Spellbinder (17 page)

Sunk in one of his dark moods, Peter had once said that, at bottom, everyone was a stranger. Each man and each woman went through life alone, he’d said, sentenced to a lifetime of solitude. She’d protested the point. Sometimes, with Peter held close and precious, inside her—soaring far beyond herself in wordless ecstasy—she felt that, really, they were one. Yet, even as he held her, she hadn’t told him what she’d been thinking—thus proving his point. And then she’d …

“… doing any work,” her mother was saying.

She blinked her eyes back into focus, turning toward her mother. “I’m sorry, Mother. What’d you say?”

“You were wool gathering, weren’t you?” her mother said brightly. “You were always a wool gatherer, even when you were young. Always a daydreamer.” She nodded over the reminiscence, her meticulously painted lips curved in a fixed, false smile. Now she sipped her coffee, and placed her cup carefully in her saucer. At the beginning of the meal, she’d fumbled with her silverware, and slurred her speech. Now, though, her speech was clearer, her gestures more controlled. It was all part of an inexorable routine that had emerged during their eight days together. Her mother would sleep until ten, then spend the next two hours bathing, dressing, and applying her makeup. After a light lunch, her mother watched
Days of Our Lives
—her only indulgence, she always said. Apparently the TV program marked the end of her self-imposed period of daily abstinence. Because, immediately afterward, her mother began finding excuses to go into the kitchen, where the gin bottle was kept, in the cupboard. By that time, the bottle had been opened, but the contents remained untouched. It was Denise’s job to open the bottle. Each of them must play her assigned role in this daily farce—this exercise in an elaborate ritual of deceit. The bottle must always be open, perhaps because access implied acceptance. Or resignation. Or despair.

Throughout the afternoon, the gin would slowly disappear, as if consumed by some invisible visitor. As the hours between
Days of Our Lives
and dinner passed, her mother’s laughter trilled higher, her voice warbled more loudly, more fatuously. Her movements became steadily less precise, more pathetic—until dinnertime finally arrived, a reprieve for both of them. Her mother never drank during meals, not even wine. So the food helped, temporarily soaking up the gin. During dinner, they could manage polite conversation, both of them able to counterfeit an interest in what the other was saying—as she was doing now:

“What’d you say?” she repeated. “About work?”

“I was saying that I haven’t seen you doing any work, since I’ve been here. When do you take your pictures?”

“I’m taking the week off.”

“Now, Denise—” Her mother raised her hand, prettily shaking a manicured forefinger over the remains of her dinner. “Now, I absolutely forbid you to change your routine because I’m here. You’re a very busy person. I know that. I
realize
that. You’re a successful photographer. And I’m proud of you, for that. And your father is proud of you, too. Very, very proud.”

Looking at her mother’s face with its makeup applied in layers, like a mummer’s mask worn to conceal an abiding misery beneath, she let a long moment pass before she decided to say, “Is he?”

“Is he what?”

“Is he proud of me?”

“Why—” Her mother frowned, puzzled. “Why, yes. Of course. He’s always been proud of you. Ever since you were a little girl, he’s been proud of you.” A brief, reproachful pause followed. Then, solemnly: “You know that, Denise.”

Another moment of silence passed while she looked at her mother. Did she really believe it? Dressed in her make-believe party clothing, smiling her make-believe smile, did her mother really believe that they were one big, happy family? Was that the bogus boon gin conferred? Had years of living from one drink to the next made her mother believe that her father loved them?

Suddenly she must know.

She must find out the truth.

But slowly—slowly:

“Is Dad proud of Elton, too?”

“Why, yes.” Now her mother was fluttering her eyes: a Southern belle impersonation, lacking only the coyly simpering smile behind the fluttering fan. “Yes, of course he’s proud of Elton. Why, Elton is doing wonders, on The Hour. He’s the musical director, you know. He’s been musical director for almost two years.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that Dad’s proud of him, though. It could just mean that Elton’s thirty-two years old. He’s been a soloist since he was eight. That’s a long time, without a promotion.”

The simpering mask suddenly began to slip. The fake smile faltered, and finally faded, as if her makeup had softened, and might soon begin to dissolve, leaving her face naked, defenseless.

“If you don’t think your father’s proud of Elton, Denise, then you surely must not look at The Hour every Sunday. You must not see how he smiles at Elton, and compliments him, right on camera.”

“Mother, that’s—” She broke off, by force of will lowering her voice before she said quietly, “That’s make-believe, Mother. That’s show biz. It’s all done for the camera—for syndication. For
money
, for God’s sake. Sure, I watch The Hour. Lately, as a matter of fact, I’ve been watching it almost every Sunday, for reasons I don’t understand myself. But I don’t see pride, when Dad beams down on Elton, and Carrie, and the grandkids. I—Christ—I see dollar signs. He’s posing for the camera. That—that’s what he
does.
That’s his
business
.”

“Denise, you sound as if you hate your father. Really hate him.” Her mother spoke in a low, hushed voice, fearful of what she was saying.

“I don’t hate him, Mother. But I don’t respect him, either. How can I, when I see what he’s done to you?”

As she said it, she saw her mother wince. The false light faded from her eyes, replaced by a stricken shadow. In the silence that followed, she saw her mother’s eyes flee to the door, involuntarily seeking escape. It was the kitchen door, not the door to the hallway. Now her mother was losing control of her mouth. The brightly painted lips began to tremble.

She’d done it.

After eight days, she’d finally done it: stripped her mother of all her elaborately constructed pretenses—all her weak, pitiful defenses.

Why?

Was it revenge for some half-remembered wrong? Simple sadism? Something else?

Her mother sat with her hands clasped before her on the table, fingers intertwined. Her eyes were downcast, fixed helplessly on her writhing hands. When she finally spoke, it was in a low, indistinct voice:

“You’ve always been hard, Denise. You’re strong—but you’re hard. You don’t understand weakness. Maybe you can’t forgive weakness.”

“Mother, I—”

“Elton’s weak. And, when he was younger, he could be mean. But he’s not hard. He doesn’t judge people.”

“Mother, I’m not judging you. I—if anything—I’m judging Dad.”

“You’re blaming your father for my—” She broke off, once more letting her furtive glance flick toward the kitchen door. Then: “You’re blaming him for my—problem. But that’s not fair, Denise. It’s not right.”

“My God, Mother, you’re more of a Christian than he is. Do you realize that? Because, for sure,
he
blames you for your problem.”

Your problem.

It was as close as either of them had gotten to admitting that, yes, her mother was an alcoholic.

This, then, was why Alcoholics Anonymous started their litany with the statement that, yes, they were alcoholics.

But what of
her
problem? Was she really unsympathetic, unable to understand weakness in others, and therefore unable to forgive them their faults?

Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

As always, the Bible said it better—more concisely, with more flair, more punch, more style.

“Do you want me to go home, Denise? Is that what you want?” With her eyes still fastened helplessly on her twisting fingers, Katherine spoke in a voice hardly more than a whisper.

She sighed: a long, deep exhalation, infinitely regretful. Yes, she wanted her mother to go home. Desperately. Yes, she wanted Peter to come back from Mendocino, and take her to bed, and make love to her. Desperately.

But, because she wanted it so desperately, she couldn’t say it. So, instead, she sighed again. “Not now, Mother. Not right now. I want you to stay. I really do. And, besides, it—it’s important, that you stay here. For a while, at least. Excuse me, please.” She pushed her chair back, got up from the table and walked down the hallway to the bathroom. As she opened the bathroom door, she heard the kitchen door opening.

H
E DROPPED THE DIME
in the slot, waited for the ringing to begin, then looked carefully at his watch. The minute hand showed fourteen minutes past the hour, with the sweep second hand ticking toward the “6.”

At seventeen minutes past the hour, exactly, he would leave the phone booth and step into the sidewalk crowds outside, on the Sunset Strip. Instantly, he would disappear.

“Good morning. This is the Temple of Today.”

“I’d like Mr. Flournoy, please. Mr. Howard Flournoy.”

“Yessir. Who shall I say is calling, please?”

“Tell him James is calling. He knows me.”

“Yessir. Just a moment, sir.”

Forty seconds later, with the second hand on “3,” the line clicked.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Flournoy. This is James. I want to speak to Mr. Holloway.”

From the other end came the sound of a sharp, exasperated sigh. Then: “I’m sorry—James.” The hesitation was pointed, plainly contemptuous. “I told Mr. Holloway about our, ah, conversation. But he won’t be able to speak to you.”

“He doesn’t want to speak to me, you mean.”

No reply.

“He’d be saving himself a lot of trouble, if he’d talk to me.”

“And
you’d
be saving yourself a lot of trouble if you didn’t call any more. Believe me.”

The second hand was at “8.” One minute and ten seconds had passed.

“If Austin Holloway won’t speak to me, then this is the last time I’ll call.”

“I think that’s very wise.”

“I’ll be writing him a letter. I’m going to write the letter this afternoon, and I’m going to mail it tonight. It’ll be addressed to Austin Holloway, and I’d advise you to pay very close attention to it. Because he owes me money, and I intend to collect it. He owes me a
lot
of money, and the letter will tell him how he’s got to pay it. How, and when. This is Friday. You’ll have the letter by Monday, at the latest. And you’ll just have a few hours to get the money together. So I’d advise you to be looking for the letter, very goddamn carefully.”

The second hand was touching “7.” Less than a minute remained.

For a long moment, quietly crackling, the line was silent. Then: “You’ll be arrested for this, James. You’ll be arrested, and sent to prison. Think about it.”

“All right. I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, suppose you think about getting together a half million dollars, in small bills. Nothing larger than fifties, please.”

Another silence. With his forefinger on the receiver hook, he watched the second hand tick past “4,” past “5.” When it touched “6,” he broke the connection.

He switched on the overhead light, unfolded the letter and placed it on the top of the bureau. It read:

Austin Holloway:

Get together $500,000 in old bills, no more than $50.00 each. Put them in a brown paper bag, and have them ready by Tuesday. You will be called at the Temple of Today. I will tell you how to make delivery. You must do it, personally. If the police arrest me, they will learn about my mother and me. This is money you owe me. If you do not pay it, or if I find out that the police are looking for me, I will kill you.

And that, father dear, is a promise.

James

He read it again, smiled down at the letter, then smiled at himself in the mirror. If the police ever found the typewriter, one chance in a million, they would never connect it to him.

He slipped the letter into the envelope, sealed it, and glanced at his watch. It was time.

The mailbox was ahead: a squat, blue shape seen through a moving forest of crisscrossing legs and arms and bodies that passed each other on the sidewalk, the Sunset Strip’s parade of the living dead. A jungle of prostitutes and pimps and hustlers, each one-eyeing the other, looking for an easy score. In the glare of neon storefront lights and sodium vapor streetlights overhead, their faces were hollow-eyed masks, subhuman. They could have been animals on parade: barnyard animals, marching along the sidewalk toward the slaughter house. Dead already.

As he came closer to the mailbox, he moved to his right, at the same time glancing at his watch. The time was ten minutes after nine. The last mail pickup was nine-thirty. His timing was perfect.

He broke stride, stopped, pulled open the door of the mailbox and dropped the letter inside. As the envelope left his fingers and the door clanged shut, he was aware of a surge of elation, almost as if a physical weight had left him.

In prison, he’d once read in a magazine that a scientist had measured a man before he died, and then immediately afterward. The man had weighed less after death. The conclusion: yes, there was a soul.

So it was possible that something had left his body as the door clanged shut. It wasn’t his immortal soul, though. It was the weight of memory: twenty-six years of second-class living, all of it behind him now.

As he allowed the passersby to close in around him, he let himself remember the message:
Get together $500,000 in old bills, no more than $50.

A half million dollars …

His. In a few days, all his.

Today was Friday. Tomorrow, he would make his plans for Tuesday, move by move, minute by minute. Everything would be calculated, down to the smallest detail. He would write down the plans—but cryptically, so no one could translate them. “X” would mean Holloway, “Y” would be the drop site. And “Z” would be the money. Already he’d decided that, no matter how vehemently Flournoy might protest, “X” must deliver “Z” to “Y.” It would be his insurance. Because, with Holloway held hostage, threatened with certain death if anything went wrong, the police would never dare move against him.