Detour (7 page)

My slight hangover was making me morbid. I shivered and unlocked the door. I'm usually not a brooding type, but five-thirty in the morning with rain and fog and a guilty conscience as props is not exactly a musical-comedy setting. Without switching on the lights, I tiptoed into the living-room.

The girl with whom I shared the bungalow worked days in the Columbia wardrobe department. She had to get up at seven each morning in order to punch in on time. For that reason she always crabbed about my late hours. She was a sweet kid and I'd known her for a long time, but when her sleep was interrupted she raised the roof. Without fail, almost every night when I arrived home she'd sit up in bed, all cold-creamed and kit-careered, and mutter: “Why don't you ask your boss to change your shift? For the love of Mike, here I am trying to catch a little sleep so I can get up at seven, and you... Now don't you dare cut off that alarm, Sue Harvey! You remember what I told you last time! I'm sorry it wakes you up when it goes off, but I've got a good job and I intend to keep it.” Then she would roll over, pound the pillow viciously with her fist and be asleep again in less than two minutes. Poor Ewy. She had to put up with plenty.

We lived in a bungalow-court, our unit consisting of a small living-room, a smaller bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a bath so infinitesimal that the sink overhung the tub. Ewy claimed you could brush your teeth at the same time you took a bath. Perhaps you could; I never tried it. The place was furnished with the customary cheap brand of over-stuffed furniture, faded carpets and the odds and ends of about five different sets of dishes. The rent was thirty-two dollars a month, with gas and lights extra—which wouldn't have been bad when it was divided by two. Unfortunately, very often Ewy would succumb to her weakness for gambling and lose her entire week's wages in a phone room during lunch-hour. She could pick them, but usually wrong. Like the Hollywood population in general, we were always behind with the landlord. But the place itself, while neat and inexpensive, had, like every other apartment in Hollywood, an air of impermanency. You felt that if you stood in the center of the living-room and shouted: “Strike it, boys!” the whole place would fold up and disappear like a set in a very few seconds.

It was small wonder there were so many cases of homesickness in town.

My customary way of entering was to slip off my shoes and try to creep into the bathroom to undress. Once or twice I had successfully accomplished this, but this time I heard Ewy sit up in bed and fumble for the light cord. Since there was no longer any point in trying to be stealthy, I stomped into the bedroom.

“Did I wake you, Ewy? I tried to be as quiet as I could. ”

Ewy found the little string and the lights went on. Still half-asleep, she felt around on the floor by her bed until she found the alarm clock. It was twenty minutes to six. She gave me a look which said: a-fine-time-to-be-coming-in and flopped back on to her pillow with a martyr's sigh.

“I'm sorry, Ewy. I couldn't help it. I was on a party. Why don't you stuff cotton in your ears at night like I suggested?”

“And how would I hear the alarm when it goes off?” She grumbled and pounded her pillow. “Call the Fleishmeyer Agency tomorrow morning before noon. He's been wearing out the phone all evening. God, that man's persistent. ”

“You didn't tell him what I was doing, did you?”

“Naturally not.”

“Fine. It wouldn't do me much good having people know I'm hopping cars. Someday I might need Manny Fleishmeyer.”

“Well, if you play around with him, you ought to have your head examined. He reminds me of a toad, and not a handsome toad at that. And yes, I almost forgot. There's a letter for you. Came in the afternoon mail. I stuck it in the bathroom on top of your cold-cream jar—or
my
cold-cream jar, to be exact, if you'll pardon the implication—so you'd be sure to find it.”

“Alex?”

“How should I know? I didn't open it.”

I began to pray it would be from Alex. He hadn't written for such a long time—months and it worried me. I was so used to hearing from him regularly once a week. Of course it was my own fault. I hadn't kept up my end of the correspondence because there really was nothing to write about. I didn't have the cheek to write lies to him like I did to mother, saying that I was doing splendidly, that the studios would soon be fighting for me, etc. Alex would know better.

As I hurried into the bathroom and felt around in the dark for the envelope, I had his name on my lips. I needed Alex that night more than I had ever needed him before. Just his familiar scrawl would help me to get out of the rotten mood I was in, would surely aid in forgetting the impossible thing I'd done. Alex was a dear. He was a clumsy old thing, bashful as a schoolboy, and, except for his music, a dummy; but I adored him. Although he was occasionally annoying, he alone had the power to quiet my nerves whenever they might be on edge. Sometimes his solicitousness would make things worse, but soon I couldn't help but love him for his clumsy attempts to please me. It was practically impossible to stay angry with him for any length of time. If I spoke harshly to him I was always instantly sorry, for he hurt easily.

Reviewing our affair, I decided it must have been one of those everyday cases of love at first sight. I had first taken notice of him during a chorus rehearsal when he stood up and asked Bellman's permission to leave the room. He wasn't trying to be funny, either. He really had to go. Of course everyone laughed and he blushed like a child. Then, when one of the girls offered him her hat, he got so flustered and looked so pathetic up there on the stand, that it went to my heart. I felt like running up and kissing him, the boob. Yes, he was a boob. I had to work on him all of three weeks before the poor fish even asked to take me out. I threw myself in his path at every opportunity and flashed him my prettiest smiles; I asked him the time and would he give me a cigarette and match. Finally, after a siege, when I kissed him good night for the first time, he didn't even make a move to follow it up. Perhaps he was frightened or bashful or something, I don't know. Men are funny, sometimes. A girl can semaphore every signal in the book before the fellow wakes up and finds the war is over. Now Raoul....

The letter was not from Alex. When I carried it into the bedroom I saw it was from my mother, with the usual sob story and broad hint. She could use this; she could use that. Mother could always use something, the old parasite. If only she knew how tough it was for me to lay my hands on a few dollars! I don't suppose it is very nice for a daughter to talk about her mother that way but what had she ever done for me? Bear me, that's all. And probably she would have avoided that if she hadn't been such a rabid Catholic. Just the way she talked to Alex that day when he tried to reinstate me alone was enough to sour me on her for life. We had done nothing wrong. We were having an affair, yes. But we loved each other and Alex would have married me in a minute if I'd said the word. Anyway, what right had she to complain?
She
wasn't the one who had to worry...

Which reminded me.

I couldn't afford to waste another minute.

Glancing through the letter to satisfy my curiosity, I discovered that it was some lighter clothes this time. New York was hot and she was running around in a fall suit. I ripped the letter up and flung the pieces into the trash-basket by the writing-desk. The next day was pay-day. I'd send her five dollars. Oh, I knew it was foolish. The chances were she'd drop half of it into the collection-plate.

“For the love of Pete,” Ewy groaned, “turnout the light and get into bed! Or go into the living-room.”

“All right. Good night, Ewy.”

“Good night hell! Good morning!”

I scooped up a nightie and went into the bathroom, locking the door after me. I had things to do and it would be a good half-hour before I was ready to hit the pillow. I undressed rapidly, at the same time looking at my face in the medicine chest mirror. My eyes were a little bloodshot from staying up so late, but still lovely. I had been told many times that my eyes are the nicest part of my anatomy—tie score with my breasts—because they are an unusual shade of green; not a jade green, a much darker color. I pressed my face as close as I could get it to the glass and examined them. There were tears glistening in them now as I thought of Alex. The gleam was an improvement because it covered up the redness. Where was Alex? Had he moved from the old apartment?

He must have; because unless he was working again , how could he pay the rent? That was probably why he had never answered the post card I sent him.

“I love you, Alex,” I whispered into the mirror—playing a little scene. “I'll always love you.”

It was a trifle overdone. In movie parlance, I was mugging it. I felt the emotion all right, only reality on the screen always photographs funny. To be any good you have to underplay everything. A casting director told me that. I tried it again, this time changing the inflection, expressing as much as I could just with my eyes and keeping my voice as flat as possible. “I love you, Alex. I'll always love you. And no matter what happens, I'll always be waiting.” Once more. God, I felt it surge all through me. At that moment I loved Alex more than ever. I did, I did. It was intense. It pulled at me and brought more tears into my eyes. Soon they were rolling down my cheeks. “I'll always love you. And no matter what happens, I'll always be waiting....”

It was great, a natural. Who said I couldn't act? Of course it wasn't
all
acting. I repeated the scene two or three times more, experimenting with tone, quality and diction. Then I ran hot water and looked around for the douche.

START your sermon. I'll listen to it. But I know what you're going to hand me even before you open your mouths. You're going to tell me that I'm nothing but a common tramp, a thief and a no-good grave-robber. You're going to say you don't believe my story of how Haskell met his death, and give me that don't-make-me laugh expression on your smug faces. You're going to say, “Roth, for God's sake, why not make a clean breast of it? You're not kidding anyone.” You're going to harp on that old gag about confession being good for the soul.

Or maybe you're going to break open the hymnal and tell me I should have waited for the police and had faith in the Lord? I'm not sacrilegious, but even if the Lord
is
my shield and my buckler, who the hell is going to be my attorney?

So if you can, just put yourself in my position before you let off steam and warn me for my own good that isn't the way to get to heaven. I wasn't trying to get to heaven. All I was trying to do was to get to Los Angeles, to see Sue, and, if possible, to ace myself into pictures. Now what I had aced myself into was a murder—or what looked like one—and I was the murderer in every respect, except that I didn't kill the guy. I had his car and his dough and his clothes, all right; but that was all. I didn't have his life. Maybe I'd never find out, but Haskell could have died of heart failure, of liver trouble, of cancer, of any of a million things. If that crack on the head was what killed him, I wasn't to blame. Nevertheless, as I drove away from the spot I kept telling myself over and over that I should have taken the northern route or stayed put in New York. I wish I had. Take it from me, it was a mighty queer feeling pulling into a service station and telling the fellow to fill her up. I'd only owned one car before in my life, and you can bet it wasn't a big beauty like the one I was driving. What I had in New York was a heap, if there ever was one. A still more uncomfortable feeling though, than driving around in a car that wasn't mine, was whipping out Haskell's roll and paying for the gas. I couldn't get accustomed to the idea that now the dough was mine, and I kept mental count of every penny I spent as if Haskell would show up any minute and ask for his change.

“Check your oil, sir?”

Check
my
oil. That was a hot one.

“No, that's all right. I changed it a while back. ”

I was afraid to stop too long. Maybe someone already had found the body and the cops were on my tail. I was hot and, boy, did I know it. I wouldn't feel safe until after I ditched the car.

“Here you are, sir. Thank you. Call again.”

“Sure, sure.”

I grabbed the change the attendant held out and stuffed it into my pocket. Without waiting to count it, I let in the clutch with a jerk that shot the Buick out into the middle of the road.

Distance, brother. That's what I wanted to put between me and the place on Route 70. I'll never be able to wipe off the slate. Even as I drove along I could see it before my eyes; ahead was a slight bend in the road to the left, with a white guard-railing and a SLOW sign; to the right, on the far side of the gully, was a tree, the only decent-sized tree around, only a few inches shorter than the telephone pole alongside it; behind was a dip in the highway where a shallow puddle had formed. Yes, every last detail of the road, the ruts in the shoulder and the formation of the brush was clear. If I had been an artist I could have painted that scene accurately with out going back. But more than just that, I could see what was hidden beneath the growth of brush down in the gully. I could see a twisted form in blue pants and a maroon polo-shirt with a ripped collar.

I gave the Buick everything. I rolled it up to eight-five, to ninety on the straight parts. On the curves the rear wheels skidded and screamed and this made me look in the mirror. I kept imagining I was being followed and that I could faintly hear sirens way back in the distance.

Of course I knew it was dangerous, speeding like that. I was more apt to tangle with the law that way than by simply riding along at a reasonable rate. But I couldn't help myself. In Arizona the cops don't care how fast you travel through the desert—you drive at your own risk. However, in the townships they really clamp the lid on. I did slow down going through them, but my foot was itching to stamp on the accelerator.

More dangerous than cops were my eyes. Fear kept them wide open, in spite of which I felt myself dropping off to sleep. I'd suddenly realize that things were getting a little out of focus and that the road was fading gradually away. I had to struggle to stay awake. All this at eighty and eighty-five miles an hour over wet pavement.