but now, seeing the snow coming down, decided to.

What the hell, Isadora thought. If I'm about to be broke, might as well have fun. So she put her kid to bed with stories and kisses, lent Danae a nightgown and gave her fresh sheets for the nanny room opposite Amanda's nursery, reapplied her makeup, changed her Tampax, doused herself in Opium, turned on the hot tub optimistically, put a dreamy George Shearing record on the turntable, opened a bottle of wine, and waited for her gentleman caller.

the boys i mean are not refined they go with girls who buck and bite they do not give a fuck for luck they hump them thirteen times a night one hangs a hat upon her tit one carves a cross in her behind they do not give a shit for wit the boys I mean are not refined they come with girls who bite and buck who cannot read and cannot write who laugh like they would fall apart and masturbate with dynamite the boys I mean are not refined they cannot chat of that and this they do not give a fart for art they kill like you would take a piss they speak whatever's on their mind they do whatever's in their pants the boys i mean are not refined they shake the mountains when they dance

—E. E. CUMMINGS

The Road of excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom.

—WILLIAM BLAKE

HE came into her life on a skid, she always said after that night, and it was true. If Mel hadn't invested her money in Lotus Ltd. and then dropped dead, if Alva Libbey hadn't gone the way of all nannies, if it hadn't snowed
again,
if she hadn't been exhausted, drained, bleeding, and yet also oddly exhilarated at the prospect of starting life afresh totally broke—would she have ever let as disruptive a force as Berkeley Sproul into her life? Probably not.

He arrived in a motley van, painted, like his own temperament, in red, purple, yellow, and Day-Glo orange—one fender of each color and a mélange of spray painting on the side panels, like a bad LSD trip. He had, anyway, the air of a merry prankster, or a court jester—twinkling blue eyes, dirty-blond hair that flew in every direction, a smile to make you melt. His socks were two different colors—one red, one gray. His clothes were disheveled and smelled slightly of mothballs. He wore a big white fisherman's sweater that was unraveling under the armpits (from all the life-force bursting out?), a long woolen scarf (red), and no overcoat, so much the air of a vagabond did he have. And he carried a white orchid in a silver bud vase, which he presented to Isadora.

“Orchids—at this time of the year. Where do you get them?” she asked.

“My mother grows them in her greenhouse in Darien,” he said, “Da-rien:
yes
in Russian and
nothing
in French.
Yes, nothing!
That about describes the place. It's the land of the wasted WASP, home of the sore winner.”

Isadora laughed. She had the sense that she had written him in a book and then witnessed an astounding metamorphosis as he came to life. He might have been Marietta Robusti's suitor, not hers. No—not even Marietta Robusti‘s, but a character out of an even earlier age—the age of Arthurian legend, perhaps, the mists of prehistory. Sir Lancelot—or Gawain.

“What were you doing in the neighborhood?” Isadora asked.

Bean looked at her blankly.

“I
wasn't
in the neighborhood,” he said. “I was at my parents' in Darien. I just thought I'd never see you again if I didn't act fast. First of all, when you gave me that piece of paper with your name on it, I
freaked out.
Here I merely thought you were an outrageously beautiful woman, and you turn out to be my favorite author, too.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“I mean it. Your pictures don't do you justice. I never would have guessed you were
that
Isadora.”

“Are there very many
other
Isadoras?”

“There's Isadora Donkey ... as the joke goes ...”

“Oh god—possessed by the bad-joke demon ... You're the man of my dreams. One bad pun and I'm yours forever ... Would you like a drink?”

“And dinner,” said Bean, “if you're still offering ... What you don't know is that I have called your secretary about a dozen times in the past twenty-four hours—and she keeps telling me you're out or you're in the shower, or in the sauna. Either you're the cleanest woman in Connecticut or you give out your phone number and then change your mind a lot. I didn't leave
too
many messages because I didn't want to seem pushy, but I
had
to see you again.” He smiled that dazzling smile.

“Let me get you a drink,” Isadora said, and she bounced off into the kitchen to get the wineglasses and the chilled wine. She was exhausted; she had cramps—but she was also exhilarated.

“Would you like to make a fire in the living-room fireplace?” she called to Bean.

“Sure,” he called back. “I'm an old Connecticut boy. Grew up here and in New York,” he said. “That was before the crash.”