Stardust (42 page)

“Not this,” she said, moving her neck with him.

“What?”

She pulled her head back, breathing hard. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I used to know what I was doing. Now I—” She looked down. “One minute—now look at us. I’m not like this.”

“Everybody’s like this.”

“I don’t mean that. I don’t know myself anymore. I used to know—” She broke off. “But I was wrong, wasn’t I? All those years, I thought I knew and it wasn’t true.”

He leaned forward again, but she put her hand up.

“No, we have to go back.” She took a breath, calming herself, then smiled. “Tonight. Come tonight.”

“Too many people,” he said, his face close.

She moved her hand up to his cheek. “Not after. When they go to bed,” she said. “Not then. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“If you do.”

She nodded. “Yes,” she said, then looked down. “Another mess. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I want to do it anyway.” She brought up her purse and took out a handkerchief, reaching over and wiping lipstick from the corner of his mouth, then stopped, looking at him for a minute.

The door slammed open. They both turned, Ben shielding her. Bunny. Her eyes widened, her fingers clutching him. But Bunny was preoccupied, never glancing to the side, heading straight for the studio cars.

“He didn’t see,” Ben whispered. “Just stay still. What do you think happened? He’s running.”

“I don’t care. If he looks—”

“He’ll just see the tree. Why come out this way?”

Bunny summoned one of the drivers with his fingers, then jumped into the backseat.

“It’s early to leave,” Ben said as the car began to start down the driveway. He turned to Liesl. “Make some excuse for me. I’ll be back later.”

“What excuse?”

“Don’t say anything then. They’ll think I got lucky at the bar.” He touched her shoulder. “Later.”

“But where—?”

He ran out from behind the trees and darted into the lot, looking down the driveway to see which way Bunny turned on Wilshire, then raced back to his car, taking his keys out as he ran. It took two blocks before he got Bunny’s car in sight, hemmed in by Saturday traffic headed for the department stores. Maybe he was going back to the studio, a minor crisis to settle, but they passed all the logical turnoffs for Continental and after a turn on Sunset, Ben knew they must be heading for Bunny’s apartment on Ivar. Maybe he’d just had enough and decided to go home.

Ben parked at the bottom of the block as Bunny got out, thanked the driver, and headed down into the basement garage. Why change cars? A Continental driver would take Bunny anywhere he wanted to go. Ben waited for a few minutes, watching the street, empty and sunny. Then Bunny’s car appeared up out of the driveway and turned back toward Sunset. Ben ducked. When he sat up again Bunny’s car was already at the next corner.

The first blocks on Ivar were tricky because there were no other cars,
but on Sunset Ben managed to put a few between them, staying far enough back to avoid being seen. Still heading west, past Highland and Hollywood High, commercial blocks of drive-ins and offices with blinds. Ben anticipated a turning somewhere, but Bunny stayed on Sunset, past Fairfax and then through the Strip, where Dick Marshall took Liesl dancing. I don’t know what I’m doing. But she wanted him to come. And how would he explain this, tracking Bunny? But he wouldn’t have just left in the middle of lunch. Sam would notice.

There was a close moment in Beverly Hills, at the light before the hotel, when the car ahead turned and Ben found himself just behind. He pulled down the sun visor so that Bunny would only see the bottom of his face, then waited until someone had cut in before following again. The streets were quieter here and they picked up some time, Bunny actually running one of the lights. Still heading west, past UCLA, then down the hill past the Bel-Air gates. This endless city— where was he going? In a while they’d be in the Palisades. One of the émigrés’ houses, on the steep slopes of the canyon? Why not Paseo Miramar? They were through the village now. If he didn’t turn soon, they’d be at the ocean. Ben imagined him making the hard right and climbing the cliff, past Feuchtwanger’s, past the lonely turn where Genia’s car had gone straight. Did MacDonald live up there, one of the neighbors Lion hadn’t met? He slowed a little, ready to make the turn.

But Bunny didn’t stop, sailing past Paseo Miramar, all the way to the Pacific, and turning north on the coast highway, the sun flashing off the flat blue water. Ben kept following, confused now. They had reached the end, joining the steady stream of traffic going out of town. Ventura? Who lived this far away, where Bunny didn’t want to take a studio car? Ben checked his gas gauge—they could be going anywhere. Then suddenly Bunny’s turning signal started flashing, just before a narrow opening in the cliffs. Not a major road, not even signposted. Ben slowed, watching Bunny turn, but then drove past. Impossible to miss a car behind you on that road. He continued until a break in the traffic let him pull left in a U-turn and double back to Bunny’s road.

What if it were a private driveway, Bunny’s car already invisible in a
garage? At first there seemed to be no houses at all, just tall, wild grass. The road switched back as it climbed, the guard rail just like the one Genia had crashed through. A first house, with two cars in front, neither of them Bunny’s, then a modern, glass-fronted house, looking empty. Ben climbed again, another switchback, and the land leveled out, a straight stretch and then a clump of trees and a huge building, stucco with balconies, one of the big Mediterranean beach houses they’d built in the twenties, this one stuck on top of the hill for the views. In the white gravel forecourt there was a half circle of parked cars, Bunny’s at the end. Ben hesitated for a second, not sure what to do next, then pulled in beside it. The checks came to the studio. He had to be somewhere.

Ben got out and looked around. Why so many cars? But he remembered Iris’s car at the house, a city where even maids drove. The morning fog had burned off and there was a breeze. He walked around to the side. The back of the house faced the water, with balconies large enough for outdoor furniture, a chaise to lie on in the salt air. Walking trails had been cut into the bluff. He went back to the forecourt. Someone was coming out, a girl with a sweater over a white blouse—no, over a white uniform, with white shoes.

“The desk is just inside. If you’re looking for somebody,” she said, helping.

He nodded a thank-you and watched her get into her car. Not a private house, but not really a hospital, either, not up this secondary road. He was still standing there, thinking, when Bunny came out and lit a cigarette. He saw Ben and froze, neither of them moving, then hurried over, throwing the cigarette away.

“What are you doing here?” he said, his voice almost a growl. “Are you following me?”

“You said you hadn’t seen him in years, but you get his checks. He lived at the Cherokee. So did Danny. I have a right to know.”

“A right.”

“Is he here?”

“What do you want?”

“Was he there that night? Is that what you were really trying to fix?”

He looked at Ben, his eyes flashing, moving from fury to contempt, his whole body tense, unsettled. And then he quieted, a giving way, and Ben noticed what he’d missed before, the pale skin, the eyes close to brimming, face haunted, like someone after an accident.

“You want to see Jack, is that it?”

“What is this place?”

“It’s where he lives now. Come and see,” he said, turning, his voice sharp.

Ben grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Just tell me one thing. Was he there that night?”

“Take your hand off me,” Bunny said, a stage line, haughty, then he switched, unexpectedly breezy, almost malicious. “Come and see.”

Inside there were more people in white coats, attendants in loose pajama-like uniforms.

“Is this a hospital?”

“It’s a private facility. For people who can’t manage on their own.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s been coming along nicely,” Bunny said, Laraine Day for a second. “But today we’ve had a little setback, I’m afraid. Still, since you’ve come all this way.”

A man holding a clipboard looked up, concerned, but Bunny made a little hand motion that seemed to vouch for Ben. They walked down a hall of polished Mexican tile.

“He’ll be sleeping. So just a look today. I suppose you wanted to talk, have a heart-to-heart about the brother, but that’ll have to wait.”

“Is something wrong. I’m not trying to—”

Bunny turned. “What are you trying to do? Just in here.”

He opened the door to a large bright room facing the sea, what must have been the master bedroom in the old house. It was not a hospital room. There were reading chairs and tables with books and magazines, a small dining area, an ordinary bed, but Ben noticed a pull cord next to a nightstand covered with pill boxes and medicines. MacDonald was lying half propped up, his face away from the light pouring in from
the terrace. His bare shoulders and the top of his chest were visible over the sheet, but one of the shoulders ended in a stump, the arm gone. The other arm was lying out on the sheet, the wrist wrapped in a white bandage.

“This is Jack,” Bunny said.

“What happened?” Ben said, almost a whisper.

“He can’t hear,” Bunny said, a normal voice. “They gave him something earlier.” He looked down at the bandage. “He gets sad sometimes. Oh, you mean the arm. A grenade. They took it off over there—New Guinea. God knows what the place must have been like. Probably some tent. Butchers.
Next
. Anyway, not Cedars, but maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference. It was shattered. You knew he was a pianist?”

“At Universal,” Ben said quietly. “An arranger.”

“Helpful, aren’t they, those files? Not just an arranger. A pianist.” He was looking down at him now. “The lightest touch. Chopin, especially. Like night sounds. He was very gifted.” He touched the sleeping man’s hair. “Of course, there’s nothing we can do about the hand now. He can use that to get around,” he said, nodding to a corner where a prosthetic arm rested on an end table, “but not for the piano. The face, though—there’s a surgeon at UCLA who’s been doing wonders with grafts, so we might get that back.” Ben now saw that the side of his face away from the window was a blotch, what must be a burn scar from the same explosion. “He was so good-looking.” He brushed the hair back again, a sleeping child.

“I’m sorry.”

Bunny took his hand away. “Yes. But there’s no bottom to sorry, is there? Down and down. So one of us has to keep things going. It’s just—I wish he didn’t get so sad sometimes.”

There was a knock on the door, then a white coat halfway through.

“Mr. Jenkins? Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, noticing Ben.

“No, it’s all right. Please. Dr. Owen. You wanted to see me.”

“It’s just that—” He glanced again at Ben, uneasy. “It’s just, we can’t take the responsibility.”

“I’ll take the responsibility.”

“We can’t be with him all the time.”

“I know. And accidents will happen.” He looked at the doctor. “But not again. I’ll talk to him. He has to be more careful, that’s all.”

“But Mr. Jenkins, we can’t—” He looked to the terrace. “We can’t be building fences on the balconies. We’re not a—”

“I’ll talk to him,” Bunny said firmly. “All these medicines, you have to be extra careful. So disorienting. But thank you for everything,” he said, coming over, as if he were seeing someone out after a party. “The stitches. It seemed like a nasty cut.”

“Yes, nasty. Mr. Jenkins—”

“He may need a little extra help at meals for a while. You know, with both arms not really— There won’t be any problem with that, will there?”

The doctor faced him down, a moment, then looked away. “No, there shouldn’t be a problem. Mr. Jenkins—”

“I’ll talk to him. I know this will be a warning to him. To be more careful.”

“Yes, a warning,” the doctor said, a last shot, then nodded to Ben and left.

“I’m sorry,” Ben said.

“So you said. So everybody says. Well, they would if they knew. But no one does, except you. The Grand Inquisitor. So let me ask you something. What would you do? Leave him to rot in that Veterans Hospital, everyone walking around on crutches, missing this, missing that, bedpans and people leaking—imagine living there, all the time, looking at who you are, all those people like you. Sad? You might as well—” He stopped and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

“Is that allowed?”

“Darling, I don’t give a shit. It’s my nickel. Nickel. Thousands. And not even a fucking ashtray. All right, let’s go out there. Better for him, anyway. And no doubt you’ll want to chat, now that you’re here. About that wonderful brother of yours.” He looked at the bed. “Sometimes I think they can hear when they’re under. They come to looking like they know everything.” They were moving out onto the balcony.
“Or maybe he’ll look surprised. That he’s here. Until the next time. They’re right, you know. They shouldn’t have to worry about this— give the place a bad name. He’s right about these, too,” he said, touching the balcony wall. “Why not just slip right over? Quite a drop. No, he had to do it that way, all messy and— So maybe he didn’t really mean it. Not finally, anyway. If you really mean it, why not jump? Easier. Yours did.”

“Danny didn’t jump.”

“No, he tripped,” he said, sarcastic, then looked up. “Oh, Jack gave him a push, is that it? With his good arm, no doubt. Really, even you—”

“He lived there. At the Cherokee.”

“For a while. I thought it would be better for him. But he kept running into people.”

“Danny, you mean.”

“Mm. Old comrades. I wasn’t having that.”

“Tell me. Please.”

Bunny looked over at him, then put out the cigarette on the rail.

“You put him there?” Ben said.

“I had to get him out of the hospital. I couldn’t face it. All those boys, trying to come back. Clomping around. They’d fall sometimes and they’d have to wait for someone to pick them up. You could see it in their faces, what it did to them. It was making him worse, being there. So I hired somebody to be with him. Found a place.”