All That Glitters (41 page)

They talked and talked until the sun became a giant red ball hanging over the distant horizon line. It pulsed and glowed, some sort of burning icon. Then it began to sink, and it seemed to them both an act of finality. Planet Earth was spinning somewhere in space and the sun was doing what it always does; this evening it was setting, tomorrow morning it would be rising again, but to them, alone in the car on the high headland, it was the last sunset, the last they would ever see together. Unless—unless he could do something to change her mind. This was the moment—now—soon—it must happen right away. If not, no hope—the end.

Wordlessly they sought their way back toward each other, and it was as if they were holding on for dear life, holding on to the globe itself, they mustn’t fall off. Lower and lower sank the sun into the golden sea. Now only the top half of its red rim remained, a melon slice poised above the glittering plane of water; then in moments it, too, was gone, sunk behind the wavering horizon. And what had gone with it? With every breath he took something told him he was going to lose her again. So near and yet so far. Yet he couldn’t let that happen, he must never lose her.

Purple turned to blue, to black, day was night. The day was all gone, that memorable day. They drove back in darkness but in hope—some kind of hope had entered their souls today. They didn’t know what they could still mean to each other, not really, but they both knew in their hearts that they needed each other desperately and that if they were going to have anything further out of life, they must fight to stay together.

“No matter what,” he told her, “I love you. I loved you from the first, I will never love anyone else. Remember how I love you, April. Don’t let anybody make you think different. Will you promise me that?”

She promised him. It made them both feel better. She told him how sorry she’d been when Maxine died. “I know how much you loved her. I wanted to write but I didn’t know what to say—I sent you a card, though,” she added, an afterthought.

He felt a ripple of warm surprise. He remembered it, of course he did, the card signed with those two words, “a friend”—the card he’d asked me to look at. It had been hers all the time.

When they got back to Beverly Hills, it was ten o’clock. He drove her to the lot where her car was parked. The lot was locked. She let him take her home.

“Wait,” he said as she started to open the car door. “Don’t go. Not just yet.”

“I have to.”

“Oh God—there’s so much I want to tell you, the time went so fast—it seems as if we’ve barely been together an hour.”

“It’s late, I really have to go in. I have an early class in the morning.”

He reached for her hand and held it. “April, tell me you love me. Say it, just once, can’t you? Say it so I can hear it. Can’t you, for me—just once?”

She began to tremble. “I—I’m not sure, everything’s going around in my head right now. I need time to think.”

He asked when he could see her again; she said she didn’t know, she’d call. He extracted her promise to call him. He jumped out on his side, ran around to open her door. As she stepped out he pulled her into his arms and began kissing her. “April, April, I love you so much. Just to hold you, oh God, don’t let me lose you again.” He was kissing her and crushing her in his arms, under the cadmium-blue streetlight with cars passing by, and she began to struggle against him.

“Let me go—please let me go. Don’t touch me—I don’t want you to!”

“But—April—wait, if you love me—”

“I didn’t say I loved you! I
can’t
say it! Don’t you understand—I can’t. Bud’s dead and I’m alive and—I just can’t! Please! You mustn’t try to see me anymore!”

She tore away and ran sobbing up the walk into the vestibule. He watched her use her key and go in. He wasn’t depressed, he told himself, as he got back into his car; he understood. She’d get over it. He’d seen her, talked to her, spent hours with her, and things were bound to change; he felt sure of it. He’d won a great victory that day, he’d begun to come back to life again, and he vowed to himself that whatever else happened, one day they’d be married.

She didn’t call him. He waited and waited, but she never called.

Jenny and I heard all about this from him one night when he came for dinner. He was paralyzed by the whole thing—afraid to take a step for fear of screwing it up.

I took it on myself to call her. We met for coffee, and she seemed glad to see me again and anxious to talk. But I saw right off what Frank had been talking about; it wasn’t the old April, the golden girl we’d known. April had become some other month, August, September. I detected some hairline fissures in that armored exterior, stridencies where there had been only calm, a hidden urgency where there had been relaxed humor, a tighter grip on things, as if she feared something was slipping from her grasp, something—I wasn’t sure what—she had planned on and needed, something human and cherished. Was it Frank? Her career? Her sanity? Life? I didn’t know, couldn’t tell, and we’d lost that fine vein of communication we’d enjoyed ever since Feldy’s studio. We talked but didn’t confide, didn’t absorb. Our trains were running on different tracks.

Where before she simply
was
, now I got the feeling she was working at things, trying too hard. She laughed that pretty laugh, but in its sound there were traces of brittleness. She looked thinner, more angular, she’d lost that pleasing harmony of soft curves; she had cheekbones, the kind that looked great on Angie Brown, but somehow didn’t suit April. She’d done something with her hair, too; I didn’t like the change. And she’d widened her lipline, darkened her shade of lipstick. Cherry Wine was now Lilac Smoke (or something like that)—and since when mascara?

Donna Curry couldn’t have picked a worse time to die, but she was gone, a terrible blow to April. This was six or eight months later, during a rainy February. The maid had come in as usual on a Monday morning and found Donna still in bed, but she wasn’t to be awakened, ever. Her heart had simply stopped. Her death paralyzed April, playing havoc with her already disordered mind, and making her feel guiltier than ever. A week or so after the funeral, her telephone rang. When she picked up the receiver, the party hung up. Five minutes later there was a knock at the door. She put on a robe and went to answer.

“Who is it?”

“Please let me in.”

“Frank—I can’t. I’m just going to bed, it’s late.”

He pleaded through the door that he had to see her. Five minutes only, and he’d go. She undid the latch and let him in.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “I’ve been calling and calling but you’re never home. I was worried.”

No, she said, she was fine, just exhausted and not answering.

“I’m sorry about your mother. I know how you’ll miss her.”

“Like you miss Maxine. I expect it’ll get easier.”

They sat down and talked stumblingly of one or two things, nothing terribly important; then she pointedly smoothed the folds of her robe and retied the sash. “Frank, I’m really tired, so please would you just say what you have to say and… I’m sorry, but I don’t feel terribly well.”

“Yeah, I know it’s late, but—look, do we have to keep going around and around like this? Can’t we—couldn’t we just sit down and talk it all out?”

“Yes, maybe, only not now. This is not the time.”

“It’s never the time. I’m going to New York at the end of the week, then to London, I won’t be around for a while. If I could just go away knowing that—well, knowing that we’re all right.”

She gave him a blank look and dropped her gaze.

He got down on his knees and peered up into her face. “Oh, April, things don’t have to be like this, you know. We don’t have to go on suffering, both of us, if you’d only—”

“If I’d what?”

“Just let go a little.”

“Are you trying to say you want me to go to bed with you?”

“I’m trying to say I want you to marry me! What the hell are we doing, anyway? All the wasted time, all the lousy things that happened—now’s our chance. Finally. Don’t you want it anymore?”

He leaned toward her, trying to look into her eyes. She had her hands over her face. Presently she took them away and straightened in her chair.

“Yes. Yes I do. Only—”

“No. No only’s. All you have to do is say yes.”

He gathered her into his arms and kissed her, running his hand down the fall of hair that lay against her cheek, smelling her sweetness, excited by her closeness. He took a deep breath, feeling that at last he’d reached her. “Say you will. Tell me you love me and say, ‘I’ll marry you, Frank.’ Go on, say it. I’m not leaving here until you do.”

He was holding her tightly with both hands. She kept her head down, as she bit her lip and thought. Then she looked up abruptly and her words surprised him.

“All right, Frank—I’ll marry you.”

“You will? You mean it? When? When can we be married?”

“Right away, if you want. You decide—but, please, let’s not make it a big wedding.”

“Fine by me.” He buried his face in her hair. “Oh God, baby, you’re making me the happiest guy in the world. Hey—wait right here, don’t move—I’ll be right back—”

He ran out the door and came back with a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon. He uncorked it in the kitchen and came in carrying the bottle and two wine glasses. “Aren’t you ever going to get proper champagne glasses?” he asked, setting them down on the coffee table, where some of her glass animals were grouped. “Maybe someone’ll give us some for a wedding present.”

She was looking at him steadily, as if appraising him. “You must have been awfully sure.”

He looked at her quizzically, then at the bottle in his hand. Then he laughed. “I wasn’t sure at all. But I was praying a lot.” When he filled the glasses, he got up and turned the lights down. After lighting the candles on the shelf and turning over the stack of records on the turntable, he sat on the couch and held her close. It was the moment he’d dreamed of for so long. It was all coming true; this was the beginning, only the beginning. More than anything he wanted to take her into the bedroom and make love to her. How long was it since they’d lain naked in each other’s arms? But soon they’d be making love all they wanted; tonight he wouldn’t press his luck.

He leaned forward to pour them more champagne. As he sat back he dribbled a little on the table, and in trying to catch it he knocked over one of the glass figurines.

“Oh Jesus, I’m sorry.”

It was the unicorn; he’d broken it. She sat with her hands in her lap.

“‘Blue roses,’” she murmured, picking up the pieces and putting them in a dish.

“Hm? Blue what?”

Not
blue roses
—
pleurosis
, she explained. Tennessee Williams,
Glass Menagerie
, Laura and the Gentleman Caller. She had a broken unicorn, too. April began to cry, softly, turning her head away so he couldn’t see her tears.

“Gosh, honey, I really am sorry. I’ll get you another, we’ll find one, don’t cry.”

“It’s—not the unicorn.” She emptied the glass pieces into the wastebasket, then took up a brush and began brushing her hair. She yawned. “The champagne—making me sleepy,” she said. “Now you’ve got me, won’t you go so I can get some sleep? You need it, too, you look worse than I do.”

He left. There were some kisses at the door; then she slipped out of his arms, opening the door so it swung between them. Going down the walk to his car, he had a weird sense that it had all been just a dream, one that wasn’t going to come true.

He saw her only once more before he left for New York, and she seemed perfectly fine to him, promised to pick him up at the airport when he came back—he was to let her know when. She kissed him goodbye and he left her, wondering what might happen now, fearful of something’s going wrong while he wasn’t around to take care of her. He called her frequently from New York and they talked, calmly, sensibly, lovingly. He’d been to Cartier’s for a ring. Bought her a new fur, some diamonds. She was breathless with excitement; she couldn’t wait for him to come home again.

“Be there,” he told her.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her statement had the ring of truth all right, only it wasn’t true. One day our telephone rang and it was April. She asked if Jenny was home; I said no, it was Jen’s day at the Good Will Thrift Shop where she’d been putting in some volunteer time—could I do anything? April said she wanted a ride to the doctor. When I asked if her car needed looking after, she said no, but she didn’t like to drive these days. Too nervous, having some vision trouble. I said I’d come over and take her.

The doctor’s office was at the UCLA Medical Center, and we drove over Malcolm Avenue to Wilshire and cut through the campus to the hospital. I wasn’t particularly aware of anything’s being wrong, but suddenly, with no warning, April let out a shriek, and though we were doing thirty she flung open the door and leapt out of the moving car. I shouted, then swerved, barely missing the car in front as I tried to see behind me. I pulled over and jumped out. April lay sprawled in the street. A bus was bearing down on her, there was a screech of rubber, the driver leaned hard on his horn, and I saw a figure dart from the curb to drag her from the bus’s path. I ran up and took her from the man. “What are you doing?” I demanded, furious. “Don’t you know you could have been killed?”

I set her on her feet and she stared blankly at me. She didn’t remember any of it, didn’t even know who I was. Then, after I’d taken my eyes from her for only a moment to retrieve her bag and its strewn contents, I couldn’t find her. Some bystanders pointed her out, dashing pellmell across the campus lawn. Following a hunch, I got back in the car and drove around trying to find the doctor’s office. When I explained to the nurse what had happened and who I was, she slipped inside, then returned with the doctor, who brought me into his office and talked to me. April was in another room, being sedated. She’d arrived in a hysterical state (this wasn’t news), but apparently uninjured. For a shrink the guy was pretty open and aboveboard, none of the typical “I can’t discuss the case” crap. He queried me as to my relationship with April, and after I’d gone into some detail, he left me alone for a moment when a nurse beckoned him away.