Once Is Not Enough (53 page)

“If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call for help,” she said.

Oh God, he had ruined everything. “Karla, forgive me. I’m sorry . . .” He backed away and in that split second she slammed the door in his face.

He stood there unable to believe it. Karla. Doing this to him! The bitch! Of course there was no Jeremy inside. She was probably with Heidi Lanz. He rang her bell again. He banged against the door. “Open the door,” he shouted. “Open it and prove you have your old business manager in there. Open it and I’ll leave. Just prove to me you’re telling the truth!”

He waited a few seconds. He was aware someone down the hall had opened the door and peered out. He felt his face burning. The door down the hall finally closed. He rang Karla’s buzzer again. “Let me in, damn you . . . let me in!” He kicked at the door. Then he took out a match and stuck it in the buzzer. “I’m going to stand here and wait,” he shouted. “I’ll wait if I have to wait all night. To see who comes out of that apartment.” He gave the door another violent kick. He knew he had lost all control but was powerless to stop. He heard several doors opening in the hall.

Then he heard the elevator door open. And he felt two pairs of strong arms grasp him. He fought and lashed out. The doorman and the elevator man were trying to get him away from Karla’s door. His old smiling friends—the doorman who
had taken all the dollar tips, the elevator man who had discussed the Yankees with him. They were trying to drag him down the hall.

“Take your hands off me,” he shouted. “Miss Karla just doesn’t hear the bell. She’s expecting me!”

“Take it easy, son,” the doorman said. “She called down and asked us to come and get you. Said you were making a disturbance.”

He couldn’t believe it. Karla was having him thrown out! He stared at them. And then at the door. He gave it a final kick. “You bull dyke,” he shouted. “You double-crossing bull dyke. I know who you’ve got in there. Heidi.
Heidi Lanz! Heidi
. Not Jeremy . . .
Heidi Lanz!”

Doors opened. The other tenants on the floor stared in amazement. Tenants, who in the past had looked at him with envy because he had access to their glamorous neighbor, were watching him being dragged down the hall by the doorman and elevator man. He was kicking and yelling. He heard a rip and knew it was his new shirt. She was having him thrown out! Thrown out! This couldn’t be happening. It was all a nightmare.

Then he was in the elevator, and the doorman relaxed his grip. “Now listen, son. Looks like you’ve had a little too much to drink tonight. Let me put you in a cab and you be on your way. Tomorrow’s another day. You send her a few flowers and everything will be as good as new.”

He wrenched himself away from the man’s hold. He walked outside and tried to stand erect. “There won’t be any tomorrow. And I’ll never send flowers to that lesbian cunt again! And don’t worry about getting me a cab. I don’t want anything from any of you. I’ll never set foot near this building again.” Then he stared up at the windows on the fifteenth floor. “I hate you, you bitch . . .” he muttered. Then he staggered down the street.

Karla stood by the window and watched him until he was out of sight. Then she walked to the bathroom and tapped on the door. Her face was drawn and white. “It’s all right, Dee. You can come out now. I don’t think David will bother us anymore.”

Twenty-four

D
EE STRETCHED OUT
in the foamy bathtub. WPAT was playing some old Sinatra songs. They were beautiful. The whole world was beautiful. May was such a beautiful month in New York. April had been a beautiful month too. Any month was beautiful when Karla was around. This past winter in Palm Beach had marked their longest separation. Five long months. It had been murderous. There were times when she had to summon every ounce of will power to keep from picking up the phone and pleading with Karla to come down. Maybe it had worked, because on her return she found Karla actually eager to see her.

Of course there had been that dreadful night when David had hammered at the door like a bull in heat. She would never have believed David could lose control like that. But he had been drinking. She hadn’t heard too much of the racket—she had been so terrified when the commotion had begun that she had dashed into the bathroom. But it obviously finished David with Karla. He was no longer one of her “nice little” men who took her to the ballet or an art movie.

Oddly enough, David didn’t seem to be suffering any loss. According to the columns, he was seeing that Dutch model occasionally, and he talked about January constantly.

He had been heartbroken when she had been unable to come to Palm Beach over Easter. Of course it was an important assignment writing a story on a man like Tom Colt. She had been in California for some time now. She wondered if there was something going on between them. Ridiculous!
Tom Colt was married and much too old-fashioned for January. Mike had been oddly unenthusiastic about the importance of January’s assignment. He had insisted on flying out to see her. He had stayed almost a week and when he returned everything seemed fine. Well, she’d have to get around to changing her will. Now that David posed no threat as far as Karla was concerned there was no reason to care whether or not he married January.

When she got out of the tub, she put in a call to George Milford. He came on the phone immediately. “Dee . . . I was just leaving. How nice to hear from you.”

“George, I want to change my will.”

“Fine. Is it urgent?”

“No, but let’s meet tomorrow afternoon.”

“Well, that’s why I asked if it was urgent. Margaret and I are leaving tomorrow for Paris. Her sister’s daughter is getting married, and we haven’t had a holiday abroad for some time. So we’re doing it right . . . going by boat . . . taking a whole month off. We’re sailing tomorrow.”

“Oh—” Dee bit her lip thoughtfully.

“But if it’s urgent, I can wait in my office now. It’s five-thirty. We can draw up the changes. I don’t mind staying here for a few hours tonight . . . that is, if you are free. We can go over things together and I’ll make notes. Then tomorrow morning I’ll have it typed up and if you can come around, say, at ten, we can have it witnessed and notarized and—”

Karla was expecting her at six-thirty. This would take too much time. “No, George, it’s not that urgent. It can hold until you return. Have a nice trip, and give Margaret my best.”

She hung up and began to dress. Mike was at the Friars Club. She had told him she was going to a Class Reunion. And she insisted he stay there for dinner and play cards. “I’ve
got
to go. It’s something I do every year. There’s just twenty of us, and we sit around for hours discussing our days at Miss Briarly’s. And if you get home before me, don’t wait up.”

The marriage was crowding her. With Karla so available, it tortured her to be with Mike. Ever since her return from Palm Beach, Karla was always exuberant whenever Dee said
she was free. And lately there had been none of the old excuses. (“Oh, Dee. I’ve invited the Maestro over for a steak. He hasn’t worked for so long and he’s going to the motion picture home soon.”) Karla’s reasons had always been valid . . . but they had come just often enough to keep Dee off balance. Yet there hadn’t been one excuse since her return. Each time she called and said, “I can get out tonight,” Karla sounded joyous. “I am so glad!” . . . “I await eagerly . . .” or “I have been invited to a dinner at Boris’s, but I will cancel.”

Of course she could see Karla during the day if she wanted to tag along and do things Karla’s way. But somehow she felt a loss of dignity in trailing along after Karla, sitting in some dreary studio and watching her do bar exercises. She had done that the first few years when just seeing Karla—being allowed to be with her—was a privilege. Oddly enough, after all these years, she still felt a sense of giddiness each time she saw Karla. But once their relationship had become firmly established, she felt it was demeaning for her to sit around like a stupefied fan. She also wouldn’t go walking in the snow and rain. She wasn’t like Karla, who looked fantastic with snow on her hair or rain on her face. Dee’s nose and eyes ran when it got cold. Karla could stand under a shower and come out and towel-dry her hair and look magnificent. Dee would be lost without a hairdresser to fix her hair each day.

No, the only way to see Karla and keep their relationship on an equal basis was to have Karla as a houseguest in one of her homes . . . or to see her in New York at night. No woman over forty looked glamorous in daylight. Dee had tried everything. Whatever makeup base she used looked too pink, too orange or too pasty. But at night she looked marvelous. Especially in front of a fire, or sitting with Karla and having dinner by candlelight. She had taken a firm stand against eating in the kitchen. There was no romance to it. Besides, she looked dreadful in that light. Karla always looked slightly tanned, she never needed a makeup base. Karla was Karla—there was no one like her. Even after eight years it still seemed unbelievable that Karla belonged to her. No . . . not belonged. Karla would never belong to anyone. Not even to Jeremy Haskins, who she said had been her manager and great friend. She
openly admitted they had made an attempt at being lovers but it hadn’t worked. Dee had met Jeremy when he came to the States in 1966, and when she saw his white hair and bent shoulders, she had been so relieved she had even given a dinner party in his honor. And each year she sent him a Christmas gift.

On an impulse she took out her checkbook and wrote a check for ten thousand dollars. She had stopped trying to surprise Karla with gifts. Karla never wore jewelry. And the sable coat she had given her was used like a trench coat. She walked in the snow in it, and to the rehearsal hall and back. Karla only really came alive when she was given money. It was a phenomenon Dee couldn’t understand. After all, Karla had plenty of money. My God . . . all those years when she made those pictures. And she spent nothing now . . . just the maintenance on the apartment. It was a fabulous apartment as far as the physical layout went. A decorator could turn it into a showplace. But Dee doubted if there was even five thousand dollars’ worth of furniture in the apartment. Of course, it was kept immaculate. Karla thought nothing of scrubbing floors and windows herself. And there were the paintings—a Monet, two Raoul Dufys, a Vlaminck, and the Daumier sketches. But they had all been gifts. And in answer to Dee’s “Why do you need a ten-room duplex when you use only three rooms?” Karla had shrugged and said, “It was a gift . . . and it is now worth twice the original price.” She had given up trying to rationalize Karla’s eccentricities. Eccentricities hell! Karla was downright penurious. Even her Christmas presents to Dee were what Karla called “gag” presents. A beer mug saying “Souvenir of New York” . . . a red flannel nightgown . . . a Polish ornament for the Christmas tree. Dee chalked it up as a wartime neurosis. All refugees were slightly peculiar.

Dee left the house at six-fifteen. She had let the chauffeur go. She took a cab that rocked and wheezed its way across town; but nothing could disturb her high spirits. It was spring and the night was beautiful and in a few minutes she was going to see Karla. Oh God, if only she could hold time still. Make tonight last forever. She played a game with the traffic lights. When the cab came to a red light, she’d count. One . .
then spell it . . . O-N-E. Two . . . T-W-O. For as many numbers as she could say and spell before the light changed . . . that’s how many more months she and Karla would have together. She got to sixteen on one light . . . but by the time she got to Second Avenue, she had developed some expertise and was up to thirty-five. She frowned. That was just three more years. No, she wouldn’t settle for that. They’d be together forever. Oh God, if she could only believe that. If she could really believe that Karla would never leave her . . . she’d never have married Mike. But even during their most intimate moments, Dee was aware that Karla could never be really possessed by anyone. And if Karla ever thought she was Dee’s whole life, Karla might disappear . . . perhaps forever. No, Mike was her safety valve, her crutch of sanity. But Mike was also a problem . . . the devious lies she had to tell him to get her “free nights.” In July, she’d insist that Karla come to Marbella. But right now it was only the beginning of May. That meant six weeks in New York to worry about. She thought she had been very clever about her enthusiasm for Cannes with Mike. There was no backgammon tournament in Monte Carlo, and she never had the slightest intention of going there in the first place. But it had to be planned carefully, and so far everything was going according to schedule. The suite at the Carleton was booked for May 14. She planned to wait until the day before and then tell him that the tournament was canceled. But she would insist that he go—the suite was reserved and he deserved two marvelous weeks with all his movie friends. She’d just rest in New York and attend to getting her wardrobe together for the summer. She had the speech all rehearsed. He had to go without her. Then she would have two fantastic weeks with Karla . . . they could be together every night!

Karla was waiting for her when she arrived. Her face was scrubbed and the heavy hair was pulled back with a barrette. She threw her arms around Dee and led her to the table near the window. It was set for dinner, and Karla pointed to the candles. “Look. I bought them today. They do not need the stick to sit in . . . they melt into themselves. Oh, it was wonderful! This marvelous little shop and the little man didn’t
recognize me. He liked me just for myself. And he took such pains letting me smell all the different smells. Tonight we have gardenia. Dee, do you like gardenia? I love it . . . I hope you do. . . .”

“Of course I do.” In the candlelight, with the dusk just beginning to settle on the East River, Karla looked like one of her most perfect movie stills. The shadows falling across her face, the hollow under her cheekbones. Suddenly Dee realized she was staring. She reached into her bag. “Karla, I brought you a little gift.”

Karla didn’t even look at the check. She smiled and slipped it into her desk drawer. “Thank you, Dee. Now come, sit down. I have prepared a big salad of shrimp and lobster. And look . . . a pitcher of sangria. We shall have a feast.”