The Secret Keeping (22 page)

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Negotiating. Negotiating. Lydia had negotiated a soft option and a hairpin curve. It was now about twenty blocks away from her, engaged in thought, with its blond hair flowing on its very own breeze. That’s too far away for Lydia to see the woman halt in her tracks, search her hair, and suddenly remember the missing hairpin lying on the floor of the ladies’ lounge at Frank’s. Also too far away for Helaine to go back and retrieve it. She was just a few blocks from the waterfront.

A missing hairpin, life under a magnifying glass, her hair flowing in a golden wave of liberation, incriminating her somehow. Helaine rarely wore it down. She stood at the corner by the basketball park, rummaging in her purse for something, anything to tie it back with.

The boom boxes blared, the basketballs thumped against their backboards, rubber squeaked against the court, glistening bodies danced and groaned with joy in the bristling heat, with a rhythmic fwack, fwack, fwack of an orange rubber ball and a blur of arms and legs, the jubilant clink of men throwing themselves into the chain-linked fence, calling yeah and yo to the boom, boom, boom of a tireless bass. Twoong! Rim shot. Swish!

Basket. There was music everywhere Helaine turned. The tick, tack, tick of speed chess with the subsequent murmurs of disappointed tourists finding themselves caught in split second checkmates. Honking horns and tweeting cell phones were the birds of this jungle. No one paid them any mind. They didn’t trouble her today either. They blended nicely with the sizzle of the hot dog vendor, the twang of helium balloons that bounced over the heads of meandering pedestrians. She closed her purse…click…let the hair hang down on her shoulders…whenever I’m near you…I hear a symphony…she recognized strands of songs coming through the chain linked fence, and that one, too…your body is a wonderland…descending on her from one of those balconies; all the vaguely familiar tunes drifting happily toward her, delaying her, staying her, as they emanated from the sidewalk cafes, from the dark pubs with their rich blue notes…I cover the waterfront…she passed the T-shirt and tattoo parlors…are you strong enough to be my man…the sluggish crowd swallowing her up and keeping her presence there a secret. Helaine was lost in it…zip, zip, zip…the only one really moving, a brown beauty on roller skates with sleek muscular thighs, well toned biceps. She wove in and out of the street, onto the sidewalk, arms wide open, a strong back, like Lydia’s. With arms wide open…zip, zip, zip…arms wide open. At a standstill now, Helaine longed to be kept there, stuck with music and strangers until Sharon had no right to expect her anymore, till it was all over, till it was too late. Lydia’s phone number.

She had committed Lydia’s phone number to memory in the bathroom. She didn’t dare write it down someplace where it…swish…swish…tick…fwack…fwack…clank…sssssssst…oh…Sharon had no right…no right…sssst…twang…baby, baby…boom…boom…boom…she had absolutely no right to expect her anymore…I hear a symphony…zip…zip…zip…sssssssssst…twooong…oh, yes…Lydia’s telephone number yo…yo…yo…hey…rrrring…yeah…rrring…Lydia…tick, tack, tick, tick…tack, tick…checkmate…she wanted to call her right now…fwack…fwack…fwack…and swim in a big sea of blankets…twang…boom…boom…sssst…oh, baby, baby,…your body is a wonderland…uunnh…clang…rrring…fwack…thud…rrring…yo…yo… uunnh…boom…boom…sssssst…zip…zip…swish!

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Lydia walked slowly, feeling heavily compromised. (“The name of the game, Queenie.”) For the very first time she had solicited her father’s advice, albeit he didn’t know it, nor how she intended to use it. With his words in mind, she gave Helaine a week to tell her lover goodbye, making an exception for her, for the tender mouth, the soft lips swollen from all those kisses. She regretted parting with her and was actively hoping beyond hope that something wonderful would happen to prevent her from reaching her current destination, the flat where her lover lived, whose name she had forbidden her to speak. No, she didn’t want to know a thing about the creature. She never wanted to see her face again. And she didn’t trust her alone with Helaine and prayed to the powers that be for intervention.

The powers that be didn’t think her request was unreasonable. In fact, they wondered why it had taken her so long to make it. They had just scheduled a month of Indian summer simply because enough people had asked for it. After all, some people like it really hot. So hot, hot, hot it would be, well into autumn. As to the Kristenson-Chambers-Beaumont affair, they had already decided on a victor, so from here on in it was the winner’s to lose. Small favors for the contestants were definitely in the offing, they agreed, after only five minutes of deliberations. It was nice to be needed.

“Helaine!”

Who can that be? She turned, her hand raised to block the sun from her eyes.

“Helaine! Helaine!”

That sounded like Kay. Helaine squinted in the noonday sun. It was Kay! It was Robert and Kay crossing the street toward her.

“I didn’t recognize you with your hair down,” Robert said.

“I told you it was Helaine. You look fabulous. Have you eaten yet?”

“Yes–I mean no! What brings you two down here?”

“Such a nice day, that’s all.”

Kay groaned. “He loves it hot like this. I wilt. Let’s eat then, or are you heading somewhere?”

“No, no, just walking,” she lied. Let’s,” she urged. “There’s a lovely place down by the water.” She glanced at her watch. “We won’t need reservations now. It’s almost two o’clock.”

“Seafood I hope? I’m in the mood for fish,” Robert said. “I’m hungry enough to eat a shark.”

Helaine laughed, glancing down Sharon’s street as they passed it. It must be a good omen running into them when she did, she mused. Fate. Destiny.

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Lydia was only a few blocks from home by now. She had meandered the whole way, stopping at the vegetable stands and chitchatting with the sidewalk vendors. She stopped at a brilliant flower stall, bought some red gladiolas. She didn’t mind the heat. It seemed to bring the people out and she needed to see people right now. The idea of being alone made her feel sad and lonely and she knew once inside…she hesitated at her building. Oh, it would be cool inside. There was work to be done. That could take her mind off of things for awhile. The flowers were dripping wet leaving her skin and clothes misty where she held them. Her nerves tingled and she was convinced that somehow she would feel it if it happened–she would know the minute that someone else was making love to the woman.

The doorman pushed open the door and held it for her. “Ms. Beaumont,” he greeted, steaming in his uniform.

A cold breeze rushed at her. Nah. She did not want to be alone.

“You have a visitor,” he said, pointing toward the lobby.

She peered cautiously inside. “Del! Thank god.”

“Look at you, Liddy. You look fabulous. Why thank god?”

“Just thank god. Boy am I glad to see you. Tell me, why did we never marry?”

“I was waiting for you to lose your cherry.”

Lydia gasped and grinned. “Oh, my gosh, you’re fresh,” she said, shoving the wet bouquet into her friend’s arms. “There’s probably a law against you.”

“At least one! Have you eaten, yet?”

“No–yes–I mean no!”

“No. Yes. Here, let’s try this again. Have you eaten yet–you’ve done something haven’t you? And don’t tell me no. I always know when you’re fibbing.”

“No. Eaten, I mean.” The elevator doors opened at the penthouse and she fumbled at her door. “I’ve done something? It shows?”

“Yah! Let me put these in water and we’ll go eat then. Yes, something. Something blond methinks.”

“Oh, Del. I am in love with that woman.”

“Is that Love, L-U-V?”

“Oh,” she said, losing the smile. “At least that. Yes, I’d say so. At the very least.”

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In her dream, Helaine half lay, half sat on the couch in her consultation room. She was spilling her guts to Dr. Kristenson who sat poised and neutral in the red leather armchair, her penetrating eyes focused on something just behind Helaine’s head, her lips fixed with a Mona Lisa smile. The inimitable Dr. Kristenson–herself.

“Oh, come on, Helaine,” she said cheerfully, her lips never moving as she spoke, “You know what an archetype is.”

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In his dream, Joseph Rios leisurely ate breakfast on a sunny patio with Lydia Beaumont. They sat at a wrought iron table with matching chairs, between them a large vase of long stem roses, as red as her lips. She was pregnant. His wife.

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In her dream, Sharon Chambers caught Helaine and the blue-eyed woman at Frank’s making out in the ladies’ lounge. There was something written on the bathroom mirror, but she couldn’t read it. It was impossible to pull the two of them apart. She glimpsed herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red from crying.

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In his dream, Harold D’Angello, the maitre de at Frank’s Place, made love to his wife, dead of cancer these long five years. With her red hair hanging on her naked shoulders, she was just as beautiful as ever.

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In her dream, Lydia Beaumont wrote “I love Helaine Kristenson” in red lipstick on a bright blue sky, the letters floating dreamily over the city, looking just like an advertisement left by a skywriter.

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In his dream, Lawrence Taft, the balding private eye, saw Helaine Kristenson wearing the tight red dress and stiletto heels he had apparently bought for her. He was afraid to lose sight of the blond so he held her about the waist as they crossed the street together. He tried to concentrate on the traffic, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off those legs.

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In her dream, Delilah Lewiston was in a sailboat with her best friend, Lydia, drinking red wine and breaking bread when she noticed a storm coming up fast on the horizon, the shore a mere pencil line, so far away from them that there simply wasn’t enough time to get the vessel back to safety.

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In his dream, Robert Keagan was on a sailboat with his best friend, Helaine, drinking red wine and breaking bread when he noticed a storm coming up fast on the horizon, the shore a mere pencil line, so far away from them that he wasn’t certain there was enough time to get the vessel back to safety.

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In her dream, Kay Keagan was on a sailboat with her best friend, Helaine, drinking red wine and breaking bread. A brief storm had just passed over them and it had forced the vessel somewhat further inland than they had wanted to be.

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He was in love with Lydia Beaumont. But, unlike most people in love, he didn’t know it. And, unlike most people in love, it was having a deleterious effect on his life, compounded by the fact that the woman abhorred him and refused to even look his way. He could put his head in her paper shredder and he doubted she would even call an ambulance.

Rio Joe sat downcast in the sauna of the men’s club examining himself after an unsatisfactory game of squash. He was convinced that his penis was smaller, that the testicles, too, had mysteriously shrunken, were more flaccid than they ought to be, or than he remembered. The night before he had mistakenly called his date “Lydia” as he screwed her. Worse, she knew who Lydia was. His cheek was still stinging this morning when he woke up. And the bed, of course, was empty. For weeks now he had been wrestling a sickening sensation in his stomach. Nothing–not sex, not masturbation, not playing squash, not boiling the woman out of his system in a sauna–seemed to bring him any relief. He was so distracted by his condition that he had even fucked up at work. Papers were flying at him now like he was caught in a hurricane and the demands for his explanation were piled sky high on his desk. He was drowning in bullshit. And the bitch queen–still wearing his bracelet, the snake one, with its tail in its mouth–acting like it’s no big deal, with her red roses from some dickhead. Some dickhead reaping all the benefits of his expertise. Shit! Now she won’t even say hello. Aw, baby! If he could get his hands on her. If he could be inside her just one more time, hear her moaning, whispering his name to him, dying in his arms. If he could snatch just a few more I-love-you’s from her fabulous mouth, her lips, her tongue. Smell her. Everything would be sweet again. Jesus, to hear those dying breaths! Mmm…mmm...mmm. How he missed them. Nobody, but nobody, fucked like Lydia Beaumont did. She was absolutely made for it. He smiled without realizing, his penis standing at attention and waiting for an order, the tip of it glistening with futility. Another false alarm.

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Her flight was at seven. Helaine was a no-show at the flat. Sharon felt more than a little jilted when she woke up from her nap at half past five. She had told the doctor over lunch that she had to fly back to LA and had looked forward to a little physical therapy before leaving. That bitch queen in the bathroom–had no fucking clue who she was talking to–kiss my ass!

The stress of all this crap was beginning to show in the mirror. She saw the cheerless face in the looking glass, the bleary eyes, bloodshot and veined with a bluish tint beneath them. So? It’s the strung-out look all the young ones are wearing. She threw some things in a bag and called a cab, dialing Helaine’s place after that to leave a message. It rang and rang and rang…

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An archetype? Of course Dr. Kristenson knows what an archetype is. It was the statement that plagued her so much and the unanswerable question that remained upon waking: Who is the archetype in question?

Lydia? Sharon?

What were her archetypes anyway? It would have to be father and mother. No brothers, no sisters. A few aunts and uncles she rarely saw. Neither grandparents were alive when she was born. It had always been the three of them: her elderly parents and she their little miracle.

She was an only child, born in the autumn of her parents’ years, her happy people, happily married till death did they part...within six months of each other. Happy, but not rich, although surely not poor. At least not dirt poor. These original models, her prototypes, they never prepared her for anything but happiness. So why unhappiness then? Why Sharon?

She had run free as a child. Nothing displeased her parents, nothing tarnished their parental pride in their blessed offspring and she never disappointed them. Not “Lana.” Lana, the happy baby, the golden child, the homecoming queen, the college grad, the doctor, the author, the millionaire, the self-made woman going into the Twenty-first Century, her parents gone now, friendly apparitions housed in the landscape of her mind, sheltered in a home on that landscape, but without hidden rooms or locked doors or skeletons, a happy house filled with happy exchanges. Nothing had ever been left unsaid, no dark secrets kept from her parents.