Going Home Part 14

On Wednesday, the opening of the horse show was similar to the opening of the opera, from a social standpoint. It was something to see, and someplace to be seen. Matt was as charming as ever, but I thought the polish was beginning to wear a bit thin. I was already bored with his scene. Afterward, we dined at La Caravelle, where again everyone bowed and sc.r.a.ped to "Monsieur Eeentone." And the newspapers were kinder this time than they had been the first, though they didn't ignore us entirely. They merely made note of our existence by publishing a photograph of our attendance. But this time Peg didn't call.

On Thursday, I appeared for my interview with Milt Howley. He was living in a penthouse at the United Nations Plaza and for a brief moment, as I braced myself for the interview, I stood on the sidewalk and gazed upward, impressed once again with the towering heights of New York. Everything was up, everything was big. There was a breathless, overwhelming b.i.t.c.hiness to it, and every minute of every day you knew that you were "there." It was the Mecca. It was Sodom, it was h.e.l.l and the Garden of Eden, and, like any other human being with a thrill for life, I was enthralled. And I knew then that even if I left the city the next day, never to return, for one brief moment I had looked at a building fifty stories high, and New York and I had come to terms. It was just what I had said I would do as our plane had landed in New York. I had the city by the b.a.l.l.s. But it had me by the throat.

I was let into Milt Howley's apartment by a tiny, blonde girl who was Howley's current "old lady," as he put it. His mistress. And from that point on, a whirlwind day began. He ran from Rockefeller Center for a meeting to Doubleday's to autograph records, to his agent's office to sign contracts, to a three o'clock lunch at Mama Leone's, where between the salad and the spumoni I managed to squeeze in some interview time. He was an interesting man. He had started singing blues in Chattanooga, Tennessee, ten years before and had made a minor hit in Hollywood before being lured into the protest scene which landed him in jail thirty-seven times and kept him so busy he let his career slip. But now he was up, Mr. Superstar, three alb.u.ms in one year that had sold over a million copies each, two movie contracts, and appearances in Las Vegas, Hollywood, and New York. The whole bit.

After lunch, I rode to the airport with him in a rented limousine. He was going to the White House for dinner. It was exhausting and exhilarating and I liked him. He was all man, and he had been good to interview. He was direct and human and had a raucous sense of humor which made the pressure of his schedule more bearable.

His valet had put his suitcase in the car during the afternoon, and as we drove to the airport he calmly answered my questions as he checked its contents and took care of a double bourbon, seeming totally unfl.u.s.tered by the fact that he was in a moving car, having a drink, being interviewed, and on his way to have dinner with the President. He had a lot of style.

The last I saw of him was as he went through the gate to his plane and stooped to kiss my cheek while he purred in my ear. "You're one all right woman, Gillian . . . for a honky chick."

I laughed and waved as he got on the plane. I had exactly seventy-one minutes to get to Hilary's.

When Hilary opened the door, she looked wonderful. A mixture of Henri Bendel and Paris and Hilary. Put together to perfection, the kind of woman other women envy but that make men feel a little uncomfortable-they wouldn't want to get her hair messed up. She is the kind of woman who spends a lot of time with h.o.m.os.e.xuals, other women, and old friends. All her lovers are temporary, some of them indecently young, but very attractive, and most become friends eventually. Hilary must be hard to love. I would have felt sorry for her, except I wouldn't have dared. Pity was something you did not dare to think about in the company of Hilary Price. Respect was more like it. In fact, a feeling akin to what my grandmother had inspired. Tough, b.a.l.l.sy women like that make you stand taller, command their due. These are the women whom friends put on pedestals, the same women who would do anything for those friends with one hand while castrating their men and their sons with the other.

Hilary has an incredible amount of style. Everything she touches is done to perfection: her manicure, her home, the dinners she prepares, her work, and her friendships. There is another side of Hilary which is cold, and could be very cruel, but she reserves that for the people who cross her. I have never had the occasion to incur her wrath, and for that I'm grateful. I have seen her take people apart verbally, and it is formidable and terrifying to watch. Perhaps it is that that men sense, which makes them keep their distance, or move on quickly.

Hilary and I have never had the sloppy ease with each other that I share with Peg or some of my other friends. I wouldn't pick my teeth, use all the curse words I might otherwise, or show up at her house in blue jeans and a ragged sweat shirt. But I share something else with Hilary which I do not share with the others. The others have known me as a child, and there is still much of the schoolgirl in all of us when we meet-we still look upon our relationships with each other in the same spirit that they began. The friendship with Hilary, however, began when we were both grown up, so perhaps we expect more of each other. Besides, Hilary as a schoolgirl is unthinkable, unless she went to school in Chanel suits, with perfectly arranged hair. I just can't imagine Hilary playing hockey. In the drawing room of Mme. de Sevigne surely, but not on the hockey field looking the way we had.

We had an hour and a half to talk before the first guest arrived, and we covered most of what we wanted to know and say. Hilary mentioned briefly and without much pa.s.sion that she had a new beau. A young German boy named Rolfe. He was a poet, younger than she, and a "beautiful child," according to Hilary. He was expected for dinner. She continued to live alone because it suited her better. And I envied her that. That sort of thing would never suit me better. Hilary's dream princes were all dead and gone, if they had ever existed. Mine was still waiting in the wings of my dreams. For however much I may have loved Chris, he was a far cry from a dream prince, even to me.

I had planned not to talk about Chris, but Hilary brought it up while she was making her second drink. "Gillian, if it's going to work out, it will. And better yet, if it works out on your terms. And if not, hard as it is for you to think that way, try and believe that you haven't lost a great deal. I'm sure Chris is a charming boy, but I don't think he's for you. Frankly, I think you deserve better. And you need the kind of things Chris will never be able to give you. He's too much like me, he doesn't believe in the kind of things you believe in, and I don't think you're ready to stop believing in them either. But whichever way you go, I want you to know I'm around to help, or to listen. I can't tell you much more than that."

Hilary's words touched me, but it disturbed me that she should think Chris wasn't good enough for me. He was, he was . . . I wanted him to be, no matter how much I had to swallow, or bend over backward. I still wanted it to work.

Hilary then walked over to her library, looked for something for a few minutes while I gathered my thoughts, and came back with a book in her hands. Leather bound and very old, it looked like something Hilary, or my grandmother, would have. "Here, this may sound trite to you, but there's a great deal of truth in that," and she held it out, open to the fly leaf, where a strong hand had written in brown ink: He who bends to himself a joy,

Doth the winged life destroy;

But he who kisses the joy as it flies,

Lives in Eternity's sunrise.

and it was signed with the initial L., and a date.

"That was the first man I ever slept with, Gillian. He was thirty years older than I, I was seventeen at the time. He was the greatest concert violinist in Europe, and I loved him so much I thought I'd die when he told me that I was 'a big girl now' and he felt I didn't need him anymore. I wanted to die, but I didn't. One never does, and I have learned that there's a great deal of truth in those words. I live by them."

I was moved, and was still holding the book in my hands when the doorbell rang. Hilary got up to answer it, and in walked a tall good-looking boy about three years younger than I, with blond hair and big green eyes. He had the grace of a very young boy, with none of the awkwardness. It was a totally sensual pleasure to watch him, and a little embarra.s.sing to watch him stare adoringly at Hilary. This was Rolfe. He kissed my hand, called me "Madame," and made me feel a thousand years old. Except this was what Hilary expected, what she liked. It put no strain on her. And in a brief flashback, I realized that she had become her concert violinist, the man she had loved twenty years before. She sent all these little boys on their way when she felt they didn't need her anymore, like a dancing mistress at a finishing school. It was an odd realization, and I wondered if she gave them each a bronze plaque inscribed with the lines I had just read as their graduation present. It was a funny thought, and I giggled, which snapped Hilary's attention toward me and made Rolfe look confused, as though he might have said something he shouldn't have. Poor Rolfe.

The rest of the guests arrived shortly thereafter. Another editor from Hilary's office, an extremely elegant Italian girl, Paola di San Fraschino, the daughter of some n.o.bleman or other. She spoke charming English and was obviously very well-bred. After her, a lively girl who looked very horsey, had a rather odd laugh, but a kind face. She had just published her second book and didn't look at all the type. She had a very definite sense of humor and livened up the group considerably. Her husband was a music critic for an English paper, and they had the air of country squires about them. She wore some kind of caftan with Moroccan jewelry, had none of the super chic of either Paola or Hilary, but nevertheless a certain style. And her husband had none of the ethereal qualities of Rolfe, which was refreshing. I was beginning to find the golden poet a little hard to talk to. The doorbell rang twice more after that, once for a terribly pompous but good-looking Frenchman who owned an art gallery on Madison Avenue, and the last time for Gordon Harte, who seemed to know Paola and Rolfe. He and Hilary embraced, and he then proceeded to the bar to make his own drink, looking very much at home. Much more so than Rolfe, who looked as though he was not allowed to touch anything without Hilary's permission. Before doing anything, or opening his mouth to speak, Rolfe seemed to check with Hilary first, and it made me nervous. It reminded me of the way I had been when I got married, and it was embarra.s.sing to watch someone else doing it.

The evening pa.s.sed delightfully. It was like flying back and forth on a trapeze, being part of an acrobatic act. We rushed from j.a.panese literature to French tapestries, to the new rages in Paris, to Russell Baker's latest editorials, to the political implications of American literature vs Russian literature at the turn of the century, on to h.o.m.os.e.xuality in Italy, and speculation as to the demise of the Church and organized religion in our society . . . on to Oriental cults, yoga philosophy, and the I Ching. It was exhausting and exhilarating, the kind of evening you can only stand about once every six months. It takes you that long to get all your faculties refurbished afterward. It was a typical evening chez Hilary, with people from the arts, and publishing, and a smattering of literati.

The lady writer and Gordon impressed me the most. They seemed knowledgeable, and informed, but more down to earth than the others. Infinitely more aware of "reality," something which had become important to me since my days with Chris. My days of enjoying the purely theoretical were over. And I had come to have a healthy respect for the real.

Gordon took me back to the hotel, and we spoke of nothing in particular, the excessive intellectualism of the evening having been dispelled when the group disbanded to go home. As we reached the hotel I expected him to invite me for a drink. But he didn't. Instead, he looked down at me and said, "How about dinner tomorrow?" He looked suddenly vulnerable, and kind. And I wanted to have dinner with him.

"I'd love to."

"Good. I'll give you a call in the morning and let you know what time. I have a meeting with John at five, so I doubt if it will be much before eight."

"Suits me. Thank you, Gordon. And thanks for the lift home. Goodnight."

I could hardly wait till dinner the next evening, and as I rode up in the elevator I made a mental note to buy a new dress.

21.

Where are you going, Mommy?"

"Out to dinner, love."

"Again?" Ouch. Oh, Sam. . . .

"Yes. But I promise to be home this weekend." Meager compromise.

"Is that a new dress?"

"What is this? The inquisition?"

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're asking a lot of questions, Sam."

"Well, is it a new dress?"

"Yes."

"I like it."

"Well, that's a relief. Thank you." She was sprawled on the couch and checking me out with a critical eye.

"You know, you're getting fatter in the middle, Mom. You don't look skinny like you used to."

"What do you mean fatter?" My heart sank. I didn't think I showed yet.

"Just a little. Don't worry." The phone rang then and I kissed Sam on the top of her head.

"I won't. Now you go take your bath and I'll answer the phone. Scram." She took off, and for a sad instant I thought it might be Gordon calling off our plans. He would be held over at the office, or had been poisoned at lunch, or had broken an ankle, something . . . like cold feet maybe, or another date . . . That's okay, Gordon . . . I understand . . . but what about my new dress?

"h.e.l.lo? . . . Yes, Operator, this is she. . . . h.e.l.lo, Chris. . . . Yes. . . . What's up? . . . No, I am not uptight . . . no . . . no . . . I'm alone. . . . Okay, okay. . . . I was just getting ready to go out to dinner. . . . What the h.e.l.l do you mean 'it didn't take me long'? . . . Just dinner with a friend of Hilary's (why did I have to put it that way?) . . . No, he is not a greasy Italian count, he works at the magazine Woman's Life. . . . You know, I think you could really hold off on those remarks. For someone who's living with a girl, you're awfully touchy, dearest. . . . Oh really? . . . And why is that so different? . . . Would you like me to tell you why? . . . Hardly. I'm still pregnant, or have you forgotten that little detail? . . . It's not too late for what? . . . Forget it, that's out of the question. . . . How's Marilyn? Okay, I don't want to hear about it. . . . Don't explain, Christopher. It's very clear as it is. . . . Leaving? . . . When? . . . I'll believe it when I see it. . . . Look, Chris, will you please get off my back about tonight. . . . I'm here because you wanted me here, it wasn't my idea. . . . All right we'll talk about something else. . . . Wouldn't want to get Uncle Chris upset, would we? . . . She's fine. . . . Yes, she still asks for you. . . . Concerned with our little family tonight aren't we? . . . Why? . . . Marilyn giving you a rough time???? . . . Look, Chris, I think it'd be better if you didn't call for a while. I can't take it. It just makes things worse. You've got Marilyn, you don't need me, and I can't handle it. I'll call you. . . . Oh, I see, fine. . . . Look, go to h.e.l.l, you've got her, so just get off my back, please. . . . Write to me then. . . . No, I'm seeing the doctor next week. I guess everything's okay, I don't know. . . . A little tired, but okay. . . . Chris, how are you really? . . . I miss you so G.o.ddam much I can't stand it. . . . No, that is not why I'm going out with Hilary's friend. . . ." The doorbell rang then, and I panicked. "Look, Chris, I've got to go. I'll call you . . . Okay, okay, fine. . . . No, don't call . . . all right then, call. . . . Not till Monday? . . . Oh that's right, the weekend . . . I forgot. . . . Look, I have to get off the G.o.ddam phone. I love you. . . . Chris? . . . Yeah, baby, I know. . . ." It was quite a phone call, with Gordon waiting at the door.

Gordon and I had a wonderful evening. He took me to a tiny Italian restaurant somewhere in the east twenties and then we went uptown to a penthouse restaurant on Central Park South for a drink. The restaurant was housed in a faceless little office building and the moment we stepped off the elevator it was like entering another world. The decor was East Indian. A girl in a gold sari greeted us and parted richly embroidered curtains to lead us into the rooms beyond. There was a heavy aroma of incense in the air, the tables were long and low, and the room seemed to pulsate with a music I didn't understand but couldn't help but respond to. It made me want to sway and close my eyes, in rhythm to the sensual sounds of the East. There was a single rose on each table, and the waiters were tall and dark, many of them had beards, and some wore turbans.

We drank exotic drinks and I looked at the view in silence. It seemed as though everywhere one went in New York there was a new vista to be seen. This one from yet another angle, facing north, Central Park lying below like a child's toy bedecked with Christmas lights, and framed by the buildings on three sides of the park. I felt a million miles from anywhere I'd ever been, and the scenery beyond the windows was merely a skillfully achieved decor, meant to remind one of New York, and nothing more.

Gordon ordered a delicate white wine and rose cakes, and after the waiter served us and proceeded to disappear Gordon held my eyes for what seemed an interminable time. It was as though he were asking questions without using words, and perhaps finding his own answers.

"Why didn't you stay out West, Gillian?" He looked as though he already knew, but his gaze continued to hold mine as he waited for me to answer.

"I wanted to come back."

"That is not the truth. All right then, did you run away? I imagine that you'd be capable of that."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean. But, no, I didn't run away. I just came back."

"Because of a man?" I hesitated for a long moment and then nodded.

"And you? Why did you leave Spain?" t.i.t for tat.

"I was hungry."

"Now you're not telling the truth." I smiled at him and pulled the rose from its vase to finger the petals.

"Well, let's just say that the time for me to be there was past."

"Did you run away? Or did she?" It seemed the right question to ask in view of what he had asked me.

"Neither and both. She committed suicide, and after that I ran away." His face held a quiet sadness, but none of the shock I felt. He was the most incredibly direct man I'd ever met.

"I'm sorry, Gordon." I looked away, sorry we had begun the questioning. It was a dangerous game to play. We both had our painful pasts.

He looked away, a sad, serious look on his face. And I couldn't see his eyes. "That's all right, it was a long time ago. Her name was Juanita. She was the most beautiful girl I've ever known. Good and pure. Like a child. I found out that she had been a prost.i.tute in Malaga. So she killed herself. The funny thing is that I wouldn't have cared. I didn't care, it didn't change anything, and I had suspected something like that anyway. But she never knew that. The man who told me, told her, and before I got home she was dead. And after that I left. I couldn't handle it there anymore. I never really belonged in the first place, but I had loved it." I nodded again. There seemed to be nothing to add to what he had said. "And your man, Gillian, who was he?"

"Just a man." I didn't want to talk about Chris because I couldn't give Gordon the kind of honesty he was giving me. Chris was not as far back for me as Juanita was for him, I hadn't come to terms with it yet, and whereas his story was narrative, mine was more likely to sound like true confessions.

"Is it still a going thing?"

"No . . . well, not really. We still talk. But I think it's over." I knew deep in my heart that I was lying, because I didn't think it was over. I thought it might be, but I didn't really believe that.

"What was he like?"

"My father."

"And what was your father like?"

"In a word . . . a b.a.s.t.a.r.d." I looked up with a grin. There was a nice feeling of relief in saying it.

"And what does that tell you, Gillian?"

"Bad things. But I didn't see the similarity until just recently."

"Were you happy with this man?"

"For a while. Yes, very happy. He has some good points after all, or I wouldn't have stayed around as long as I did. But I think, underneath it all, he's a b.a.s.t.a.r.d just like my father. Not a nice man. I don't think so anyway. He's incapable of a lot of things I need. I knew that, but I didn't want to know it." It felt so strange to be talking about Chris as though he were a thing of the past.

"Why did you stay with him then, since you can't tell me why you left, because the fact that he was a 'b.a.s.t.a.r.d' doesn't explain anything. You liked him that way." Ouch. Gordon was right, I think I did.

"All right. I left because he forced me to. I stayed because . . . because I loved him, I needed him, I wanted it to work. As long as I stayed on his terms, it was okay. Oh, and I stayed because there were other things. It's sort of a complicated story."

"And not over yet, is it, Gillian?"

"Yes, and no. Oh h.e.l.l, Gordon. There's a lot to this thing." I looked up and let my eyes take hold of his. "It's over because I don't believe he loves me, and it's not over because I'm having his child. In that sense, it'll never be over." And then panic at what I'd just said.

"Does anyone know?" He looked perfectly unruffled.

"Only one friend. And he knows, of course. But it doesn't seem to make much difference."

"Have you thought of having an abortion? I suppose you have."

"Yes. I've thought of it. But I want to have the child. I'm going to bring an awful lot down on my head, but this is how I want to do it. I'm sure."

"Then you're doing the right thing. But I wouldn't tell anyone, Gillian. However much I admire your determination, it isn't the accepted lifestyle for someone like you, after all."

"I know. And I had planned to keep it to myself. I don't know what happened tonight. It just slipped out." I tried to smile without looking at him, and felt him take my hand in his.

"Don't look so sad, Gillian. You're going to make it through."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. . . . Once in a while I need it." I tried to smile at him. And it was strange. It was almost as though we were on a carousel of revelations. In less than an hour we were covering every inch of each others' scars and markings. As though we both felt we had to know what had come before. And then, almost unconsciously, I hurled the ball into his court again.

"What about your marriage?"

"In a sense it never existed, Gillian."