Destiny (103 page)

"Lewis, I was sixteen years old." Helene sprang to her feet. "I was sixteen, and I was pregnant, and I was alone, and I was frightened. Can't you understand that? You were there, and you were kind, and I liked you very much—I don't know why I did it. It seemed right then. I was thinking of Cat, thinking of what would be best for her. I—a lot of things had happened to me the year I met you. One after another. They happened very fast, and perhaps that was part of it too. I couldn't think clearly. I didn't sit down and make a coldblooded decision. You were there. It seemed right. It seemed best. . . ."

"You married me because of Cat." His mouth twisted. "You married me because you were alone. You married me because another man had abandoned you, got you pregnant, and I was there." An expression almost of bewilderment crossed his face. "Right from the very beginning. Why was I so blind? Why was I so goddamn fucking blind. ..."

"Abandoned me?" Helene looked at him uncertainly. "I didn't say that. I said . . . I—I said I was alone."

"Don't lie,'"' he said with a sudden passion. "Just don't lie.""

He stopped for a moment, as if struggling to control himself, and through her anger Helene thought dully, tiredly, that he was now going to say whatever it was he had meant to say from the very beginning. Some new accusation; she could not imagine what it might be—there had already been so many.

But there was no new charge. She thought he had been about to say one thing, and then stopped. Instead, he said, as he had said on many occa-

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sions before, "Did you love me? Did that enter into your calculations at all? Just once? Did it?"

Helene looked away; then she looked back. "I thought I might come to love you," she said quietly.

Lewis's face worked. There was a silence. He said in a calm, detached voice, "Oh, I see." There was a pause; he added, as if it were an afterthought, "You bitch. You fucking bitch."

Then he hit her. It was a hard blow, to the side of the head, and it knocked her to the ground. Helene lay there for a time, fighting to get her breathing steady, fighting not to cry. Lewis had hit her before, though never as hard, but he had not done so for some time. The fact that she had known he wanted to hit her, from the moment he first came into the room, the fact that she had been unable to prevent it—just the fact that, physically, he was the stronger of the two—all this filled her with humiliation and anger. Clear across the years, she heard her mother's voice: He hit me once, Helene. Just once. That was enough.

Slowly she rose to her feet. Lewis had not moved or spoken. She waited until she was quite sure that she could speak with a steady voice.

"You shouldn't do that, Lewis," she said at last. "If you ever do that again, I'll leave you."

Lewis lifted his head and looked at her. He ran his hand through his hair, glanced around him, patted his pockets.

"Where did I put my car keys? Oh, there they are. ..."

He picked them up from a table. He picked up the pale linen jacket he had tossed on a chair, and slung it over his shoulder. "Get a divorce then." He paused. "I've already given you grounds."

He said it quite casually, with a certain pleasure. Then he walked out of the room.

Heldne heard the engine of the Porsche. She listened to it until it faded into the distance. She sat down, and remained seated for some time, until she began to grow cold.

She did not cry: there was no point in crying. There was no point in apportioning blame, in saying, this was Lewis's fault, and this mine. They were both wrong, she thought, and they both had a measure of justification.

There it was: she looked at this thing which was her marriage, she looked at the efforts she had made to preserve it, and it seemed to her that she had fashioned and preserved a prison, both for Lewis and for herself. The expression in Lewis's eyes, when he walked out of the room, had been

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that of a man just granted parole. Marriage: she looked at it, and it was then, she thought later, that she first relinquished it.

After an hour or so, she stood up. It was nearly midnight, and the house was quiet. She moved around the room slowly, picking up her book, which had fallen to the floor, straightening a chair, a cushion. She did these things automatically, hardly aware of her actions. She began to switch oflf the lamps, one by one.

Just as she came to the last, the telephone began to ring. It startled her, the sudden ringing in the silent house. She looked at the telephone; she began to move toward it. It rang once, twice, three times. Then it stopped.

The next day, when Lewis came home—he always came home—he apologized. He was not as contrite as he used once to be, and Helene was not as forgiving. She thought: we have both grown harder.

"I'm not sorry for what I said. I'm sorry I hit you." This distinction seemed to matter to him; Helene let it pass.

"Did you telephone me, last night, after you left?" she asked. "Oh, God." His face crumpled suddenly, hke a child's. He sat down, and buried his face in his hands.

"I might have. I don't know. I can't remember," he said at last.

HELENE

LOS ANGELES, 1964-1955

^ ^ I can't wait. I can't wait. I can't wait."

I Cat stood in the middle of the ballroom. Two bright points of A color blossomed in her cheeks; her small triangular face was fierce with excitement. Helene looked at her fondly: she had grown taller that summer, she looked suddenly older. She stood in a stream of sunhght, her hands clasped together, her face lifted. She wore her hair in a new way now, parted on one side. It was longer, and more unruly. When she was excited, as she was now, her face glowed, and her eyes lit up: in certain lights they looked almost violet. Something about her stance—the way in which she held her hands, perhaps, or lifted her head, reminded Helene of her mother. For a moment she saw Violet quite vividly, standing in the trailer, singing the song about lilacs to an audience of one.

Cassie had seen the resemblance too; she and Madeleine stood nearby, also watching Cat, who was now practicing some wobbly pirouettes. Cassie smiled; she shook her head a little sadly.

"Poor Violet. Sometimes Cat looks so much like her. So much ..." Cassie's remark pleased Helene. Her heart suddenly felt hght. It was a dance they were planning, after all, the party for Ellis —Cat was right to be excited. ... At once she felt a new energy. She picked up her Usts and notes, Cassie picked up hers, and they moved oflF together, thinking and planning.

It was an absurd room, really, this ballroom—a room from another era. Here, at Ingrid Nilsson's legendary parties, Valentino had once tangoed, and Swanson had waltzed. A room one hundred feet long, ht by crystal chandeliers which had been a gift from the Hungarian prince who had been, briefly, Nilsson's lover.

One side of it was ranked with tall arched windows that led out onto the terrace; at one end there was a dais for the musicians; there was a high ceiling of filigree plasterwork; tall pier glasses, reflecting the room back upon itself, and then back again. A room of ivory and gilt, pale, delicate

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and preposterous—a wedding cake of a room. It had not been used since they came to hve here: looking at it, Helene feh suddenly that she loved it.

"Oh, Cassie, there ought to be palms—don't you think? I'm sure there would have been. Just here, and here—and over there. And around the base of the dais—there ought to be flowers. Lots of them. Flowers with a marvelous scent—gardenias, and tuberoses—oh, and ferns. Write that down, Cassie. We ought to have ferns. ..."

Cassie smiled. "Camellias," she said firmly. "We ought to get camellias. Violet always loved them. They'd be right. My, but wouldn't she have loved this!" She made a note, and then frowned. "You think we can get them at this time of the year? Camellias, gardenias?"

"Of course we can. This is Hollywood. We can get anything." Helene hugged her. "Oh, Cassie. It's going to be such a wonderful party. The best party ever. I know it. Let's see—the musicians will be there. The champagne bar will be through there—shall we have some pink champagne? Cassie, Madeleine—what do you think?"

Cassie deferred to Madeleine. Madeleine was the Frenchwoman; Madeleine was the expert. She, too, was becoming caught up in the excitement; she laughed, and clapped her hands.

"But certainly. Both. The pink and the white. Like a wedding . . ." She turned and looked around the room.

"And the walls—couldn't we decorate them too? If we were to have garlands of flowers—like necklaces. You could hang them there, and there —in loops, voyez vous, by the mirrors—and here, between the doors, ^a serais charmant —white roses, perhaps. I saw that done once, when I was a little girl, for a great ball that was held at—" She broke off". "At a place near where I lived," she finished.

Her color rose slightly, but Helene was too excited to notice. "Yes, what shall we have here?" She paused, frowning. "I know—something exotic. We should have orchids—cattleyas. Don't you remember, Cassie—someone told me. That was what Nilsson did, after she retired. She never went out. She gave no more parties. She stayed here in this house—and she grew orchids. Oh, yes ..." She gave a little shiver. "We should have everything as she would have. Because it's still her house ... I feel that sometimes. Do you?"

She turned; Cassie nodded. There was a little silence, then Cassie sighed. "I used to see her movies. When I was a girl. She was so beautiful. ..."

Helene stood still. She thought of those Nilsson films, which she, too, had seen, though much later. She thought of her own films. Images, living on. She gave herself a little shake.

"We'll do it as she would have liked," she said quietly. "For her—and all the other ghosts. . . ."

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"I want to dance." Cat's voice broke in on them. "Mother, show me how to dance—please. Show me now. . . ."

Helene and Cassie exchanged glances; Madeleine smiled. "Music," she said. "Wait, ma petite. We must have some music. I shall find a record. Wait." She turned and ran, out through the conservatory, and into the room beyond, leaving all the doors open. There was a pause; quietly at first, then more strongly as she turned up the volume, came the strains of a waltz. A Viennese waltz.

It was ghostly, this music, drifting through from an invisible source. For a moment, it was as if they were listening to music that came to them from the past, from all those long-dead musicians who had played here, from all those evenings of gaiety and dancing. Helene thought that; she knew Cassie thought it too. Madeleine came back to the door to watch. Helene crossed to Cat; she rested one hand gently around Cat's narrow waist and took her small hand in the other.

Cat looked up at her; her face filled with expectation and uncertainty.

"I'll be the man, and I'll lead. It's easy. Just follow my feet. That's it. Like this. Cat, like this ..."

Cat stumbled at first; then, gradually, she became more confident. They began to circle to the music, slowly, and then more quickly. Helene could feel the tautness, the suppleness of Cat's body; she looked down into Cat's face, laughingly, and Cat, laughingly, looked up. They circled, and they circled, their movements now attuned. It was a moment of simple and perfect happiness.

As the music died away, Helene thought: I shall always remember this; always. An empty ballroom. I shall see it quite clearly, and I shall think, that day, oh, yes, that was the day when Cat and I danced. . . .

The thought made her a little sad. The happiness shaded. Cat was so very young. She might not remember. . . .

The music stopped, and Helene took Cat's hands and pressed them tight, with a sudden urgency and passion she could not explain.

"Oh, Cat," she said. "Remember this."

I;

t came this morning. I knew it would. I knew it would come. I knew .Helene wouldn't forget me!" Stephani was holding the square of white pasteboard in her hand. The hand was trembling. With one finger she touched the engraved black letters. She turned to Lewis, her eyes shining.

"Oh, Lewis, I can hardly believe it. I'm so excited. ..."

Lewis could not quite meet her eyes. The truth of the matter was that

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Stephani's invitation to Helena's party for Ellis was late. All the others had been sent at least a week before. Stephani, fortunately, did not know this. Neither did she know how the invitation had come about. It was he who had engineered it. Knowing how much Stephani wanted to go, he had, quite casually, mentioned her name to Helene, the previous morning. Helene's hand had immediately flown to her lips. She had looked contrite.

"Oh, Lewis. How terrible. I should have asked her—I never thought. I haven't seen her since we were out on location—and I said I would. Oh, damn. Do you think it's too late? Can we send her an invitation now?"

Lewis had shrugged. "Why not?" he said. "I doubt she'll come anyway."

Yesterday. Lewis could not quite believe that particular scene had taken place. And now that he was confronted with the evidence that it had, he could not quite believe the present scene, either. To have prompted his wife into inviting his mistress to their party. To their large, grand, extremely desirable party. People were fighting all over Hollywood to obtain invitations for this party.

Why on earth had he done it? Somehow he had managed to deceive not just Helene, but also Stephani. And—less than a week from now—he would have to face the horrendous prospect of an entire evening in which wife and mistress were together under the same roof He sighed; was that prospect so terrible? At the back of his mind, somewhere, was a small creeping suspicion that it was precisely for that reason that he had done this. He wanted sometimes, he ached sometimes, to see them side by side, the real wife and the pretend wife, Helene and her imitator. What would happen then, he had no idea. It was, somehow, the logical, the only conclusion to the past weeks, in which more and more, he found Helene, the woman he loved, not in the house he shared with her, but here, in a downtown apartment, in a bed with a buttoned headboard of pale cerise velvet.