CHAPTER 7

FROM BILLY ABBOTT’S NOTEBOOK—

BACK AT THE TYPEWRITER AGAIN. BAD HABITS DIE HARD. BESIDES, EVERYONE TAKES A SIESTA HERE AFTER LUNCH AND I’VE NEVER GOTTEN INTO THE HABIT OF SLEEPING DURING THE DAY AND SINCE THERE’S NOBODY ELSE TO TALK TO, I MIGHT AS WELL TALK TO MYSELF. ANYWAY, THERE’S NO REASON TO BELIEVE THAT FRANCO’S POLICE WOULD BE INTERESTED IN THE RAMBLINGS OF AN AMERICAN TENNIS PRO IN THIS ENCLAVE OF THE RICH ON THE EDGE OF THE BLUE SEA. IT WAS DIFFERENT IN BELGIUM. IS IT POSSIBLE THAT PRIVACY IS EASIER TO ACHIEVE UNDER FASCISM THAN UNDER DEMOCRACY? MUST STUDY THE QUESTION.

AFTER BRUSSELS, THE CLIMATE OF SOUTHERN SPAIN IS THE WEATHER OF HEAVEN AND IT MAKES YOU WONDER, HOW, IF PEOPLE HAD ANY CHOICE IN THE MATTER, THEY WOULD CONTINUE TO LIVE NORTH OF THE LOIRE.

DROVE DOWN IN THE NEAT LITTLE SECONDHAND OPEN PEUGEOT WITH FRENCH TRANSIT TTX PLATES THAT I GOT AT A GOOD PRICE IN PARIS. AS SOON AS I CROSSED THE PYRENEES, BETWEEN THE GREEN MOUNTAINS AND THE OCEAN, I FELT A PECULIAR PLEASURE, AS THOUGH I RECOGNIZED THE VILLAGES AND THE FIELDS AND RIVERS FROM ANOTHER LIFE, AS THOUGH I WERE RETURNING HOME FROM A LONG JOURNEY, AND THIS WAS THE COUNTRY FOR ME.

UNTIL I OPEN MY MOUTH I CAN PASS AS A SPANIARD. IS IT POSSIBLE THAT THE COLORING OF THE ABBOTT FAMILY IS THE RESULT OF A SLIPUP AT THE TIME OF THE SPANISH ARMADA? SHIPWRECKED, POTENT ANDALUSIANS ON THE COAST OF ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND?

THE HOTEL I LIVE IN IS BRAND NEW AND GOOD AT LEAST A DOZEN YEARS BEFORE IT SUCCUMBS TO WIND AND TIDE. BUT IT’S SOLID ENOUGH NOW AND I HAVE A COMFORTABLE, AIRY ROOM WITH A VIEW OF A GOLF COURSE AND THE SEA. ASIDE FROM THE LESSONS I HAVE TO GIVE TO BEGINNERS AND DUBS, THERE ARE ENOUGH GOOD PLAYERS AROUND FOR TWO HOURS OF FAST TENNIS ALMOST EVERYDAY. A SIMPLE MAN, MYSELF, WITH SIMPLE TASTES.

THE SPANIARDS HERE ARE HANDSOME AND AGREEABLE AND SCHOOLED IN COURTESY, A CHANGE AFTER THE AMERICAN ARMY. THE OTHERS ARE ON HOLIDAY AND ON THEIR BEST BEHAVIOR. UP TO NOW I HAVE NOT BEEN INSULTED OR CHALLENGED TO A DUEL, FORCED TO SEE A BULLFIGHT OR REQUESTED TO HELP BRING DOWN THE SYSTEM.

CAREFUL TO BE MOST CORRECT WITH THE LADIES, ACCENT OR NO. THEY’RE LIKELY TO HAVE HUSBANDS OR ESCORTS IN THE BACKGROUND WHO HAVE A TENDENCY TO BE SUSPICIOUS OF A YOUNG AMERICAN PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE WHO SPENDS AT LEAST AN HOUR A DAY, SCANTILY DRESSED, WITH THEIR PARTNERS. THEY SUDDENLY APPEAR ON THE SIDELINES DURING LESSONS, BROODING DARKLY. I HAVE NO DESIRE TO BE RIDDEN OUT OF TOWN IN DISGRACE, CHARGED WITH DISHONORING SOME SPANISH GENTLEMAN’S WIFE OR MISTRESS. FOR A YEAR AT LEAST IT IS MY INTENTION TO STAY OUT OF TROUBLE.

AFTER MONIKA THE JOYS OF CELIBACY ARE TO BE RECOMMENDED. TURMOIL, IN AND OUT OF BED, IS NOT MY SPECIALTY.

I’M BROWN FROM THE SUN AND IN BETTER SHAPE THAN EVER BEFORE AND HAVE TAKEN TO ADMIRING MYSELF NAKED IN A MIRROR.

THE PAY IS GOOD, THE TIPS GENEROUS. I FIND MYSELF ACTUALLY SAVING QUITE A BIT OF MONEY, SOMETHING NEW AND STRANGE IN MY LIFE.

THE PARTIES ARE NUMEROUS HERE AND I’M INVITED TO MOST OF THEM. NEW BOY IN TOWN, I SUPPOSE. I MAKE SURE NOT TO DRINK TOO MUCH OR SPEAK TO ANY ONE LADY FOR MORE THAN FIFTEEN MINUTES AT A TIME. BY NOW I KNOW ENOUGH SPANISH TO UNDERSTAND MOST OF THE FIERCE POLITICAL ARGUMENTS THAT ERUPT HERE LATE AT NIGHT. THE PARTICIPANTS ARE LIKELY TO BRING UP SUCH SUBJECTS AS THE MENACE OF BLOODSHED, EXPROPRIATION, COMMUNISM, AND WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO THE COUNTRY WHEN THE OLD MAN DIES. I KEEP SILENT AT SUCH TIMES, THANKING MY STARS THAT I HAVE SETTLED, EVEN IF ONLY FOR A SHORT PERIOD, IN A BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY WHICH SUITS MY TEMPERAMENT SO WELL, WITHOUT HAVING TO EXPRESS ANY OPINION MORE INFLAMMATORY THAN HOW TO GRIP THE HANDLE OF A RACKET WHEN SERVING.

ONCE MORE I HAVE TO DOUBT MY FATHER’S WARNING THAT I COME FROM AN UNLUCKY FAMILY.

MY MOTHER HAS WRITTEN ME SEVERAL LETTERS. AS USUAL, SHE GOT MY ADDRESS FROM MY FATHER, WHOM I WRITE ON THE VAIN PRESUMPTION THAT MY LETTERS ARE THE ONLY THING THAT KEEPS HIM FROM JUMPING INTO LAKE MICHIGAN. MY MOTHER’S LETTERS HAVE MELLOWED IN TONE. SHE TAKES IT THAT MY DECISION NOT TO RE-ENLIST HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH HER PROTESTS AND REPRESENTS A NEW AND WELCOME MATURITY IN ME. SHE NOW FINISHES HER LETTERS WITH “LOVE, MOTHER.” FOR YEARS IT WAS JUST “MOTHER,” A TRICK OF SIGNING OFF THAT I UNDERSTOOD, I THINK CORRECTLY, AS A SIGN OF HER COMPLETE DISGUST WITH ME. I HAVE RETURNED THE COMPLIMENT AND SIGNED MY ONE LETTER TO HER, “LOVE, BILLY.”

SHE TELLS ME THAT SHE IS ENJOYING HER NEW CAREER AS A DIRECTOR, WHICH COMES AS NO SURPRISE TO ME, CONSIDERING HER PENCHANT FOR BOSSING PEOPLE AROUND. SHE WRITES WITH GREAT ENTHUSIASM OF THE ABILITY OF MY COUSIN WESLEY AS AN ACTOR. IT’S A TRADE I SHOULD HAVE CONSIDERED, SINCE I CAN BE AS FALSE OR SINCERE AS ANY MAN, BUT IT’S TOO LATE NOW. WESLEY WANTS TO VISIT ME, MY MOTHER WRITES. HOW SHOULD I GREET HIM? WELCOME, BROTHER SUFFERER.

HOLY GOD! TWO DAYS AFTER I WROTE THE ABOVE, MONIKA APPEARED, ACCOMPANIED BY A MIDDLE-AGED GERMAN TYCOON WHO SELLS FROZEN FOODS. SHE IS IN A PROSPEROUS PERIOD, ALL DECKED OUT IN SLEEK, EXPENSIVE-LOOKING CLOTHES, WITH HER HAIR COMBED. SO FAR SHE HAS PRETENDED NOT TO KNOW ME, BUT IT MAY BE THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. THOUGHTS OF FLIGHT HAUNT ME.

I LOST IN STRAIGHT SETS TO A MAN I HAVE BEATEN ON SIX CONSECUTIVE DAYS.

«  »

Freddie Kahn, the cameraman, led the singing of “For she’s a jolly good fellow,” holding Gretchen’s hand aloft like a winning prizefighter’s, at the traditional party on the set in the studio in New York at the finish of the last day’s shooting. The singing of the cast, the technical men, and the grips and the friends invited was loud and hearty. Gretchen was somewhere between tears and laughter as the singing rang out on the set strewn with cables, the cameras hooded, the liquor and sandwiches on improvised, flower-decorated tables set on trestles. Ida Cohen was frankly crying and had had her hair done for the occasion. Kahn presented a wristwatch to Gretchen as a gift from the cast, to which Wesley had contributed fifty dollars, and called on Gretchen to make a speech.

“Thank you, thank you everybody,” Gretchen said, her voice trembling a little. “You’ve all been wonderful and I want to congratulate one and all for making my first stab at being a director such a happy one. Although, as the saying goes in Hollywood, Show me a happy company and I’ll show you a stinker of a movie.”

There was a wave of laughter and a few shouts of, “No, not this time.”

Gretchen raised her hand for silence. “For all of you, the job is over and I hope you go on to bigger and better things and that your flops will be forgotten and your hits remembered forever—or at least until the next Academy Award night. But for some of us, the cutters, the people who do the dubbing, the composer and musicians, and for Mr. Cohen, who will have the unenviable job of selling the picture for distribution without all of us being stolen blind, the job is just really beginning. Wish us well, because there’re months of work ahead of us, and what we do from now on can mean the difference between success and failure.”

She spoke modestly, but Wesley, who was standing near her, could see the light of triumph in her eyes. “Ida,” she said, “do stop crying. This isn’t a funeral—yet.”

Ida sobbed.

Somebody put a glass of whiskey into Gretchen’s hand and she raised it in a toast. “To us all—from the oldest here—” She turned to Wesley. “And to the youngest.”

Wesley, who had a glass of whiskey in his hand, which he had not yet touched, raised his glass with the others. He was not smiling or looking exuberant, like most of the company, because he had just seen Frances Miller, who was standing to one side with her husband, clink glasses with him and exchange a kiss. Wesley and Frances had made up after the night in the bar in Port Philip and she had again come to his room in the hotel and had let him stay with her for the night several times in her apartment in New York when they resumed shooting interiors there. That was until three days ago, when her husband had arrived from California. Wesley had not yet met her husband, a handsome blond man built like a football player, who, Wesley had to admit to himself, looked nice enough, in a standard Hollywood way. But the familiar manner in which Frances and her husband looked at each other as they raised their glasses, and the tenderness of their kiss, made him wish there had been some way of avoiding the party.

Alice was there, too, although for the moment he could not see her in the shadows of the set. As always, she made herself as unobtrusive as possible. She had behaved peculiarly after the nights he had not come to the apartment to sleep on the sofa, aloof and efficiently nurselike. When he had told her about the party, she had said she’d love to come, she had never been to a party on a movie set before. He had tried to seem gracious about inviting her, but it had been an effort. When you get older, he thought, trying not to look in the direction of Frances and her husband, maybe you learn how to handle things like this.

He took a big gulp of his whiskey and soda, remembering that the last time he had drunk hard liquor was the night in the Porte Rose in Cannes. The whiskey tasted fine and he took another gulp.

Gretchen walked around the set, shaking hands or kissing people on the cheek and some of the other women were teary-eyed, too. Everybody seemed reluctant to leave, as though they wished to prolong as much as possible the ties they had formed with each other in their common labor over the months. Wesley overheard a middle-aged character woman say to Gretchen, “Bless you, dear; from here on, it’s got to get worse.”

Wesley wondered how the simple act of just making a movie, which must have become a routine experience to all these professional people, could arouse so much emotion. He himself had enjoyed making the movie, but aside from Frances and Gretchen, he wouldn’t care if he never saw any one of them again. Maybe, no matter what Gretchen told him, deep down he was not really cut out to be an actor.

When Gretchen came up to him and kissed him on the cheek and said, “Wesley Jordan, I’m going to miss you,” he could see that she meant it.

“That was a nice little speech,” he said. “You sure know how to decorate an occasion.”

“Thank you, honey,” she said. But she kept looking over her shoulder as though she was searching for someone. “Wesley,” she said, “did Rudolph say anything to you about not coming here or being late?”

“No.” All his Uncle Rudolph had said to him in the last few days of shooting was that the lawyer in Antibes had written that it was okay to come back to France. He had not yet bought his ticket. Without admitting it to himself, he had the feeling that he was not ready to leave America just yet, that there were too many things left unsettled.

“He had to go up to Connecticut again today with Mr. Donnelly,” Gretchen said, still searching over the heads of the people who surrounded them, “but he promised to be back by five o’clock. It’s past seven now. It’s not like Rudolph to be late. I can’t leave the party just yet, so will you be a dear and telephone his hotel to see if he left a message?”

“Of course,” Wesley said and searched for coins as he went off the stage to the telephone outside to call the Hotel Algonquin, where his uncle kept a room for the nights he had to stay over in the city.

He had to wait to make the call because Frances was there, talking and giggling. He moved away because he didn’t want to overhear what she was saying. She took a long time over her conversation and kept feeding dimes into the machine. He had carried his glass with him and by the time she had finished, he had drained it. He could feel his muscles tense as he waited, listening to the tone of the voice without hearing the words, and he was uncomfortably conscious of a spasmodic tingle in the nerves around his groin and in his balls. Never again, never again, he told himself, although he knew he was lying.

With a last soft giggle, Frances hung up and came toward the door to the stage, outside which he was standing. Her hair was hanging long over her shoulders and she swung it back with a womanly gesture of her hand. “Ah,” she said, and she giggled again, “the boy wonder, lying in wait.”

“I have a call to make,” he said, “but first I want to do something.” Suddenly, he grabbed her and kissed her on the mouth.

“Well, now,” she said, giggling, “you’ve finally taken acting lessons. How to be passionate in the presence of husbands.” Her voice was a little thick from drink.

“When am I going to see you again?” Wesley gripped her arms, as though by the strength in his hands he could keep her from slipping away.

“Who knows?” Frances said. She giggled. “Maybe never. Maybe when you grow up.”

“You don’t mean that,” he said, his voice tortured.

“Who knows what I mean,” she said. “Least of all me. I have some good advice for you. We had our fun and it’s over. Now forget it.”

The door from the stage swung open and Frances’ husband bulked against the light from the set.

“Let go of her,” the man said.

Wesley dropped his hands and stepped back a little.

“I know what you two have been up to all this time,” the man said, “don’t think I don’t. Slut.”

“Oh, cool it, Jack, please,” Frances said carefully.

The man slapped her face. The sound was flat and ugly. “As for you, you little bastard,” he said to Wesley, “if I ever catch you hanging around my wife again I’ll break you in half.”

“Oh, the great big he-man,” Frances said mockingly. She hadn’t put her hand to her face, it was as though her husband hadn’t touched her. “Everywhere but in bed.”

The man took a deep breath that was more of a gasp, like a rush of air from a suddenly opened door. Then he slapped Frances again, much harder this time.

Still, Frances didn’t put her hand to her face. “Pig,” she said to her husband. “You and your spies.”

The man grabbed her arm. “Now you’re marching back in there,” he said, “and you’re smiling because your husband, who was detained on business on the Coast, has managed to come to New York to spend the weekend with you.”

“Whatever you say, pig,” Frances said. She took his arm and without looking at Wesley went through the door with her husband onto the set, where there was the sound of music now, a piano and a trumpet and a set of drums, and couples dancing.

Wesley stood immobile in the dimly lit hall, only the muscles in his face working. Then he crushed the empty plastic cup in his hand and threw it against the wall. He took two minutes, until he was sure he wouldn’t rush through the door, past the dancing couples, and throw himself at the man’s throat.

When he felt he could trust his voice, he called the hotel, where the operator told him that Mr. Jordache had left no messages. He stood beside the phone on the wall for another moment, then went onto the set and found his aunt and repeated what the operator had said. After that he went to the bar and ordered a whiskey, which he drank straight off, then ordered another.

While he was finishing the drink, he felt a tap on his arm. He turned to see Alice standing there, that aloof, nurselike look on her face that he had begun to fear. “I think maybe it would be a good idea,” Alice said calmly, “if you repaired your face. You’ve got lipstick all over it.”

“Thank you,” he said woodenly, taking out his handkerchief and dabbing at his lips and cheeks. “That better?”

“Much better,” she said. “Now I think I’ll be going. I’ve found out movie parties aren’t as dazzling as people would lead a girl to believe.”

“Good night,” Wesley said. He wanted to ask her forgiveness, change that distant, cold expression in her eyes, but he didn’t know how to say it or just what she could forgive him for. “I’ll see you later.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

Christ, he thought, as he watched the small girl with the straight, honest walk disappear among the dancers, Christ, am I a mess, I’ve got to get out of this town. Then he turned back to the bar and asked for another drink. He was taking it from the bartender when Rudolph came up to him. “Having a good time, Mr. Jordan?” Rudolph said.

“Marvelous,” Wesley said. “Gretchen is looking for you. She’s worried. I called your hotel for her.”

“I was delayed,” Rudolph said. “I’ll go find her. I’d like to talk to you later. Where’ll you be?”

“Right here,” Wesley said.

Rudolph frowned. “Take it easy, lad,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find another bottle of whiskey somewhere in New York tomorrow if you look hard enough.” He gave Wesley’s arm a friendly small pat, then went looking for Gretchen.

Gretchen was talking to Richard Sanford, the author of Restoration Comedy, when Rudolph saw her on the other side of the space where people were dancing. Sanford had made no concessions in his dress, Rudolph saw, for the celebration of the finishing day of shooting for his firs opus. He was wearing his usual uniform of open-necked wool shirt and windbreaker.

“What I’m worried about,” Sanford was saying earnestly, “is that there aren’t enough close-ups of the girl in what I’ve seen so far. Somehow, I don’t get enough emotion in the medium shots and in the …”

“Dear Richard,” Gretchen said, “I’m afraid that like so many other authors, you are smitten with an actress’s charms to the detriment of her talent …”

“Oh, come on now,” Sanford said, flushing, “I’ve barely spoken to the girl.”

“She’s spoken to you,” Gretchen said. “That’s more than enough with a young lady like that. I regret for your sake that she was otherwise occupied.”

“You underestimate me,” Sanford said angrily.

“That’s been the problem of artists for five thousand years,” Gretchen said. “You’ll learn to live with it, sonny.”

“We’re not friends, you and I,” Sanford said. “You resent my—my maleness. I’ve known that from the beginning.”

“That’s beside the point,” Gretchen said. “Aside from being pure bullshit. And if you haven’t known it before, let me tell it to you now, young man—art is not created out of friendship.”

“You’re a bitter, aging woman.” Months of resentment grated in his voice. “What you need is a good fuck. Which nobody is polite enough to give you.”

Gretchen rubbed her eyes before replying. “You’re a talented, unpleasant young man. You will be less unpleasant, and I’m afraid, less talented as you grow older.”

“You don’t have to insult me, Gretchen,” he said.

“In our profession,” Gretchen said, “insults are beside the point. You weary me. And I suppose I weary you, too. Also beside the point. But, my dear Richard—” she touched his cheek lightly, half a caress, half a threat of manicured long nails—“I promise to serve you well. Don’t ask for more. I promise you all the close-ups you can use and all the emotion anybody can stand. The problem with that girl is not too little, it’s too much.”

“You’ve always got an answer to everything,” Sanford said. “I never win an argument with you. Kinsella warned me …”

“How is dear Evans?” Gretchen asked.

“He’s okay.” Sanford shifted his feet uneasily. “He’s asked me to do his next picture.”

“And you’re on your way to Hollywood.”

“Actually … yes.”

“Goody for you,” Gretchen said. “And goody for him. I know you’ll be happy together. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I see my brother waiting to talk to me.”

As Gretchen walked toward Rudolph, he saw Sanford shake his head despairingly. Rudolph was chuckling as Gretchen came up to him.

“What’re you laughing about?” she asked.

“The expression on that young man’s face when you left him,” he said.

Gretchen grimaced. “We were engaging in that most creative of occupations—wounding each other. One picture and he thinks he’s the editor of Cahiers du Cinéma. A lost soul. No great tragedy. America is full of one-shot talents. I was worried about you. Where’ve you been all this time?”

Rudolph shook his head. “We’ve run into a holy mess in Connecticut. Donnelly’s ready to slit his throat. The whole project looks as though it’s going to come apart.”

“Why?” Gretchen asked. “What’s happened?”

“Some damned society for the preservation of the environment or something like that is suing us for an injunction to stop us from building,” Rudolph said. “We spent the whole day with lawyers.”

“I thought it was all set,” Gretchen said.

“So did I,” said Rudolph. “Until yesterday. We thought we had bought a tract of abandoned farmland. Now it turns out we have bought a precious piece of Connecticut wilderness, full of rare birds, herds of darling deer, lovely snakes. Three lynx have also been sighted there in recent years. Instead of being semiphilanthropic benefactors of aging humanity, it seems we are grasping city slickers out to pollute the pure air of the sovereign state of Connecticut, besides being the enemy of the lynx.” He shook his head again, half-humorously.

“What do the lawyers say?”

“It will take years, even if we finally win. Donnelly almost wept with remorse when he realized how long our money was going to be tied up.”

“Where is he?” Gretchen asked. “Donnelly?”

“I put him to bed. Dead drunk. He’ll feel even worse tomorrow.”

“I’m so sorry,” Gretchen said.

“The roll of the dice,” said Rudolph. “Don’t let it spoil your big night. Another thing. I got a call from California yesterday. From a man I know, an agent called Bowen.”

“I know him, too,” Gretchen said. “He’s got a good office.”

Rudolph nodded. “He says the word has gotten around about Wesley. He says he can get him a fat contract. If Wesley’s going to continue as an actor he’ll need an agent and Bowen’s as honest as any of them. I have to talk to the young man.”

“He was holding up the bar the last I saw of him,” Gretchen said, “smeared with lipstick.”

“I saw him. I’ll give him some sage, avuncular advice.” Rudolph leaned over and kissed Gretchen on the cheek. “Congratulations for everything. You’ve done a wonderful job. And it isn’t only your brother who thinks so.”

“Things went smoothly. I was afraid it was going to be amateur night from beginning to end.”

“Don’t be so modest, Sister,” Rudolph said and squeezed her hand. “You’re in the major leagues now.”

“We’ll see. Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” Gretchen said, but she couldn’t keep back a pleased smile.

“Now for the young man,” Rudolph said. “Save me a dance for when I’ve finished with him.”

“I haven’t danced in years.”

“Neither have I,” Rudolph said. “I’ll ask the boys to play a waltz.”

Then he went back to the bar, but Wesley was no longer there. The bartender said that he had left five minutes ago.

«  »

Alice was sitting reading in the living room when Wesley got to the apartment. He had stopped at two bars on the way home. The bars had been too dark for anyone to ask him for proof of his age. Walking on the city streets had proved something of a problem, as the sidewalks seemed to be sliding away from him at different angles and he had stumbled twice at the curbs at corners.

“Good evening,” he said gravely to Alice.

“Good evening,” she said. She did not look up from her book. He noticed that the sofa was not made up as usual with sheets and blankets. He had the curious feeling that it was not Alice he was seeing, but a reflection of her in rippling water.

He misjudged the distance when he tried to sit down and just barely made the edge of the chair. He stared intently at Alice, who was still rippling.

“I’m no good,” he said. “You’re wasting your time worrying about me.”

“You’re drunk,” she said. “And I’m not worrying about you.”

“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice sounding strange and faraway in his ears, “I will pay you every cent I owe you and I will de—de—depart.”

“None too soon,” Alice said, still looking down at her book. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find another place to sleep. And don’t talk about money to me. You don’t owe me a cent. What I’ve done for you I didn’t do for money.”

He looked at her, focusing with difficulty. “Do you mind if I say thanks?” he said.

“I mind everything you say,” she said fiercely. “Hollywood bum.”

“I’ve never been to Hollywood. Not even to California,” he said foolishly.

“You and your tarts.” She threw the book to the floor. “What am I reading this damned book for? It’s a terrible book.”

“I thought you were my … well …” He spoke confusedly. “Well—my sister.”

“I’m not your sister.”

He groped for what he wanted to say, feeling his brain and tongue misted over. “You say I die,” he said. “In your book. You want me to be noble and die. You’re asking for too much …”

“Oh, my God,” she said. She rose from her chair and came over to him and took his head into her hands and pressed him to her body. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to die, Wesley. You’ve got to believe that.”

“Everybody wants something from me I can’t give,” Wesley said, his mouth muffled against the stuff of her dress. “I don’t know where I am. Tomorrow ask for me in the Lost and Found Department.”

“Please, Wesley,” she whispered, “don’t say things like that.”

“You said once you were stealing a piece of my soul …” He moaned as he spoke. “I hear you typing at night and I say to myself, There goes another bit of my soul.”

“Please, please, Sweet …” She held his head tighter to her as though to keep him from saying another word. “You’re killing me.”

“Everybody shames me.” He pulled his head sidewise, so he could speak. “What I went through tonight … Now you … I haven’t lived up to you, I know that, but …”

“Sssh, sssh, baby,” she crooned.

“I love you,” he said.

She pulled him, hard, against herself. Then, amazingly, she laughed. “Why the hell did it take you so long to say that?” She dropped to her knees and kissed him, briefly. Then she moved her head back so that she could look at him. “Say it again,” she said.

“I love you,” he said.

“You look awful,” she said.

“I feel awful. This is the second time in my life I’ve been drank. Excuse me, please, I have to puke.” He stood up, unsteadily, and reeled into the bathroom and there all the whiskey of the night came up. He felt no healthier, still weak and wobbly. He undressed carefully, brushed his teeth for two whole minutes, then took a cold shower. He felt a little better as he dried himself, although when he turned his head he had to do it with great care and his stomach felt as though he had swallowed nails. He put on a robe that Alice had picked out for him and went back, his hair wet, steadying himself with his hand against the wall, into the living room.

The living room was empty and the sofa was still not made up for sleeping.

From the bedroom, he heard Alice’s voice. “I’m in here. You don’t have to find any other place to sleep tonight.”

Still weak and with his head feeling as though a carousel were going around in it, with the calliope playing, he stumbled into the bedroom. There was only one small lamp on and the bedroom was dim, but he saw Alice, still rippling, under the covers of the big bed.

“Come here,” she said. “Get in.”

He started to climb into the bed with his robe still on.

“Take that damned thing off,” she said.

“Turn out the light.” The idea of Alice Larkin, that shy and most ladylike girl, seeing him naked was shocking to him.

She chuckled as she turned the lamp off. He stumbled as he dropped the robe on the floor and he barked his shins against a dressing table as he felt his way to the bed. She was small and her skin soft and fragrant as he put his arms around her, but he still felt terrible.

“I can’t do anything,” he whispered. “I love you and I can’t do anything. You should have told me earlier tonight, before I drank all that booze.”

“I didn’t know earlier,” she said. “No matter.” She kissed his ear as she pulled closer to him. “You’ll be all right in the morning.”

And he was.