Sweet Karoline (6 page)

I
met my paternal grandparents exactly four times that I can remember. Suddenly they were both dead of cancer a few months apart and our lives were irrevocably changed.

Dad,
the only child, inherited his parents' house and a monthly stipend from their investments that could keep our family in an elevated status. In Canada my father was a teacher and my mother was a nurse. Neither profession was well paid in the United States.

When
we were transplanted to the U.S. to take advantage of the inheritance, my mother and I were, in the beginning, very unhappy. My mother was unable to work as a nurse. My father, with his dual citizenship, landed a plum job in L.A. teaching at a college, so he was gone all week like many of the others. And we missed Elizabeth's calm presence.

At
nineteen she was already grown up in her mind—and mine—and engaged to her high school sweetheart. Both my mother and I grieved for her every day until Karoline became a fixture in our household.

Suddenly
Mom and I replaced Elizabeth as easily as changing our clothes. My sister was such an independent, self-confident creature, whereas Karoline was warm and lively and fiercely connected. She nosed around our house like a pet, doing a loyal bulldog impression with her beady eyes and protruding teeth. She had an interest in the minutia of daily living that was contagious. Karoline was confident in her intelligence, in her ability to know or discover the answer to every question.

In
our youth and up to the incidents over this past year, I worshipped Karoline. I thought of her as the smartest person on the planet. When our relationship disintegrated I realized that I had never told her how much I admired her. Now I never can.

By the time Halina and my parents arrived, Karoline's mother had the funeral already planned. The casket chosen. The cemetery in Bell Canyon would provide the space for my friend's new residence. Halina must know how much her daughter would have hated living forever back in that boring little town.

Halina
put Karoline away in shame and horror. Shame that she had committed this selfish act of suicide. Horror at the idea of jumping from a balcony. So ignominious. Thoroughly thoughtless. At least she could have taken pills. A far less messy result, easier to explain to the neighbors. Or Karoline could simply have gone home and buried herself under Halina's grasp. At last the ugly little duckling had done something worthy of Halina's attention, even if it continued a misperception of Karoline and me.

Of
the funeral and the reading of the will and the burial, I remember very little. I allowed my parents and Halina to haul me around that week. Back in Bell Canyon, the pillow in my old room afforded me no rest.

People
stared. Their mouths flapped.
Everybody's talkin' at me, I can't hear a word they're sayin'
. They touched me with ice-cold fingers, patted my hand, my shoulder. I wanted to scratch out their eyes, their ugly piggy eyes. The rage inside me pounded against my skull, hammered in my chest.

I
lowered my own eyes so the people would think I'd been crying. I didn't want them to see the hatred and fury that would surely turn them to ashes on the spot. Karoline would detest this ceremony. She would roll around in that grave for centuries to come, writhing with contempt. Here she was, back in the Canyon, the little white bread community from which we had escaped. All the people whom she had scorned now looked down at her both literally and figuratively. A disgraced suicide. My sin and her humiliation.

Dear Diary,

She
often reminds me of a puppy dog. Curled up at your feet at night, completely oblivious, licking your hand for attention, jumping and rolling over when you tell her to. Attached to her master for no real reason other than animal comfort. If someone came by who offered her a better treat, she'd be off like a shot.

Chapter
6

The old adage that time heals all wounds didn't work for me. My odd behaviors began to betray me as the weeks went by. It was as though my wound became infected, filling my whole being with pus, clogging my thought processes.

Karoline
and I co-owned a sporty little red convertible whose roof we rarely saw. The air going past was thick, noisy and smelled of fuel, but we didn't care. As long as it was warm and a bit of sun shone through the smog, we had the top down. Scarves tied jauntily around our heads like 1940's movie stars.

For
the first couple of weeks after the funeral I drove to work as though everything was still the same. I imagined Karoline beside me, chatting, sharing breakfast sandwiches and coffee.

"
Did you see this article about the murder in that movie theatre? Gruesome or what?" she might say, peering over the newspaper at me.

Her
nose was far too turned up, so you could see right up her nostrils when she lifted her chin this way.

"
What do you think about that smarmy old councilor? Do you think he's really guilty of fraud?" or "I hate these bloody ads. Look at that. Advertising sanitary pads. Is nothing sacred?"

Her
opinions were always sarcastic, always designed to get a reaction. More often than not, Giulio and I responded to her comments with a smile, a giggle or a shrug, but sometimes we'd get into a merry old discussion.

I
adored being with Karoline at the end of work because I was always the one doing the talking. Almost every day I would be asking her opinion, getting her advice, telling her about my clients, nattering on and on. Mornings, Karoline was the passenger. Evenings were my time while she drove.

Before
Italy Giulio was there, too. He'd always sit quietly in the back seat. Looking up now and then from his reading, he'd smile indulgently at our babble or join in with a pithy comment or two. Those were the days when we shared everything. Or at least, I did.

Until
Karoline was gone I had forgotten how blatantly the commuters paid attention to me. When I stopped at a red light or crawled along in insect trails of traffic, someone was bound to look over and whistle. Or ask me out. Or ask me who I was. Stopping dead still was like being under a spotlight. It was Karoline who had shielded me from their intrusiveness. She'd give them her famous stare, which froze people in their tracks, as Giulio always said.

I
remember someone referring to Karoline's eyes as beady, her look witchlike. I thought her eyes, small and framed by bushy brows, mirrored intelligence and an I-don't-care-what-you-think-of-me attitude. Her hair was plain, her dress commonplace, her demeanor unassuming. No one stared at her. I admired the fact that she wasn't noticed, and respected that she didn't care. I was so imperceptive.

The
staring eyes on the freeway were piranhas piercing my armor. I was at their mercy without Karoline.

I
didn't really think I was speaking aloud to Karoline-not-there. At first I was convinced my fellow commuters were reading my mind. They stared at me even more ferociously as I gabbed away inside the convertible. There wasn't anyone else but Karoline to whom I could voice my complaints or my opinions or tell about my day, so I deliberately imagined she was still there listening raptly. I decided I needed to confide in my friend as though she could hear me. I needed her to tell me what to do as she always had. What could be the harm?

Once
I began to talk to Karoline again I suppose I paid less attention to the road. Particularly in the evenings when it was her turn to drive. Sometimes I pretended it was three years ago and the oddballs were still an indestructible trio. The Polack, the Half and Half and the Eye-Tie lived and worked in the most fascinating city in the world, traveling every day to our amazing, challenging, well-paid jobs. We had left Shirley O'Connor and our small-minded hometown far behind. We had prospects. We knew lots of important people. Most of all, we had each other.

Until
the incident when I ran the car up onto an embankment, I hadn't realized how preoccupied I was with our conversation. On that day I realized abruptly that I had stepped over the edge, the one that takes you from the shore of daydream to the sea of nightmare without noticing that you're wet.

I
also hadn't realized how utterly, completely and definitively I had eventually shut out every single other person in my life. For all my years in school I'd been part of a trio. When we graduated we acquired jobs close to one another. Giulio lived two blocks away. Karoline was my roommate. They were my friends, my confidants, my travel companions. More often than not they were my dates on a Saturday night. I didn't need anyone else. I was safe from the terror of establishing relationships, looking for love, finding the right man.

Only
the drive for a sexual encounter ever led me to go out with men. As Karoline and I regularly discussed, those liaisons often caused tears over the agony of unrequited devotion. Or they resulted in obsession and stalking. And not from my side. There were ways, Karoline said, to satisfy my sexual urges by myself. Over the years I slowly began to refrain from dating. We made a pact with Giulio to father our children should we ever want them but Karoline and I came into our thirties with no ticking clocks. We were too busy with careers, travel, shows, openings, parties and dinners.

Then
Parris Jeffrey, followed by Glenn Simpson, entered our lives.

Dear Diary,

Everything
was so perfect. We didn't need anyone else in our lives. Then those two started to fuck up big time. I've been patient a long while and I don't see how I can put up with it much longer. Am I the only one with brains?

Chapter
7

Parris is a tall, lanky girl with long red hair and luminous blue eyes, two years younger than I. Not quite beautiful with her beefy thighs and knobby hands and freckles smeared all over her cheeks, she is nevertheless the kind of woman to whom attention is paid. Men follow her hearty laugh down a street or a hallway and watch the sway of her hips. She has thick lips that she paints bright red and she uses her long black eyelashes without compunction. She looks and sounds lusty. Parris can tell an off color joke, curse or fart in public and get away with it. She makes everyone laugh and brings everyone into her circle.

Parris
worked for me at Grace Productions. These days she has my desk.

At
the time, I was thrilled to acquire an assistant. We had a huge number of projects on the go and I found tracking all of them exhausting. Joseph Grayson, one of my employers, approved hiring someone to groom and mentor as well as assist. Grace Productions was expanding. There was even talk of a branch in New York City. For our business, the 80's recession passed right over and flung us toward the future without a blip. Thus I had no thoughts or concerns about competition from a new hire. I sat in on the interviews. Parris was our number one choice.

She
immediately proved that we had been correct in our assessment. Smart, funny and personable, she handled the clients like a pro. She asked questions, watched carefully and requested help or advice when she needed it. Parris was a dream. Before I knew it, we were having lunch together or going out for coffee at breaks. She told me her thoughts, ambitions, about her family and her love life. In time I told her some of my secrets, too.

Very
slowly it dawned on me that Parris wasn't simply a colleague. She was a friend. It also occurred to me that she listened to and shared far more of my thoughts and opinions than Karoline did. Where my lifelong friend and I were drifting apart, this interesting, younger female was edging closer. It was like a husband and wife who'd become estranged.

Karoline
noticed, too. "So you had lunch with your assistant again today?" she asked on our homeward commute, peering at me sideways as she slowed for traffic.

"
I did," I replied happily because I had no inkling that I should not. "Remember I told you about that project, The Silver Fox?"

"
The screenwriter who's a prick and the story that sucks but somehow Joseph loves?"

"
The very one. Parris and I have been putting together a plan for handling him. The screenwriter that is. I think it just might work."

"
She sounds rather manipulative."

I
looked up in surprise at the criticism, but Karoline's eyes were on the car in front of us.

"
I don't think so," I said, making it a definitive statement with my tone. "Diplomatic maybe. I know we have to be somewhat controlling, I guess, but only for the sake of the film. We simply have to get it up and running, even if we have to do end-runs on the writers."

"
We? Isn't she just your assistant?"

I
was silenced at the strength of dislike in Karoline's voice.

"
I like her," I said finally.

Karoline
gave me her beady stare.

The
following week I decided I should introduce Parris to Karoline. Maybe they would hit it off. I knew there was an underlying aversion to my assistant from my best friend's corner, but once they met in person I was certain Karoline's reservations would disappear.

She
was just looking after my interests, I knew. She probably thought Parris was overly ambitious, trying to move in on my position. I had to prove to Karoline that such was not the case. Parris is lively, bright and down-to-earth. Surely no one could dislike her for long. Maybe she'd be our new third.

At
the last minute, as we were setting up for a dinner party with the usual suspects, I told Karoline that Parris was coming, too.

"
Joseph and Vicki are going to bring her with them," I said. "She lives near their building."

Karoline
continued folding the napkins. She loved real cloth napkins. We had collected a dozen or so from different countries, so the table was always colorful and eclectic.

"
Okay. Seven napkins then. Seven plates. Seven dwarves."

"
You'll like her, Karoline. She's really not trying to replace me at work, you know. In fact the place is expanding so much that we'll probably have lots of room for Exec Assistants. Vicki will soon need one of her own, instead of splitting me with…"

Karoline
laughed. "Sweetie, I never thought she was going to try and take your place."

"
Oh." I was stunned at the mocking tone, the way Karoline tossed her head as though I were a complete idiot. "But…why don't you like her then?"

"
Who said I don't like her? You think I'm jealous or something?"

I
stared at Karoline, confused, but she was too busy getting plates out of the cupboard to look at me. "Of course not."

"
Then stop sneaking around having lunch with her and inviting her over for dinner without telling me."

Stunned,
I couldn't find any words to describe the odd feeling in my stomach. Karoline never talked to me like that.

She
turned around and smiled at me.

"
I can't wait to hear what Daniel has to say about the new tax regulation the city just passed. He's going apoplectic. You watch. He'll be the first to arrive, full of piss and vinegar. C'mon, don't just stand there, let's get this shindig on the road, girlfriend."

True
to her prediction, Daniel was not only first at the door but he was also rambling from the start about the controversial city regulation, none of which I understood. He arrived with his wife in a colorful flourish, brandishing a huge bunch of orange and yellow flowers, two bottles of wine, one red, one white, a checkered shirt and pink cheeks.

Daniel
Stewart is not a stereotype for a lawyer. He's thin, very short, freckle-faced and has unruly brown hair that often sticks up in a cowlick. He looks young from afar, but up close you can see the lines around his eyes and the furrows of his oft-frowning forehead. He's extremely wealthy and often sent Karoline out to art auctions on his behalf. He's very fond of the artist CoJon, the one whose mysterious past is almost as famous as his colorful swashes that form themselves into ethereal scenery. Our CoJon was a bonus to Karoline for a job well done.

Luckily
Daniel is not a trial lawyer. I can't imagine that a jury would side with his child-like demeanor. Not to mention his bullfrog voice, which is frightening the first time you hear it emerge from that small person. I like Daniel, though. He is intelligent, charming when he wants to be and he adored Karoline.

When
Parris, Vicki and Joseph arrived a few minutes later it was in a flurry of hostess gifts, wine, shoes, glasses and places at the table. Vicki, one of my bosses, is a tall commanding blond who appears mannish in her style and dress, but whose voice conjures up a stereotypical femininity that includes shopping and spas and pampering. Blessed with an aura that demands attention and oozes confidence, Vicki has industry heavy weights lining up at her door to sign a contract with her.

Joseph,
soft-spoken but genius in a conversation, brilliant at targeting a client's career in the right direction, is her perfect complement. They live together but have never officially married. Neither has any interest in progeny. Their company, Grace Productions, and each other fill their lives completely and utterly.

Unless
confronted by stress or an unscripted event, they are satisfied and enthusiastic. Any glitch in their plans can turn them both into melting chocolate, helpless, gooey and messy. Which is where I come in.

Or
used to.

That
evening, Parris was a vision of burnt orange and almost as hot. Reddish hair, matching blouse with flounce sleeves, flashing brown eyes, she was, despite being rather tall and large boned, stunning. Not shy, she jumped into every conversation with alacrity and defined opinion.

Everyone
talked all at once. The cacophony of voices muffled the tension that soon settled in over dinner. I was, Before-Italy and Before Parris-then-Glenn, completely oblivious to hidden agendas or underlying tensions. Karoline would always point them out to me. I was inevitably the last to know that so-and-so was having an affair or that such-and-such hated their business partner. I had no idea that Giulio was in love with his cousin or that his cousin was engaged. I could never have predicted that Giulio would remain in Italy, would leave us without good-bye, or would leave us at all.

I
realize now that I had reacted viscerally all my life. Through my senses, through what I saw, heard or smelled. No jumping to conclusions, no intuition. No feelings in the pit of my stomach. My approach always worked well with the film industry bunch because they live completely on the surface, shallow and predictable.

That
night, the fluttering in my chest and the squishy feeling in my belly were foreign to me. At first I didn't recognize the symptoms. I thought I was reacting to the rich meat sauce. Then I began to tune into Karoline, the tone of her voice, the choice of words, the topics, the way she lifted glass after glass of wine. I realized with a shock that the tremors were coming from the earthquake of Karoline, an upheaval that was about to rearrange the landscape of our relationship.

"
It's similar to Beverly Hills Cop."

There
had been a lull in the conversation between Daniel and Karoline. Vicki and I had taken a breath. Chewed our food. Left a hole in the noise. Thus Parris's voice, its lustrous timbre somehow earsplitting in the quiet dining room, echoed across the table.

"
Just what we need," Karoline said, "another vacuous movie about idiotic people. A great contribution to our national culture."

We
'd had these debates in the past. The difference between film and movie, art and entertainment, literature and pulp fiction. But there was something vicious in Karoline's tone that made everyone stop dead still. Instead of taking part in the argument, the others were shocked into silence. Their faces reflected uncertainty about how to enter this new geography.

Parris,
because the dart had been aimed at her, continued innocently into a perceived discussion.

"
I think there's something to be said about making movies purely for entertainment. Just to be able to go out and have a laugh…"

"
Laugh! The characters exhibit inane, ridiculous behavior and are clearly people none of us here would want to know. If we're laughing, if we find that nonsense in any way funny, it's because we're mocking these morons. This movie is encouraging us to make fun of other people."

"
Karoline, you can't think the characters in that movie are meant to be seen as real people. They're like cartoons."

Parris
gave a small laugh, still believing she was debating, just as I'd described the amusing exchanges of words around this table in the past.

"
Ahhh, cartoon people."

The
silence from the rest of us was a wall of disbelief through which none of us could speak and of which Parris appeared unaware. Later I felt terrible that I hadn't intervened, hadn't somehow pulled Parris and the rest of us out of the pool of venom that leaked from my roommate's mouth. Hadn't somehow foreseen that Karoline was about to unearth a deadly disease of hatred that would infect us both. That would poison the air forever.

"
But aren't you film people all cartoonish? Aren't you vapid and shallow and ridiculous? People who manipulate and steal in the name of so-called art and then trot out movies like Beverly Hills Cop and expect the rest of the population to support you financially?"

Karoline
pointed her fork toward Vicki and Joseph. They sat with pale faces and question mark frowns, considering whether or not to laugh or get up from the table, impaled like dried flowers in a frame by Karoline's stabbing fork and her malicious tone.

"
I've known Vicki and Joseph for years. They are the epitome of insipid and superficial. Definite cartoon characters. But you don't see them up on the screen for us to laugh at. In fact, I usually sit very politely and pretend their conversation is stimulating and intelligent."

"
Karoline."

Daniel
spoke her name quietly, reverently, almost like a question. Where did you go, Karoline? Who is this person who has taken your place?

As
though she'd been under water, Karoline's eyes became clear again and she shook her head. Carefully replacing her fork, she shoved her chair backward, causing it to smack down on the hardwood floor. Then she walked, shoulders back, toward the exit. She grabbed her brown shawl and disappeared into the hallway, slamming the front door as she left.