Voodoo Moon (32 page)
I read a Brian Garfield western and a John D. MacDonald mystery and spent most of my time lying on my bed in the room. The rain was relentless.
I tried getting hold of Tandy, of course. But things were moving "very quickly," according to my favorite PR flack, Courtney-from-Chicago.
"Meaning what, exactly?"
"Well, meaning
People
magazine. Meaning
Dateline NBC
. Meaning Jay Leno."
Things were moving quickly indeed. And moving most quickly of all was Tandy. Away from me. I didn't expect, or probably even want, any of those long promises with short intentions one makes after being especially intimate with someone for a few furious days. We were both too pragmatic for that.
But I did want to hold her next to me and smell her hair and hear that little-girl laugh of hers. Maybe it wasn't love, but it was a nearly terminal case of like. I had fallen under her messy, self-conscious, insecure sway.
The phone rang just after I dozed off.
"Remember me?"
"Hey, I thought maybe Courtney baby had written me out of the script entirely."
"No way, Robert. Let's have dinner tonight."
"Great."
"In town."
"Great."
"I'll call you back to confirm." Then she cupped the phone and said, "Courtney says there's a call from the cable network I need to take."
I was elated. I lay back on the bed feeling sixteen again, all that sweet youthful promise, that best drug of all.
And indeed she did call back. A few minutes to six. I'd already showered and shaved.
And said: "Oh, shit, Robert.
Dateline
flew a producer out here already. He wasn't supposed to be here until morning. Courtney says I
have
to spend time with him."
"Oh."
"I know you're pissed."
I didn't answer.
"Hurt, then."
"I'm something. But I'm not sure it's hurt and I'm not sure it's pissed."
"Well, somewhere between them, then. How about lunch?"
"Great."
"See, you can't even say 'great' with any enthusiasm, and I don't blame you."
"Lunch would be great. Around eleven-thirty."
"Fantastic. God, Robert, please don't be pissed."
"Just do what you need to, Tandy."
I slept pretty well. I crawled all the way back in the dark warm cave of sleep and cuddled up in a ball and visited a variety of dreamscapes.
The call came at ten A.M.
"Now the
People
people
are here, too. And Courtney says that I absolutely have to talk with them."
"It's all right. The local gendarmes are going to cut me loose after one more interview. Then I'm flying on home."
"To Cedar Rapids?"
"No. To the old house."
"The married house?"
"Yeah. Her birthday's coming up. I thought I'd spend it there."
"You know what? You're such a sweet, dear person that I'm going to schedule dinner with you tonight, and whatever Courtney says, I'm going to tell her no deal, I'm spending the night with Robert."
"You really think you've got the nerve?"
"Just watch me, Robert. Just watch me. I'll call you back mid-afternoon." I heard Courtney calling her name in the background.
I
never did hear from Tandy that afternoon. I got in my rickety biplane and flew to the small town where I'd lived with my wife. The widowed woman who house-sat for me showed me the card-box box filled with my mail, and then tiptoed me down the hall to show me where our three cats were sleeping on the double bed.
Two months later, at Christmastime, I got a card from Tandy. It was pure gush. Show was ranked at number one again in the syndication ratings. Her book was almost finished (she liked the woman writing it for her). And she missed me a great deal, and could I ever forgive her for not calling me back that afternoon?
Oh, and I shouldn't forget to watch her for the
second
time on
60 Minutes
the first week in January.
I wasn't sure what to make of any of it except that Tandy was happier. All her life she'd wanted approval. And now she had the approval of millions.
I felt empty, and then idiotically sorry for myself, and then I felt embarrassed for being such a child.
I built a fire, and picked up a collection of mystery stories, and let the cats throw my ancient and venerable house slippers around.