Hollywood Boulevard (34 page)

A
fter breakfast I got busy going over all sorts of things in my mind; plenty of time to ruminate in my cell. Sylvia had closed the door but left the light on. The closet didn't warm up like yesterday and I wasn't as panicked, for the moment. You have to learn to take the calms between storms, is how I see it. There could be little doubt Sylvia was mad as a hatter but not pathological— at least I didn't think she was. Of course, I could be dead wrong, and, mad or not, she seemed capable of anything.

    So I sat there trying to remember a conversation with Joe. It involved one of those phrases he'd repeat that I never believed he meant, one that sticks and works its way back into the brain like a virus. The phrase was
Do whatever you like
. The first problem was the word
like
, which I always mentally wanted to correct to
want
. There is a critical difference: Doing what you like is flimsy, indulgent, whereas doing what you want is firmer, more of a stand.
I'd like to
play the piano
spoken on a summer porch over mint juleps with Chopin playing in the background: a whim.
I want to play the piano
: formidable, a statement of purpose.

    Meanwhile, I shifted my interpretation:
Do whatever you like
=
I'll have nothing to do with your folly
. Subtext:
and suffer the consequences
. "Ardennes, if you want to go from stage to screen, if you want to star in a TV series, go ahead, sign with this Harry Machin you think is the center of the universe; by all means do whatever you like."

    Further interpretation, arrived at in the acquired wisdom of my solitary prison musings:
Don't seek my approval
. As in, go on up that trapeze; don't mind me while I pull away the net. Did that mean I'd expected Joe to catch me if I fell? Was that what I wanted, or what he'd thought I wanted, for Joe to provide me with a safety net? I wouldn't
want
a safety net pulled. But what net? Since when has there ever been anything in place to catch me if I fall?

    My parents had this perfect marriage, this ideal love for each other. Only my perfect mother had an affair with an imperfect married man before she met my dad.

    She told me about it when I was a dewy- eyed teen. I'd developed a killer crush on my English- lit teacher, who was married. I became pretty silly about the whole thing, imagining all sorts of signs that he returned my adoration but was trapped— unhappily, of course— in a marriage to a stringy, ungenerous older woman— or so I imagined. One day, unable to stand it any longer, I left him a note asking if he would see me after school, away from campus. The teacher, Mr. Russell, called my mother. She in turn called me home that weekend and sat me down: Why did I want to see Mr. Russell outside school?

    I bellowed, bursting into tears, "He
told
you?" I was ready to die, to sink right into the kitchen linoleum. My mother waited patiently until I ran out of heart- wrenching ammunition and protest. She made us chamomile tea with honey and asked me what attracted me to the teacher.

    "How can I say? Just
him
! I can't help it! This is
love
, Mother. For God's sake."

    "A crush, Ardennes," she corrected, her tone controlled. "You're so young. You think you want to die, but you are lucky Mr. Russell is a good man."

    "Lucky? I wanted to run away with him and he called my mother! I'm such a jerk."

    "No, you're wonderful. Your mother, though,
was
a very foolish girl once upon a time." And she told me the story. The guy sounded like a real bum. He'd visit her one weekend a month where she was teaching, at a private school in Pennsylvania. He'd been her college professor. She told me she finally found the courage to tell him it was over. Of course it wasn't, and she was in agony for a long time. "If ever I was going to become a tragic poet, that was the time and he was the material. Happily, I did not write one single line of poetry."

    It was winter; outside, the day was gunmetal- gray and heavy, as if weighted with snow. The light in the kitchen was disappearing around us. "Do I have to go back to school, Mom?" She nodded. "I have to
face
him?"

    "It will be all right."

    I shivered. "I'm going to my room for a while." I planned to lie down and die of grief. I was halfway down the hallway, past the master suite, my parents' big bedroom that had always been special, both welcoming and a room I felt not quite privy to, when I ran back to the kitchen. My mother was still seated at the table, very straight in her chair, hands wrapped around her mug, already cold. "Did Daddy rescue you?"

    She laughed lightly. "No. He came along a little later."

    "Do you love him more than the other guy?"

    "Im proper question," she said. I understood she'd shared something big with me and that I would have to live with the blanks in the story because suddenly I wanted all sorts of dirty details: what the guy looked like, the sex . . . had she ever seen his wife? She told me to go do my homework. I froze at the kitchen door, turned around. "Does Dad know?"

    "Homework, now."

    By the time I made it back to school on the train that Sunday night I had transferred her experience to me and made it mine. I saw plainly the next day that Mr. Russell was too slight, with arms like sticks. Did I want to be held by a pair of sticks? What he had was a voice; he could read Shakespeare, short stories, even poetry and stop a class of fidgeting girls. Other than that he was just a nice guy, and a good teacher. Perfect love? Romeo and Juliet? All the mortifying embarrassments we live through before we even turn sixteen . . .

    Anyhow, Joe said Harry Machin ruined me. Because of Harry I took parts Joe thought beneath me. He wasn't entirely wrong. But he had a punishing contempt for missteps in those he admired. The trouble is, Joe was on a constant lookout for missteps.
Do whatever
you like, but I disown your mistakes.
. . . What happened to humans err, forgiveness is divine? Only the divine can say forget it, not a big deal, try it again?

    Okay, now change the argument:
Ardennes, do whatever you want
. But I didn't need him to tell me that. I
did
what I wanted. I ran for it, and then I slowed down . . . and then I quit. Joe won.

    Joe won?

    And Andre? Andre married three actresses—

    Sylvia was back! She unlocked the door. I looked up. I had taken to lying in the back corner of my cell. I'd made a nice little nest for myself out of a pile of dresses and things bundled on the floor. "Are you hungry?" Sylvia asked. If she minded my making a bed of her clothing, she didn't say.

    Was it lunchtime already? Hadn't I just eaten breakfast? Funny how fast the sense of time dissolves when you're locked away from clocks and cell phones and media of all sorts. "Not very. I could use more water, preferably not spiked."

    She told me to push the breakfast tray to the door and go back to my corner. I felt like saying, "Yes, Mistress," but didn't. She took the tray out, chained the door, and came back a few minutes later with a bottle of water, leaving it just inside the door. Mucho stuck his nose in and barked once. I'd started to hate that dog.

    " There is activity in the vicinity of your room," Sylvia announced. I stood up in my cell, walked over to my prison door. Sylvia sounded oddly satisfied, if not outright pleased.

    "What sort of activity?" I asked, but she was suddenly gone and I was locked in again. I heard the TV or radio go on, loud.

I
t was the doorbell, and Detective Collins was ringing it. He held his badge up in front of Sylvia's peephole. She opened the door, her right hand held modestly at her throat. "Sylvia Vernon?" Sylvia smiled vacantly. "I'm Detective Collins. I've been ringing your bell several minutes." Sylvia studied the badge. "Can you hear me, Ms. Vernon?"

    "I was resting, with the TV on. Nothing to watch; junk as usual. Those soaps are the bottom of the pit. How on earth do women watch such trash?"

    "Is that your dog barking?" "Mucho!" Sylvia ran to the bedroom, opened the door, and scooped up Mucho. She closed the door. The Detective stepped into the kitchen and then a little farther in. The TV was still blaring in the bedroom. Sylvia returned to the Detective, Mucho in her arms. "You're the gentleman from the other day. I saw you with my neighbor, Ardennes Thrush."

The Detective didn't skip a beat. "You two are friendly?"

    "Mucho! Stop that growling or I'll shut you back in the bedroom." She tapped the dog's nose. "No, you wouldn't like that, would you?" Mucho quieted down. "That's better. What did you say?"

    "You and your neighbor are friendly?"

    "We've had tea."

    "When did you last see Ms. Thrush, do you recall?"

    Sylvia pulled her body back at the waist, looked up at the big Detective from her just- over- five- foot- two frame. She smiled. "That would be with you."

    "Funny, I don't remember seeing you."

    "I had the idea you didn't want to be seen."

    "And what were you doing while I wasn't being seen?"

    Sylvia laughed. "I have a large balcony, a lookout on all the comings and goings from my own little tower. People are interesting to watch, don't you think? Especially in a hotel, where all sorts of behavior goes on." She lifted her brows suggestively.

    "Seen anything interesting lately?"

    "Lieutenant, can a lady ask why she's getting the third degree?"

    "It's Detective. When was the last time you spoke to Ms. Thrush?"

    "Back to Ardennes; am I sensing something amiss?"

    "You don't have to answer, Ms. Vernon. For the moment."

    "Threats, is it? Well, let me see. Mucho, when did we last see Ms. Thrush? Two days ago, I think. Wouldn't that be the very day I saw you? Yes, she invited me for coffee. She was expecting someone, so our visit was brief. Maybe it was you she expected?"

    "Did she seem concerned about anything?"

    "No . . . I don't think so. Is something wrong with Ardennes? She doesn't see her husband much; she's so alone. . . ." Mucho started to whine. "You think so too, Muchie?" She smiled at the Detective while petting Mucho's head. "Hollywood can be such a lonely town, don't you think?"

    "The name Lucille Trevor mean anything to you?"

    It was Sylvia's turn to not skip a beat. "I knew Lucille. She died in a fire in this very apartment, a very long time ago. Why?"

    "Thanks for your time."

    "Don't you want to read me my rights?"

    "Have you done something naughty?" Sylvia smiled a flirty little smile. Detective Collins turned to go.

    Sylvia stepped into the hallway after him. "You know, there was one thing, not much to it, but a man did come by the other day. Heavyset, wore one of those leather biker vests." Sylvia shuddered, perhaps with some bad biker memory. "He and Ardennes seemed to have words. I think he may have shoved her."

    " Where was this?"

    "The parking below my balcony. They weren't shouting, more like hissing cats, so I couldn't catch what it was about."

    " Would you know the man if you saw him again?"

    "Of course. He was here yesterday afternoon." The Detective gave Sylvia Vernon a hard, scrutinizing look. "But you still haven't said what this is all about, have you?"

    "Thanks again for you time, Ms. Vernon."

    "Call again, Detective. Anytime . . ."

A
ll the while Sylvia was toying with Billy I lay in my dungeon, hands over my ears against soap operas blaring on Sylvia's TV with even louder commercials in between: ads for everything from hemorrhoid ointments to remedies for erectile dysfunction. I had no way to know he was at the door, how close we'd been for those few min utes. It was well over thirty hours since I'd seen daylight, heard a bird, seen the wind in the trees, or had a bath. Now I was being driven mad by daytime TV.