Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (11 page)

     Twelve-year-old Christine sat at the long mahogany dining table and devoured the spicy pork chops with relish, while her father worked in the kitchen and spoke to her through the open door. She had to laugh when she looked at him: he was wearing a tuxedo, without the jacket, and he had put on a frilly apron to protect his clothes. He had a frying pan in one hand and a spatula in the other, and he danced around the kitchen as he cooked, glancing through the open door every now and then to be sure his daughter was amused.

     "Really, Johnny," said a young blond woman who lounged in a leather chair beside the fireplace, flipping through
Life
magazine. "You're feeding the girl entirely too much. She's getting fat."

     "Nonsense!" he said, coming in with a steaming bowl of mashed potatoes. "Dolly's a growing girl! My mother fed me like this and it didn't do me any harm!"

     "It's different for a man," the blonde said as she inspected her long red fingernails. Christine didn't care for Johnny's latest girlfriend. She didn't act like a guest at all when she came over, turning on the TV set to watch Milton Berle while Christine was trying to read, or putting one of Christine's records on the phonograph without asking if she could.

     "You tell me, Dolly," Johnny Singleton said as he set down the potatoes and did a pirouette for his daughter. "Has my cooking ruined my figure?"

     Christine laughed. Her father was so trim and agile. He was perfect, in fact. She thought he looked just like Richard Conte, the actor, except taller. Johnny Singleton was slick, fast talking, sexy, and generous. He wore double-breasted tailored suits and wide-brimmed fedoras like Chester Morris as Boston Blackie. Christine could see her daddy romancing Lana Turner or Lauren Bacall; she imagined him exchanging clever words with Alan Ladd and George Raft. In fact, when Johnny had taken her to see
Call Northside 777
, she had thought for sure that people in the theater would ask him for his autograph, his resemblance to Richard Conte was that strong. And, like the movie star, Johnny Singleton always surrounded himself with pretty women.

     It was to help him get over Mom's death, Christine told herself.

     "What's wrong, Dolly?" he asked suddenly.

     Christine looked down at her plate and saw a pork chop lying there neglected. When she saw the concern on his face, she picked up the chop with her hands and chomped into it. Johnny's face lit up. "There," he said, "nothing like a papa's cooking to make a little girl happy."

     The blonde said something like "Hmph" and Johnny disappeared back into the kitchen.

     Of course, Christine knew that her father wasn't a movie star. He was a businessman, although exactly what the business was she wasn't sure. Whenever she asked him, he would just laugh and tell her not to worry. They were rich, he said, and that was all that mattered. But there were times when Christine wanted to tell him that she'd rather not be rich if it meant he would stay at home, like Martha Camp's father, who had an office down on Montgomery Street. Johnny's business took him away for weeks at a time, and Christine got achingly lonely for him.

     Johnny poked his head through the door and said, "How do you like those potatoes, Dolly? My own recipe. Just made it up tonight."

     She looked at the steaming bowl. She didn't want to eat any. She was full. But she didn't want to disappoint him. Hungry more for his smile than for the food, she spooned the potatoes onto her plate and began to eat.

     The blonde sighed and pushed herself out of the chair and went into the kitchen. A minor argument arose, which Christine caught only in snatches: "...too much." "She lost her mother, for Chrissake." "...let her get fat." "It's baby fat, Linda! It'll all dissolve away when she grows up." "Maybe her mother was overweight. Did you ever see her?" "Shut up about that!" And the kitchen door suddenly swung shut.

     Christine looked down at herself. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been chubby, or what some people called pleasingly plump. But lately she seemed to be putting on weight in the wrong places—her breasts were starting to strain against her blouse, and her thighs were thickening. Christine was beginning to notice similar changes in other girls her age, except that on them the new bulges looked nice. On her they somehow looked like fat.

     She was puzzled by what the blonde had just said, because everyone knew that Christine's mother had been slender. There was a photograph of her on the fireplace mantel.

     "How's my little doll?" Johnny said now, coming out of the kitchen. He had removed the apron and put on his tuxedo jacket. Christine thought he was the handsomest man she had ever seen. He got down on one knee and looked at her. Christine saw intense love and adoration in those dark brown eyes, and she sent the same love flying straight back to him. Johnny picked up her napkin and wiped her chin. "I'm sorry I have to go out again tonight, Dolly. But you've had a good dinner, haven't you?"

     "Yes, Daddy," she said, suddenly resenting the blonde who hovered in the doorway.

     "And there's a surprise in the fridge for you. Caramel cheesecake from the deli."

     Christine tried to hide her dismay; she hated desserts, she hated anything sweet. It was the one thing she couldn't eat to please her father. Whenever he
had a dessert for her, she always saved it for later and then dumped it down the sink when he wasn't around. It was her one small deceit.

     That, and the secret thing she did whenever he was away.

     "Where are you going tonight, Daddy?" she asked, inhaling the fragrance of his cologne. Most men didn't wear cologne; it wasn't considered manly. But her daddy wore it, and he was the manliest man she knew.

     "The Tango Club on Polk Street. I need a little fun, Dolly. I've been working so hard that I've got to relax, have a little fun."

     She knew he must have been working hard because he had only come home that morning from a three-week absence, and he had looked jumpy and agitated. "Can't you have fun here with me?" she asked.

     He laughed and drew her into his arms. "That's my Dolly! Yeah, we'll have fun, you and me. But we'll save it for tomorrow. I'll take you all over the city. We'll go down to Fisherman's Wharf and have steamed shrimp and lobster. And I'll take you to Golden Gate Park for a hot dog. And then we can go to the movies—anything you want to see! And all the popcorn you can eat." He drew back from her, his eyes shining with joy. "How's that, my little doll?" he said softly.

     "Oh, that would be wonderful, Daddy!" she said, getting excited just thinking about it.

     Johnny reached up and stroked her hair, Christine saw his eyes grow damp. "You're my little doll," he said tenderly. "I'll never forget the day you were born, when you were placed in my arms, and I almost burst into tears. I'd always wanted a little girl. Boys, you can keep them. But little girls—they're special to daddies. And you're my little doll. Ever since your poor mama died, it's been up to me to take care of you and make sure you're happy. Are you happy, Dolly? How do you like your new teacher?"

     "She's all right," she said, wishing that she could go to a regular school with other kids. But Johnny insisted upon private tutors for his daughter. Christine had never been to a school in her life; for as long as she could remember, there had been governesses and tutors and bodyguards. And whenever she went anywhere, it was always in the black limousine with the bulletproof windows and one of the bodyguards driving. Daddy said it was for her protection, because they were so rich. Some people resented other people being rich, so they occasionally did mean things to them.

     But Christine felt trapped sometimes, especially lately, since she had turned twelve and she had discovered a strange restlessness start to grow within her. To be confined all day to the penthouse on Nob Hill, in the company of a housekeeper, a teacher, and bodyguards who played cards all day—there were times when it was more than Christine could bear. Which was why she had invented her deception—the secret thing that she did. She knew there would be hell to pay if it was ever found out, because she knew her father wouldn't approve. While Johnny was generous about some things, like giving her food and toys and, lately, all the records she wanted, in other ways he was very, very strict.

     "I tell you what, Dolly," Johnny said now. "How would you like some new clothes? I know that's one thing that makes women happy. What do you say we spend the day shopping tomorrow?"

     Christine was horrified. Shopping meant going to Charlene's Chubbies on Powell Street, where only fat girls went. She hated not being able to go into the big department stores and buy something off the rack, like other girls did. Like snotty Martha Camp in the apartment next door, who thought she was something special because she was thirteen and thin and almost had a boyfriend. Martha always made fun of Christine's clothes, which consisted mainly of blouses over pleated skirts, or middy dresses with drop waists. Saddle shoes and bobby socks just didn't look right with clothes like that. Going to Charlene's Chubbies made Christine feel like a freak. The message was, "You're not normal, you're not like other girls."

     But how could she tell her father this? His gift to her was food; her gift to him was to eat it. That was the way it had been for as long as she could remember.

     One of her earliest memories was shortly after her mother died, when Christine couldn't stop crying. Johnny made her his special macaroni and cheese; Christine had quieted down. Eventually, food had become their love bond.

     "Hey, Dolly," Johnny said. "I gotta go now. You do your homework, and tomorrow we'll go out. How's that?"

     She pushed away from the table and stood up. It surprised her to discover that her head reached Johnny's shoulders. Surely she hadn't been this
tall when he had left three weeks ago. She was thrown into a panic, and she silently begged God not to make her tall as well as fat. She felt large and grotesque enough as it was.

     While Johnny called one of the bodyguards into the apartment for a murmured exchange, Christine went over to the record player and thumbed through her latest albums—Perry Como and Frankie Laine. She glanced back at the blonde, who was standing before the mirror over the fireplace and applying fresh lipstick. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder evening gown, which meant she was wearing one of the new strapless bras Christine had seen in
Vogue
, and which she knew she would never be able to wear. The blonde was very thin, like a model, and apparently Johnny liked her that way, which baffled Christine because he seemed to want
her
fat.

     And then the blonde did something that puzzled Christine. She reached into her rhinestone evening bag and brought out a bottle of pills. Then, walking over to the fully stocked bar, she poured gin into a crystal glass, put a pill into her mouth, and swallowed. Christine had seen her do that before, and she wondered if Johnny's girlfriend suffered from headaches or something.

     Christine glanced over at her father, who was standing in the large foyer of the penthouse, his reflection shining in the floor of gold-veined black marble. He was talking to a man Christine didn't like. There was something vaguely disturbing about him, like the way he was always trying to draw her into a conversation, asking her questions, like did she have a boyfriend, who was her favorite male movie actor? And it made her uncomfortable the way she sometimes caught him staring at her chest. He had strange, flat eyes and pale white hair cut so short that he looked almost bald. There was a scar on his face and she wondered how he got it. His name was Hans, and he had been her bodyguard for the past six months.

     Finally Johnny drew Christine into a tight embrace, repeating the promise of a special day tomorrow, and she held on to him as if she would never let him go. She glared over his shoulder at the blonde in the doorway, but the woman wasn't looking. And in an instant Christine felt something she hadn't felt before: jealousy, fury, and possessiveness.

     And she knew she was going to do her secret thing tonight. She couldn't help it.

     Doing it, however, meant getting out of the apartment.

     But that wasn't actually so hard to do. The bodyguards weren't there to keep her in but to keep intruders out, and so they weren't watching for anyone leaving. All she had to do was wait for Will, the one who sat in the kitchen guarding the back door, to get up and visit the bathroom. The bodyguards never knew she was gone because they thought she was in her room, and they never checked on her. Getting back in was a little more difficult: when the elevator reached the penthouse floor, Christine would call from the elevator telephone, and Hans would go into the apartment to answer it. Christine would sneak in while he wasn't looking, and he would think it had been a wrong number.

     So now she was in her room getting ready, watched over by magazine photographs plastered over her walls. Beneath the impersonal gazes of Veronica Lake, Rita Hayworth, and eighteen-year-old Elizabeth Taylor, Christine put barrettes into her thick auburn hair to keep it from getting frizzed up in the fog. She had money in her purse and a coat over her dress. As she struggled into her shoes, she wished she could follow the latest fad and wear a loafer on one foot, an oxford on the other, with mismatched socks. But on her she knew the combination would look ludicrous instead of daring.

     She waited until she finally heard Will walking across the marble floor to the guest bathroom, then she made a dash across the spacious apartment, the glittery lights of San Francisco Bay flitting by in the corner of her eye. When she was through the back door she paused and caught her breath. There were only two other apartments on this floor, the one occupied by Martha Camp and her family, the other occupied by a retired senator and his two poodle dogs. When she was sure she hadn't been seen, she hurried to the private elevator, pushed the button, and slipped inside. Her heart was pounding. If her father ever found out...