Story Girl (10 page)

“You’re beautiful, Tracy. Now just be yourself.”

“Okay – I’ll try.”

His parents came back to the table chatting merrily about Hollywood’s golden age – but once they settled back into place, the table went mysteriously and terribly silent. I wiped my sweaty palms on my decorated denim and realized that his family seemed rather accustomed to the hush – one likely born not of too little to say, but rather too much, of the repressed variety.

“You really need a cleaning lady, James,” his father finally said.

“Oh, Peter – not now.”

“When, Paulette? We’re only here for a day.”

“Just not now. Why don’t we focus on the menu?”

“Our salads are on the way. Anyway, there’s certainly money in the budget for a cleaning lady, son.”

I was afraid to look at James, but did anyway. He looked like he was in the initial stages of some really bad stomach flu.

“Your mother and I will find you one before we leave. And you should try to keep that Prius detailed – twice a month. Otherwise, it just completely depreciates.”

James tossed his menu at the table, “Is a full detail twice a month really necessary?”

“Keeping your car clean and respectable will improve your spirits.”

“My spirits are great,” he pouted.

“Driving around in a portable dump will get you noticed for all the wrong reasons.”

I choked on a lemon seed, and Paulette slapped me on the back. I felt it was only a matter of time before they asked to inspect my apartment. And then I would most surely have to give the money back.

“I’m not that hopeless, Dad. Tracy will get the wrong impression.”

“Tracy’s first impression was slamming into your car because it was stopped dead on the freeway. It was totally broken down, James. And that makes me wonder if you were maintaining it at all. I shudder to think when the last oil change was. And the money we gave Tracy could have been spent on a decent import in the first place.”

Oh shit.

“The past is done,” Paulette said. “But there is certainly money in the account for a house-keeper, detailing, and oil changes. Not to worry. And driving around on these freeways is scary at the best of times. So make extra sure that your little Toyota is well-conditioned.”

I thought of the Prius at the beauty salon.

“It’s called upkeep, and it’s something responsible adults are expected to do,” Peter said.

My face felt as red as the wine in my glass.

Peter turned to me, “James tells us you work in film?”

“Tracy’s a writer,” James said, irritated to the hilt.

“Oh,” Peter said. “Anything I would know?”

“Well, I’m not exactly at that stage yet,” I said.

“Not to worry – neither is James.”

I tried to stop my eyes from widening, but fell short.

The table soon felt like a funeral again.

“I’d love to see the short film you put together,” I offered.

Peter and Paulette shared a
look
– something akin to a silent groan.

“We usually don’t bring that up at meal-time,” Peter said.

“Oh – I’m sorry.”

Peter chuckled and assured me he was just kidding, but I felt the first trickle of sweat glide down my side.

“That was a fine exercise in bad planning,” Peter started. “We barely got into the short festival circuit let alone any sort of realistic distribution.”

I wanted to yell “CUT!” at the top of my lungs, scoop James into my arms, and lick away all of the wounds that were surely getting worse by the millisecond, but instead I simply smiled like someone who’d just been slapped silly.

“But I guess that’s what happens when the idea isn’t really there.”

“It was there, Dad.”

“It wasn’t there, James.”

“That’s because you came in and screwed with it until it was unrecognizable. The opposite of what I’d intended.”

“We were just trying to help, son. Get this dream of yours off the damn ground.”

“I didn’t need help.”

“Well, we thought you did. Stories about John Lennon hippies weren’t exactly hot-ticket items at that time.”

James sighed at his father like he was the hangman, and I realized I was casing the joint for the nearest emergency exit.

“I suppose it was an experience in terms of a learning curve, but certainly not a lesson in how profits are made.”

“Not everything is about profits,” James said.

“It is when you have dependents to support.”

I looked around the restaurant like a wild animal, wondering where on God’s green globe our waiter was hiding.

Peter turned to me, “But James is stubborn. There’s an amazing real estate opportunity for him back east but he refuses to even hear about it. It’s far beneath an artist, I suppose.”

“Well, uhm, uh,” I stammered, and then fell silent.

Our waiter finally emerged from the shadows with four chopped salads; I studied mine like it was a bar exam. I could only hope the gods of mercy would soon vaporize me on the spot.

“What is it that you enjoy most about writing?” Paulette suddenly asked.

It took me a couple of seconds to realize that the question was directed at me.

“Um, well. It’s like I…”

My bra was soaked on either side.

“Yes?” she said.

“I get to create something out of nothing.”

“Nothing, alright,” Peter said.

“Peter, behave,” Paulette said.

“It just sounds like they both have a God complex – that’s all.”

“Well, good for them. Now let the poor child speak.”

I sort of liked the fact that she referred to me as a child – a poor one. It made her questions far less threatening.

“Go on, Tracy – something out of nothing.”

“When I’m writing, life suddenly has great meaning. And I’m less empty inside.”

I tried to block Peter out of my peripheral vision.

“Well, that’s quite something,” she said. “I certainly hope you’ll allow me to read something you’ve written.”

“Tracy’s working on a script about space,” James said.

“Really? Is it science fiction?” she asked.

“Not Scientology, I hope?” Peter asked.

“No. It’s more about the depths within us,” I said.

“Oh dear,” Peter groaned.

Paulette ignored her husband and focused on me, “You’ve got the loveliest green eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’d really love to read your script sometime.”

“Actually,” James said, looking at his watch, “Tracy’s got to get back to it soon – very soon. Don’t you, Tracy?”

“Well…”

I looked over at James whose eyes were pleading with me to put an end to whatever it was this evening had become.

“Uh, yes, I certainly do. I have to get back to it as soon as possible.”

“We haven’t even ordered entrees,” Peter said.

Paulette studied James and me, and then she smiled, “These salads are more than I can handle anyway.”

“I’m ordering something substantial,” Peter said.

“Go ahead, dear. But perhaps these two have other places they need to be. Am I right, Tracy?”

“Well, Mrs. Howard, I would never want to kick a hovering muse in the teeth.”

James laughed and Paulette quickly concurred with me, although I wasn’t entirely convinced she knew what I was talking about.

chapter
14

W
E WERE NEARLY
stoned with relief.

James and I had raced down the street, hopped in a cab, and ordered the driver to take us to Griffith Park. We sat in silence in the back seat and I thought about how awesome Paulette was – helping us escape like that.

As we moved east, the streets grew noisy with traffic and angry shouting, but the dominant voice in my head belonged to Peter. He was carefully enunciating all of my failures in the order in which they occurred. I shuddered and looked to James for comfort, but his jaw was set in stone.

When we finally arrived at the park, he gave the cabbie a hundred dollar bill. I didn’t say a word – just took his hand in mine and walked him around in a large circle.

“That was brutal,” he said.

“I was sweating bullets the whole time. My bra’s a little sticky.”

“I’m really sorry about that.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“It’s pretty standard.”

“Well – your mother’s really something – totally clued in.”

James bent down to pick up a twig.

“I’m embarrassed, Tracy.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It’s so bad that I almost want to call it off with you.”

I stopped cold and stared at him with a mixture of horror and hopefulness – to call us
off
meant that we were actually on – and I so wanted to be on.

“My father emasculated me in front of you.”

“No, he didn’t. He just proved himself to be completely overbearing.”

“You’re trying to be nice.”

“I am not.”

James turned from me and started walking away.

“Wait!”

He kept walking.

“I think maybe your father wanted to be the artist!”

“Whatever!”

“Where are you going?” I called after him. “If you want to dump me, don’t blame it on your parents.”

He stopped at a picnic table and sat down. I quickly found myself sitting next to him.

“Are we even together, Tracy?”

“I thought so.”

“We’ve only known each other a few days.”

I had to grit my teeth to keep from scratching his face, “Fine – just fuck it then.”

“I’m a child, Tracy.”

I tried not to notice the dried clump of toothpaste on his collar, “You are not a child.”

“He’s so damn smug.”

“He’s just trying to do his duty, James.”

“Just like your parents are, right?”

“I don’t want to talk about any of this anymore.”

“I feel like I can’t really make anything work in this position.”

“So why can’t you change your position?”

“I don’t know how. Don’t you get it yet?”

“I guess not.”

“And now he’s even going to micro-manage how I take care of that damn car.”

I looked around at the big trees, trying to stifle my irritation, “So why don’t you get a bus pass?”

“Tracy – be serious.”

“I am.”

“This is L.A. – the city’s way too fucking big.”

“Other people take the bus.”

“People without money?”

“Sensible people who don’t want to be slaves to car payments, insurance payments, gas and repairs.”

“People without money.”

“It’s an option, James.”

“I’m not getting a bus pass.”

“Well, then why complain about the Prius? So your parents want you to take care of it – so what?”

“I don’t want to talk about the fucking car.”

He peeled away a section of loose paint from the table.

“Look James, we’re both a little screwed up and confused.”

I tried to hold his hand but he made his fingers go limp.

“Why take it out on me?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders and looked at me with eyes that turned all of my strong intentions to mush. And he continued looking at me until my flesh was covered in something that felt like desire but probably ran much deeper. I wondered if he knew this was the effect he had on me, and I wondered if I should try harder to be less obvious.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

“It’s cold and I was thinking we should get back.”

“Get back to what?”

“Someplace warm.”

“You’re leaving for the mid-west.”

“Not tonight.”

“Still.”

“Don’t bring up the mid-west right now.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t.”

He continued peeling the table until he had a small stack of old paint strips.

“I’m scared to go back, James.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m almost afraid of what I’ll find. Some buried truth that affects me somehow – that has always affected me.”

We both sat at the picnic table like a couple of rejected artists.

“This seat is cold and uncomfortable and hurts my ass,” I said.

“Do you respect me, Tracy?”

“Oh God, James. Haven’t we had this conversation?”

“It’s a simple question.”

“Of course I do,” I sighed.

“But?” he asked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You sighed as if you had more to say.”

I wanted to reach out and gently touch the curve of his eyelashes, the perfect frame for such intensity, “You’re being paranoid.”

“No – you have more to say.”

Maybe I did, but now was not the right time to say it.

“You think I’m a loser?”

“I do not.”

“You’re full of shit.”

I couldn’t believe that this man who so easily turned my knees to pudding could look at me with such accusing eyes, as if I were somehow the enemy.

“Excuse me?”

“What does it mean to be a man in the twenty-first century? Didn’t you ask me that?”

“Well I have no idea what it means to be a woman, James – or where I fit in. I’ve been struggling with these questions forever. I mean, marriage, kids – the whole thing. What does it even mean?”

He shrugged like it didn’t even matter – stood up from the table.

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t know.”