Nowhere City (12 page)

Iz had never liked Maxie in the first place. Before he met him he already didn’t like him, because of Maxie’s profession. Maxie had a more open mind; he liked Iz fine until he met him. And you couldn’t blame Maxie, the way Iz treated him, like he was some kind of bug. When he heard they were getting married he kept shaking his head.—What are the fans going to think: a psychiatrist? he said. “Whatsa matter, is she sick? Or maybe she’s becoming an intellectual.”—What’s wrong with that? Glory had protested. Jill St. John is an intellectual, I read all the time. Monroe married a writer.—Yeah, Maxie said, and look what it did for her. Anyhow, for you I don’t see it.

Glory took off her white silk bathrobe. Her spectacular body was a very pale, glowing pink—she avoided suntan, because it photographed badly and dried out your skin. (The hair between her legs also matched the Christmas tree. Like her girlfriend Mona said, you have to keep up the property: never know when you’ll have guests.) With her weirdly painted face and paper fez, she looked like one of those Egyptian gods who wear the heads of beasts.

Naked, she crossed the carpet, got into the huge bed, and turned out the light. Now the room seemed even larger than it was; funny-shaped shadows moved on the curtains, advanced and retreated across the walls. Glory got up again, went over to the closet, and after some searching found and put on a pair of pajamas which had never been worn except in publicity stills. It was dumb, of course, because if anything bad wanted to come and get her tonight a pair of white silk pajamas wasn’t going to stop them. She lay down in bed again, on her stomach, her paper turban disposed to one side.

Ever since Iz walked out on her, Maxie had been giving her trouble.—What am I supposed to do, he kept asking. What do you want me to say to the papers? Have a little consideration for my problem. Make up your mind: it’s over; it’s not over.—Why don’t you ask Iz? Glory finally shouted. Because I don’t know! As far as I’m concerned, we’re still married! I’m merely simply waiting for him to come home.—Aw, now, Maxie said. Don’t give me that. You threw him out, you got to ask him back. A man has his pride.—Listen, Glory said. He knew perfectly well I was putting him on when I said to split. I have some pride too. Any time he feels like it he can—

What was that? Glory raised her head. From outside came a noise like someone walking up the gravel drive. Wait. No: everything was quiet now. She lowered her head carefully again, turned on her side, and crossed her arms over her breasts.

Where was Iz now? What was he doing? Glory stared into the dark. She felt ugly and rejected. Like a goddess betrayed by a god, it made absolutely no difference to her that temples still stood all over the land in which her image was worshiped nightly by multitudes, that praises and petitions arrived daily from the faithful.

Two
A.M.
She wasn’t going to sleep; she would look a mess tomorrow. And it was too late to take a pill; if she did that she would be dopey and stupid at the studio next morning. It was too late to phone up anyone, and if she did, what would she—There it was again. Somebody or something was out there, around the corner of the house near the living-room.

Hell, probably it was just some dog. But Glory knew that she would never sleep until she was sure. Without turning on any lights, she got out of bed and walked down the hall. Now that her eyes were used to the dark she could see the shapes of the furniture, the dim reflections from pictures and mirrors, the tall spider-web silhouette of the Christmas tree against the window, the—Oh God. There
was
somebody out there: a man, standing near the glass doors.

In panic, Glory pressed the light switches in the hall. The rooms sprang up bright around her, the Christmas tree began to sparkle and play “Silent Night.” She was exposed as if on stage.

She reached, fumbling, trembling, along the wall to turn on the patio lights, the pool lights, all the outside lights. For a split second as they went up she thought the intruder was Iz, because he had a beard. But Iz’s beard was short and neatly trimmed—this man’s was long and scraggy, and he had a pale, flat sort of Oriental face, like a villain out of the grade-B spy thrillers of her childhood. But the worst thing was the way he stared at her—totally without admiration or desire, rather with an expression of inscrutable disgust. For twenty years no man had looked at her that way.

He stepped forward and put his hand on the glass door. Glory could see and hear the inside handle turn. She opened her mouth to scream, as the beautiful victims had screamed in all those thrillers; as she herself had screamed on cue before the cameras. Only nothing came out; her throat had turned to cardboard.

But the latch held; the door remained closed. The man slipped off to one side. Wait. Wasn’t that him around at the window, trying to open the window! But it was locked too. Was everything locked?

Now a nightmare chase began; Glory ran from room to room of her house checking the locks of the doors and windows, panting across her thick carpets, stopping to listen, afraid every time she pulled back a curtain that she would come face to face with that look of repulsion. He must be a pervert or something. Bathroom, bedrooms, dining-room, kitchen.

Finished, she leaned against the wall by the front door, breathing hard, and listened. Every sound to her now was the enemy walking round her house, in every direction, rattling the doors. She ran back and forth aimlessly: a few steps one way, a few steps another. Down the hall in the living-room the Christmas tree went on twinkling and playing.

The telephone! She could telephone the cops! She grabbed the receiver off the wall and dialed O. “Therth a man!” she lisped. “A man here, trying to get in. I want the cops.” Her voice began as a hoarse whisper, but it came back to her as she spoke.

Ten minutes, they assured her. They would be there in ten minutes. But in ten minutes he could still smash a window, force his way in, and rob and rape and murder her. If only she had kept those dumb dogs; they might at least have barked. She was going to keep them in the first place so as not to hurt the Suharaja’s feelings, but then one of them made a mess on the rug, and she screamed at Maxie to get them out of here.

Glory was still holding on to the phone, though now it was connected to nothing. Everything was quiet; she took a breath. She still didn’t feel as if she could scream: “There’s a man here.” The way the girls shrieked in the films was all wrong. It was much scarier this way. She must remember how she had said that, if she got out of this: “There’s a man, trying to get in.”

She hung up the phone, walked down the hall, and looked out. A dark shape was hurrying away along the edge of the illuminated pool, which glowed green in the dark. He dodged round the chairs and tables, and then stopped for a moment in front of a fat rubber sea monster, a pool toy that Maxie had given them. Was he flippy enough to be afraid of that? No. He picked it up, and put it under one arm. Then he ran into the bushes, out of the light, and disappeared down the side of the hill. Thank God he didn’t turn round; she didn’t want to see that look again.

In a few minutes the cops would be here. Her pajamas were all right, but she probably ought to put on a bathrobe too. Suppose there was a photographer with them. Oh hell, she’d better call Maxie. His wife would flip, three
A.M.
, but still—Glory began to rush up and down the hall again, this way and that, without reaching any objective. Maybe no bathrobe. It didn’t look frightened enough. And turn off the damned Christmas tree. That was better.

As she stood dialing Maxie’s number, she suddenly caught sight of herself in a gold-framed mirror on the opposite wall: her face a patchwork of dried cosmetic mud, her hair wrapped in a turban of toilet paper. Christ! No wonder he had stared at her like that! She began to giggle out loud with hysterical relief. Why, she looked like something out of a Dracula film.

And the cops would be here any minute. Frantically, as the phone started ringing in Maxie’s house, she began to pull at her headdress and rub her face with her free hand. Shreds of paper fell all round her, but more clung fast, and the paint wouldn’t come off.

Outside, a police siren sounded down the hill. Glory slammed the phone back and raced for the bathroom, shedding lengths of toilet paper. She made it in time. When the officers knocked on the door she was standing before the mirror, smearing green eye shadow on with her fingers.

“O
H, HELL,” CAME A
voice from the kitchen.

It was late in the morning. Paul was just getting out of bed, for the second time; and the second bed. He had got into the habit of going to Nutting, working at his desk for an hour or so, and then leaving for Ceci’s. She would usually be asleep when he arrived; but he had a key now and could let himself in. She slept deeply. Sometimes he managed to take off his clothes and slide into the warm bed before she woke up. He would get back to Nutting about two hours later.

He did this practically every day. He quieted his conscience by pointing out to it that nobody was doing any work in Howard Leon’s department anyhow; they were always having coffee and telling stories; he got there earlier than anyone else and worked harder while he was there, etc. Anyhow, he was in no danger of getting fired. No one kept track of his comings and goings—if he wasn’t in his office he might be on another floor, or doing research up at U.C.L.A. The history of the company still wasn’t moving along very fast, but he had done a couple of popular-science-type articles that had gone over big. Leon had practically said that he could stay on another year if he wanted to. There would be a lot of advantages to that: for one thing, it would give him more time to finish the thesis. There would probably be a raise, too.

“Oh, hell!”

“What’s the matter?” Paul called. “Is the water gone again?”

“No, I am. I forgot to get coffee. I know what let’s do—let’s go over to the Tylers. Josie will give us some breakfast.”

“Okay.” Paul was pleased that finally Ceci was going to show him some of her friends. “Who’re the Tylers?”

“He’s a writer. Really way out. They have five kids and a big pad over on Beach Street.”

“Five children? How can he support five children, if he’s a writer?”

“Oh, he drives a cab for bread. Hey. What did I do with my clothes?” Dressed only in the old shirt that she used as a bathrobe, Ceci knelt down and began rummaging in her closet. “Here they are. Jesus, look at that hole. I’ve got to go over to the Goodwill again.”

Paul laughed. “Is that where you get your clothes?”

“Mostly.” Ceci pulled the jersey over her head; there was a long rip under the arm, through which the curve of a breast showed. “Sometimes I go to the Salvation—Wow. Do that again.”

“I’ve made the hole bigger,” Paul said a moment later. “You can’t go out on the street like that.”

“I can too. I’ll hold my arm down, this way. Everybody will think, the poor chick, she has a gimpy arm. Besides, it’s all I’ve got that’s clean.”

“You’re crazy,” Paul said fondly. He began to put on his shirt. “How do you know these people, the Tylers?”

Ceci answered, but not immediately. “They’re friends of Walter’s.”

Within his shirt, Paul made a face. Instinct told him to drop it, but reason, or what he chose to call reason, urged him on. “You never mention him, do you?” he asked. “It’s funny, he’s your husband, and I don’t know the first thing about him.”

“What would you like to know?” Dressed, Ceci was brushing out her hair.

“I don’t know,” Paul lied. “Well, for instance; what does he do?”

Ceci glanced up at him. “I can tell you,” she said. “But it won’t mean anything.” He went on looking at her, not letting her out of it. “Okay. When I first met him he was washing dishes in the same place where I worked and taking courses at City College. Then he went into the Merchant Marine for a while. ... Last year he was mostly reading for exams up at U.C.L.A., and he had a gig with a pool man.” She explained: “Like he went round in a truck with this guy and cleaned out people’s swimming pools. Right now he’s pushing Fuller brushes.”

Paul clutched at the item that fitted into his frame of reference. “Exams? Exams in what?”

“Philosophy. Master’s exams in philosophy.”

They were both dressed by now; Paul moved over to Ceci and put his arm around her as if to take the chill off their conversation. “Did he pass them?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Then he has an M.A. in philosophy. And he’s a Fuller brush man? I don’t get it. Couldn’t he find a job teaching anywhere?” Paul remembered what he had heard from Fred Skinner about local discrimination against Orientals.

“He thinks teaching’s a drag,” Ceci said. “He only took the exams because he digs taking exams. It’s like a kind of game for him.” She leaned gently against Paul, then stood aside. “Let’s go, huh?”

“Okay.” But Paul frowned. He wanted to understand Walter Wong in order to understand Ceci O’Connor—Ceci Wong she must be legally. Only the more he heard the less he understood either of them. He tried again. “Does he like selling Fuller brushes?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

“Dunno.” Ceci smiled, taken in. “He said it might not be so bad, only they screwed him on his territory. They sent him over to Hollywood, where nobody thinks about cleaning their place up, and they’re not home all day anyhow. But he was telling me, Sunday, he’s started going round at night now, and he’s running into a lot of weird scenes.” She laughed, and was about to go on, but Paul interrupted her; again he had heard only one thing.

“You saw him this Sunday?”

Ceci stopped laughing, and stared at him coolly. “Yeah,” she said. “He was here to supper.” With difficulty, Paul made no comment. “He makes it over here for supper every week, mostly, if you want to know.”

“I guess I want to know,” Paul said. He controlled his voice. “I don’t mean to get all excited about it,” he said. “I know you’re not involved with him any more or anything.” Did he really know this? “Hell, I mean I have supper with my wife all the time. We don’t communicate; we don’t even talk much, but anyway, we sit at the same table and eat.” Now he was beginning to lie; he did talk to Katherine at supper. He grew ashamed. Ceci continued to look at him, waiting. “Oh, hell!” he said, flinging out his arms in desperation. “What’s the matter with me? I don’t want to act like this all the time.”