This One Is Mine: A Novel (7 page)

S
ALLY WAS FOUR BLOCKS FROM
J
EREMY’S BUILDING WHEN SHE STARTED LOOKING
for a parking space. His street was nothing but apartments, which meant there was never any place to park. It made Sally want to scream. She trolled the endless stretch of crammed cars and had to remind herself: when Jeremy became a giant TV star and they were married and living in Beverly Hills, she’d be
nostalgic
for the days she fretted over finding a parking space in the valley.

A car pulled out — smack in front of Jeremy’s building! Sally gunned it and waved to the exiting Cadillac. The old boat had left so much room that Sally was able to glide right in, headfirst, without having to go into reverse even once. She turned off the ignition, then thought of something: if this was her one allotment of good luck for the day, did she really want to waste it on a parking space? Maybe she should park somewhere else. A car pulled up alongside her. The driver gave Sally an exasperated are-you-staying-or-are-you-going look and threw up her hands. That settled it. No way was Sally going to gift this biotch with a primo parking space. She pulled the key out of the ignition.

In Jeremy’s courtyard, she came upon the mailman sorting mail. “Apartment Two G?” she asked. “I’ll take that.” She plucked Jeremy’s bundle and rolled off the rubber band. Bulk mail coupons, a reminder from his dentist, a Visa bill — Sally felt a pang at the mere sight of a boyfriend’s Visa bill.

Once, during the final throes of her relationship with Kurt, she had steamed open his Visa bill. Orders for the leather jackets weren’t coming in as expected, and Sally had been forced to take out a second credit card to pay off the first. Then one day, lo and behold, Kurt — whose signature look was vintage Hawaiian shirts — traipsed out of the bedroom wearing a new one. “Where did that come from?” she asked. “I’ve had it forever,” he said, rattling the pen cup for the black Sharpie he used to paint his gray hairs. “Well, why haven’t I seen it before?” “Maybe you weren’t looking.” After Kurt left for work, Sally ransacked their wastebaskets and even the big cans in back to find proof he’d recently bought the shirt, but came up empty. Then his Visa bill appeared in the mail. She steamed it open and discovered an eighty-five-dollar charge from Wasteland, his favorite vintage-clothing store. She drove to the boot shop where he worked and confronted him. But he totally turned it around and used this “invasion of privacy” as his basis to dump her!

Sally tucked Jeremy’s Visa bill into his other mail and knocked on 2G.

Jeremy opened the door. “You don’t have to knock,” he said. “You have a key.”

“I know.” She gave him a big kiss. “I just don’t want to barge in on anything.”

“There’s nothing to barge in on. You’ve already seen me naked.”

Sally laughed. “You’re so sweet. Here’s the mail.”

“How was your class this morning?”

“I had forty-five people,” Sally said. “They were spilling next door into the hip-hop class. My manager couldn’t believe it.”

“That’s really great,” he said. He tried to shut the door, but it caught on his shoe. Sally wished he’d get rid of those clunky docksiders with the gigantic gummy soles. But he had resisted her attempts to make him over. She finally had to resort to stuffing his
really
geeky clothes between his mattress and box spring. Unfortunately, the dumb shoes were too bulky to hide. Maybe if they went to a shoe store together, Sally could innocently suggest he try on some cross-trainers. . . .

“Hey, I need some new sneakers,” she said. “After lunch maybe we could drive to that running store.”

“I write my column after lunch.”

As if she hadn’t noticed! Every day, Jeremy woke up, read two newspapers, ate his breakfast, checked his sports websites, walked to Hamburger Hamlet for lunch, came home, wrote his column, then walked to El Torito and watched sports at a corner table while he ate a cheese quesadilla. Yes, it was boring. On the upside, Sally didn’t have to spend her whole life driving around to check if he really was where he said he was.

“Of course
after
you write your column, silly.”

There was a knock. It was Jeremy’s friend Vance, who joined them for lunch every Wednesday.

“Surprise, surprise,” she said.

Vance had been Jeremy’s roommate at Cal Poly Pomona. An inveterate gambler, Vance would drag Jeremy to Santa Anita, where he had discovered Jeremy’s genius at handicapping horses. It was Vance who had persuaded a friend at the
LA Times
to give Jeremy a column.

“You’re three minutes late,” Jeremy said to Vance.

“I know. Traffic.” Vance winked at Sally. Not a lascivious wink, but in shared appreciation of Jeremy.

The trio walked down Van Nuys Boulevard, Jeremy working himself up about the upcoming NCAA tournament while Vance listened. Sally could understand why, when it was just Jeremy and her, he did all the talking about sports. The odd thing was, even when Jeremy was with someone who shared his interest in sports, he still did all the talking. And so loudly, at that. She wished he’d stop wearing earplugs.

They passed the usual line of people waiting to get into a hole-in-the-wall falafel place. “Hey, guys!” Sally called ahead. “I want to try this place for a change.”

She entered the tiny restaurant, put her warm-up jacket on the only empty table, then went back outside to stand in line. Jeremy and Vance weren’t there. To her astonishment, she spotted them across Ventura, heading into Hamburger Hamlet. Without her! Sally went to the corner and shouted across the boulevard. “Jeremy!”

He stopped and turned.

“Didn’t you hear me? I want to eat here.”

“I always go to Hamburger Hamlet,” he shouted back. The signal invited him to
WALK
across the street, but he stayed on the curb.

“I know that!” she yelled over the crossing pedestrians. “But I want to try someplace new.”

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll be at Hamburger Hamlet.”

“Jeremy!” she screamed.

“Do you need money?” he asked.

“I have money! I thought we were going to have lunch
together
.”

“Me, too,” he said. “But you want to go to lunch by yourself.” Jeremy turned and walked inside Hamburger Hamlet. Vance ran through the blinking
DON’T WALK
sign.

“Falafel is a great idea,” he told her. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t want to have lunch with you!”

Vance looked as if he was formulating something to say, then sucked in his lips. “Okay, then.” He crossed the street and disappeared into Hamburger Hamlet.

Sally felt as if she might faint. What was happening? It didn’t make sense. She and Jeremy had been going out three whole weeks, and he still hadn’t said “I love you.” And now this? Didn’t Jeremy realize he’d never do better than Sally? She was thin — and sweet! She was a dancer! Why wasn’t he terrified of letting her get away? She didn’t understand. It literally left her dizzy. She braced herself against a lamppost.

The first time she had felt this way, she was three and David was reading her
Goodnight Moon
. They bid goodnight to the various things in the room. “Goodnight kittens / And goodnight mittens. Goodnight mush / And goodnight to the old lady whispering ‘hush.’” Then, they turned the page and it was blank. The words read “Goodnight nobody.” What did that mean? How did you say goodnight to
nobody?
Was
nobody
in the room with them now? After David put her to bed, would
nobody
still be there? That night, Sally couldn’t sleep, imagining
nobody
settling in, breathing up all her air; not knowing if, at any moment,
nobody
would swallow her up.

Not knowing. It was the one thing Sally couldn’t tolerate. Then something occurred to her: she had a way of finding out.

She let go of the post, retrieved her warm-up jacket from the restaurant, and headed back to Jeremy’s apartment. She only had forty-five minutes until they returned. She decided to run.

V
IOLET
arrived at Kate Mantilini before one so she could score a booth. The busboy brought some of their fabulous sourdough bread. A week ago, Violet would have slathered it with butter and wolfed down the entire half loaf. But not today. Today she was flying. Today she was meeting Teddy. Her pulse raced. She felt utterly relaxed. This was where she belonged, right here, sitting in this booth, waiting for him.

The glass door opened. Through the sea of waiting people flashed pieces of Teddy. He made his way to the hostess and said something. She threw back her long, flat hair and laughed. Violet waved, but couldn’t tell if Teddy saw her. He wore lopsided mirrored sunglasses that were too big for his face. Violet waved again. Teddy leaned in to the hostess and whispered. She whispered back. Teddy lifted his shirt. His stomach was a rich brown, with a treasure trail of dark hair running from his belly below the waist of his pants. The hostess slapped Teddy’s hand and giggled. Violet sprang to her feet, but the edge of the thick table rammed her gut. She waved both hands. Finally, Teddy surveyed the room and spotted her. He stuffed his pockets with mints and toothpicks and pointed Violet out to the hostess, who shoved him on his way.

Violet got her first clean look at her lunch date. His hair was unbrushed. He wore a sleeveless cowboy shirt, long black sweat shorts, and . . . huaraches. His shirt had fresh threads hanging from the armholes, as if he’d ripped off the sleeves on the car ride over. Violet had picked this bustling showbiz watering hole because there might be people she knew here, as if to prove there was nothing sneaky about her rendezvous. But as Teddy neared, her terror grew. What if someone she knew
did
see her with this motley character? She needed an alibi: he could be a friend of a friend — who wanted to break into TV — who had just gotten out of rehab — and couldn’t afford clothes — it was charity work for the Writers Guild Foundation — mentoring at-risk minorities —

“I figured out about you.” Teddy slid into the booth across from her. “You’re a Deadhead who took some really good acid, and your life is now one big magical hallucination.”

Violet caught that Goodwill whiff again. “I’ll think about that,” she said, breathing through her mouth. A waitress passed carrying plates of food. Violet practically yelled, “Hi! We’re in a hurry!”

“What can I get you to drink?” asked the waitress.

“Some codeine cough syrup,” Teddy said.

“If we had any,” the waitress replied, “it would be long gone by now.”

“Don’t I know it.” Teddy held up his hand. The waitress transferred the plates to one arm and high-fived him.

“I’ll have an iced tea,” Violet said flatly.

“Make that two.” Teddy watched the waitress leave, then stretched his arms across the back of the booth. “So, Baroness, what brings you here?”

“How’s your car driving?”

“Fucking awesome. You have no idea what it’s like for me to not have to worry about it breaking down.”

“Your mother never taught you to write thank-you notes?”

“I had no way to get in touch with you.”

“The mechanic knows my phone number and address. You could have asked him.”

“Wow,” Teddy said. “You really wanted to be thanked, didn’t you?” His hair was ripe with grime and flecks that shimmered pink and blue under the hot halogen bulbs.

“I’m just saying it’s kind of white trash of you.”

“I’m the only thing worse than white trash,” Teddy said. “Half-Mexican white trash.”

Violet found herself smiling.

“You totally did miracle me,” Teddy said. “I have no idea how I can ever repay you.”

“One day you’re going to have to step up.”

“Shit,” Teddy said with a twitch. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure,” she answered. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be with money. At some point, you’ll just step up and do the right thing. When the time comes, you’ll know.”

“You mean like one day I’ll have to drive you to the airport?”

“Oh, it’s going to be a lot more than a ride to the airport.”

The hostess led several black people to a table. Teddy waited for them to pass, then leaned in. “You know what I ask myself when I see niggers eating in a place like this?”

Violet quickly looked around to make sure nobody had heard. “I hope you ask yourself, Why do I keep using that word?”

“I know,” he said. “It’s bad. But when I was a junkie, that’s who I’d hang around with. Everything was, nigger this, nigger that. I was living on the streets, so I was lower than a nigger. I forget I’m not there anymore.”

“On behalf of Emily Post? Try keeping it to a minimum.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Now, you were saying. . . .”

“You want to know what I think when I see niggers eating in a place like this?”

Violet buried her smile in her hands and peered up. “You seemed determined to tell me.”

“I think, How did they get this kind of money?”

“Money? This place is just for assistants and development girls.”

“Gee, thanks a lot for the invite!” He laughed.

Violet studied him. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah. I have this crazy girlfriend who I’m about to break up with. She’s a performance artist. Her name’s Coco.” Teddy raised his eyebrows and added, “Coco
Kennedy
.”

“Of the Hyannisport Kennedys?”

“Of the John-John Kennedys. He was her cousin.”

It all clicked for Violet: her attraction to Teddy
wasn’t
an aberration. He was objectively charming and desirable: to the hostess, to the waitress, even to American royalty. Coco Kennedy most likely had a plethora of glamorous suitors, yet she chose Teddy. “Really? A Kennedy?”

“Don’t tell me you’re obsessed with John-John, too?” he said.

“I met him a few times in New York, like everybody did. But I’d hardly consider myself obsessed.”

“Good. Because I would barf if someone classy like you fell for those Kennedy poseurs.”

“I’m not sure the first word that comes to mind to describe the Kennedys is
poseurs
.”

Teddy rolled his eyes. “Why does God keep bringing people into my life who don’t see bullshit for what it is?”