Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons (10 page)

Rob— ever the intrepid reporter— tried another gambit: “And your parents?”

“Dead.” She didn’t look at either of us. Her tone was robotic.

“Ah. Well. I'm sorry.”

And miraculously we were saved. Her eyes lit up at the sight of a tall man approaching with a drink. “There you are,” she said, and we beat a hasty retreat.

I said, “In shock, do you think?”

“Who, me? Definitely.”

“Morticia.” I wagged my chin at Jason’s sister.

“Could be. Must be. Why come if you’re just going to insult your relative’s friends?”

Guilt, I supposed. Family obligation. A promise perhaps. Plenty of reasons besides familial love. But it certainly seemed as if Tressa Gornick was mad at someone; I wondered if it was her brother.

“Holy shit! There’s somebody I haven’t seen in years.”

He was off again. I listened again to the band onstage, quite enjoying myself, but focus is a fragile thing and anyway there was lots to look at— faces, fashion statements, vignettes. My eye caught a woman leaning against a pillar, her hands behind her back, alone.

So
totally alone: this was what her pose said. It drew attention to itself by its very melodrama.

Intrigued, I moved closer and thought I heard a whimper. Not wanting to intrude on her privacy, but curious, let’s face it, I stole another glance. Tears were wearing ruts in her makeup; her jaw was trembling as she struggled for control. She must have felt me looking at her, for her head turned and she caught me. She looked so miserable that I forgot my embarrassment; my heart went out to her, and I rummaged without thinking in my purse. Coming up with a tissue, I held it out.

“Thanks,” she said, and I know she meant to smile, but a grimace was all she managed.

“You must have known him well,” I said.

She nodded. “We were lovers.”

I was taken aback, both by the starkness of the statement— an extraordinary thing to say to a perfect stranger— and by its source. This woman was no Felicity Wainwright and no Vanda Ragusin. These two were wildly different, but their similarities were so obvious they’d been mentioned by everyone who knew Jason: he went out with gorgeous, bright, with-it ladies. He was famous for it.

This girl was younger and less sure of herself, but nothing like as young and vibrant as Adrienne. In fact, if I had to say what she was missing, vibrancy would be the easiest word to use. She had lackluster skin, freckled and poorly cared for. Her hair hung unfashionably to her chin, which was too broad for that length— and for the current ideal of female beauty. Her face was simply unremarkable— a pleasant enough face, and probably more so when it wasn’t swollen from crying, but she wasn’t blessed with burning eyes or flying cheekbones; it was just a face. Her body was lumpy— she wasn’t much overweight, perhaps twenty pounds or so, but her posture was poor and she looked soft, as if she didn’t exercise, had too little self-esteem even to bother. Her clothes were frankly frumpy— she wore a denim skirt and cotton turtleneck, two items she’d obviously just happened to find somewhere in her closet, and, on the spur of the moment, deemed suitable to wear together. The skirt was straight, a mini, and at least a size too small. She wore black tights beneath it.

And this was the woman who— cast doggedly against type— had apparently captured Jason’s heart. Or maybe she was lying. She was so tentative, so unsure of herself I couldn’t imagine her with Jason— with the demanding person I thought he was. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Had you been together long?”

She shook her head. “Oh. No. It was awhile back.”

“It’s still hard,” I said. “I’m Rebecca Schwartz, by the way.”

“I’m Sarah Byers.”

“Have you seen Tressa— his sister?”

“Oh! I didn’t know he had one.” So she hadn’t known him all that well.

“How did you and Jason meet?”

“I was sitting on a bar stool one night and he sat right down next to me. We both knew the bartender so”— she smiled shyly— “so you could say we were properly introduced.”

“Rebecca!” It was Rob. I felt my elbow grabbed and guided away. “Could I borrow you a minute?” As I pivoted and joined him— it was either that or fall down— I heard him say to Sarah, “Could you excuse us, please?”

“Bye, Sarah,” I called over my shoulder. “I hope I see you again.”

“Guess who’s here?” said Rob.

“The governor, maybe? Must be somebody really important, to merit that performance.”

“It’s Tommy La Barre.”

Tommy had been called onstage, and he was climbing up now. In a few minutes he was weeping, getting himself all worked up with funny anecdotes about his good buddy Jason. I looked over at Sarah’s pillar, but she was gone.

The lump was still there the next morning. Already, it was The Thing, the size of a mountain and about as insurmountable. I
had
to forget about it— it was the only survival.

I wished, wished, wished I had Julio with me— maybe I could drive to Monterey and see him.

I dialed but got no answer. Not a good sign for first thing in the morning.

Nothing was stopping me from hopping in the car, but I couldn’t bear it if I did and got more bad news. Technically (according to our agreement) we were perfectly free to date other people, but I certainly hoped he wouldn’t. I was rather flattered that he didn’t even like my working with Rob, but what if he used that as an excuse to find a babe?

I was nuts today, I decided. All the more reason not to pop down to Monterey. Normally Chris could have been a tower of strength, but she needed to lean on me right now— I certainly couldn’t tell her what was going on.

But won’t she know anyway?
I wondered.
What if I met her for brunch and she came up to the table and said, Omigod! your whole chest is black. What’s wrong with you, Peachblossom?

I didn’t know how this psychic thing worked yet— if I was dying I wanted to hear it from a doctor.

That left my sister, Mickey. Which would have been wonderful except that she was half of a couple and the other half was someone I wanted to see like a troop of IRS goons. But Mickey it had to be.

My luck: Kruzick answered the phone. “Kittens ’R Us. Mehitabel speaking.”

“‘
Toujours gai
and always a lady, that’s my motto, Archy.’”

“Watch who you’re calling gay. You want the black one or the calico?”

“Omigod! Lulu!” I’d forgotten their cat was pregnant.

“Mother and cuties resting comfortably. All seven of them.”

“In the midst of death…
” I thought, and all of a sudden I had to see those kittens. “I’ll be right over.”

I couldn’t take one, of course— I had fish, a hundred-gallon saltwater aquarium in my living room. But I could pick them up and feel their furry newness, their heartbreaking innocence; hear their pathetic little mews; and wish all of life was baby animals. Why, I thought, not for the first time, had we screwed up our lives with machines? I’d gladly give up television and computers for a life of calves and kittens and goslings. Or so I thought sometimes— when I chose to ignore my deep gratitude for indoor plumbing and antibiotics, the two greatest inventions of modern times.

Mickey and Alan were on their way out to a brunch, which left once again a deep hole in my day. I must have looked as miserable as I felt because Mickey asked me to dinner the next night, and Alan said, “Don’t bother coming in till Thursday— I’ve cancelled everything.”

“What?” I was suddenly panicked. “I appreciate your enthusiasm for the cause, but I’ve got to make a living.”

“You didn’t have anything that couldn’t wait. You were just going to look at your calendar and tell me to do it anyway.”

Actually, he was right. What I mostly needed to do was spend a lot of time preparing a case that was set for trial in a month, so I’d already pared down my schedule. I sighed— it was as good a time as any for Chris to get in trouble.

I went home and called Rob. No answer.

Julio again. No answer.

Halfheartedly, I looked up Sarah Byers in the phone book. She was definitely someone I had to speak to, but maybe not today. Yet I really should, I felt. She was in the book— at least there was an S. Byers, whom I promptly dialed. A machine answered: “Hi, this is Sarah….”

Okay, fine. She lived on Green Street near Polk, more or less Russian Hill; very Chinese the last few years. I popped over and rang her bell.

Even Sarah Byers wasn’t home that fine Sunday when I needed someone to talk to.

I sat in my car, thinking. I could always go to a movie. That was a good escape. Or play the piano— but the mood I was in, I’d just play dark, draggy dirges and make things worse. What I needed was open spaces, contact with nature, more kittens.

I could go hiking by myself, but I didn’t think that was smart.

I could drive to Marin County— but since I’d grown up there, it was too familiar to afford an escape and besides, my parents lived there. Once across the bridge, I’d probably drive obsessively to their house, and that was the last thing I needed.

I wanted support, but I didn’t want to be reduced to a child, and I’ve found, like most people I know, that it takes extreme lightness of foot to maintain adult status in the presence of one’s parents. I wasn’t up to it today.

Having perfectly rationalized my decision, under the illusion that I’d exhausted all my options, I then turned my car south and headed where I wanted to go in the first place— to Monterey. If Julio still wasn’t home, the worst that could happen was I’d have a great little drive and a beautiful walk on the beach. There was nothing like sea air for spiritual renewal— that and your lover’s arms.

Well, he wasn’t home. It was mid-afternoon by then— about three o’clock— and I was starving. So I went to the wharf and had a crab sandwich. Then that walk on the beach, which truly was invigorating, renewing, and thoroughly salutary. But lonesome. Marriage, I thought, would be good for times like this.

The buddy system probably wasn’t a bad way to get through life. Now that my career was established, I really ought to give some thought to it. Suddenly I wondered: Why the hell aren’t I married, anyway? I’m such a
good
girl.

It was unlike me to overlook an important matter of conformity; I have a very chicken-hearted streak under my tough lawyer’s exterior. I’d certainly done everything else the culture said I should do— it must be, I realized, that I hadn’t felt particularly pressured to get married. Perhaps women had made some progress after all. I was cheered by the thought, but only a little— I figured I was probably wrong.

There still being no Julio, I did what I could as easily have done in San Francisco— went to a movie. And afterward, there was a light in Julio’s house. My heart lurched— I hadn’t realized how eager I was to see him (though hanging around all day should have been a clue).

But a strange voice answered the door— a young, female one. “Who is it?”

“Rebecca. Is Julio home?”

Instantly, the door swung open and a tiny gold-colored girl launched herself at me. I just had time to brace or I’d have been knocked over completely. “Esperanza! Baby, baby, how are you?”

She didn’t answer, just kept her face buried somewhere around my midriff. A teenage girl hovered uncertainly in the background— the baby-sitter, I realized.

When I’d come loose from Esperanza, been pulled into the house, I told the baby-sitter my name and learned hers was Tiffany.

“She’s our friend, Tiffany. She’ll take over,” said Esperanza. “You can go home now.”

But Tiffany and I knew it wasn’t quite that simple. “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll stay a little while, and Tiffany can have a break and watch TV— then I’ve really got to get back home.”

“No.” She fashioned her exquisite lips into a pout.

“Why not?”

“Stay all night.”

“Honey, tomorrow’s a school day for me.”
And anyway, your dad doesn’t need two dates in one evening.
It was killing me not to ask where he was.

“I just got back from Mom’s, and Dad went out!”

“Well, sweetheart, I’m here.” I tried to keep my mind off Julio, talking brightly and fast. I asked civilized questions about our pals Libby and Keil, and what Esperanza was doing in school, until eventually I noticed my stomach was rumbling.

Esperanza had eaten, so I asked if I could make myself something, but she came right back at me: “I’ll make you some eggs.”

“You can make eggs? Who taught you?” I was instantly sorry I’d asked the question.

But she only said, “I took a cooking class. Daddy’ll be back soon.” She looked wistful, as if she were afraid I’d leave if I didn’t think that.

“Honey, that’s okay. I’m happy just being here with you.”

She smiled and sat down to tell me all about sixth grade, which, so far as I could gather, was mostly about which recording artists were the best: “So then in the video there’s these two Valley girls and one of them says, ‘Would you
look
at her butt! It is so biiig….’ You know how they make every word separate, like each one is some sort of
event?
”

I was howling. She did a very funny Valley girl. But she stopped in the middle. “So, how’re
you!
I mean, is everything all right?”

“Why, do I look sick?”

“You never, like, just show up. Dad always tells me if you’re coming. Anyhow, he couldn’t have known or he’d be here. So something must be wrong.”

“No, I just…” Was I going to lie? What was the point? “I just felt a little lonesome, that’s all.”

Tiffany came in. “Bedtime.”

“She’s right, honey. We’re being bad.”

“Are you leaving?” She badly wanted me to stay; why, I wasn’t sure— to reassure herself, probably, that things were okay between Julio and me.

“I have to get up early. But I’ll be down soon. Next weekend, maybe.” If I were invited.

She held on to me a long time and looked terribly sad when I left. She missed her own mother, I knew; and when she was with Silvia, Julio’s ex-wife, she missed her dad; and me, I thought. She missed me, too.

I was looking forward to the drive back, feeling the bitter sweetness of Esperanza’s good night, the outright sadness of not having seen Julio, but resigned, ready for an hour and a half of singing along with the radio. However, as I was waving good-bye, I heard a voice say, “What on earth is a Jeep doing in my driveway?”