Going Home Part 4

"It's called artificial respiration and only grownups can play. Go make me a sand horse." Sam thought that was a terrific idea and our game didn't look like much fun to her anyway, so she went back down the beach to her friends while we laughed and watched her go.

"You're good with kids, Chris. It makes me wonder if you have any of your own."

"That's a h.e.l.l of a left-handed question, Gill. No, I don't. My own would freak me out."

"Why?" It seemed funny. He was so good with Sam.

"Responsibility. I'm allergic to it. Come on, I'll race you to the water." He did, and I beat him by half an inch, which won me an earnest dunking in the chilly surf . . . allergic to responsibility, eh? Okay. Sorry I asked.

"Is anybody interested in Chinese dinner?" We were rounding the hair-raising bends in the road home from Stinson Beach and everyone was in a good mood. Sam had played all afternoon and Chris and I had talked film. He was crazy about his work, his eyes lit up with pa.s.sion when he spoke of it. And I envied him that. Being a stylist just doesn't work up the same kind of emotion. All you do is add your own touches to someone else's work. Like his work. He was doing all the creating.

The invitation to Chinese dinner was well-received, and Sam was thrilled at the sights of Chinatown when we got there. Many of the buildings were made to look like paG.o.das and the streets were lined with shops filled with fascinating junk. The smell of incense was heavy in the air, and there were tiny, tinkling bells over every doorway.

"Do you like Chinese food, Gill?"

"I love it." It seemed funny that he didn't know. I expected him to know everything. It felt as though we had been together for years.

The three of us wrestled over chicken foo yong, sweet and sour pork, shrimp fried in batter, sharks' fin saute, fried rice, fortune cookies, and tea. And at the end of the meal I felt as though I were going to explode. Chris looked as though he felt about the same, and Sam went to sleep at the table.

"We're some group," he said. I giggled as he looked around and threw up his hands. "I was expecting the last fortune cookie to tell me I'd turn into an egg roll by morning. I feel like one."

"Me too. Let's go home." I saw a funny look in his eyes as I said it, but he didn't say anything, so I didn't speak. The moment pa.s.sed.

"I want to show you something pretty before we go back. Sam can sleep in the truck. I'll carry her." We walked slowly to the parking lot where Chris had left the truck and I was sorry Sam couldn't get one last view of the wonders of Chinatown, but there'd be other times.

"Where are we going?" He was driving west up Broadway, and we had just crossed Van Ness Avenue and were entering one of the better residential districts.

"You'll see."

We drove all the way up Broadway to the intersection of Divisadero and then he stopped and made a right turn. We stood on the crest of the hill and looked at the bay and the mountains on the other side, and it was splendid. Everything was terribly quiet and heartbreakingly beautiful. The glory of San Francisco was ours.

He put the truck in low gear and we rolled quietly down the hill toward the bay, past the rows of important-looking, well-kept houses in Pacific Heights, until we reached the cheesy flamboyance of Lombard Street and I was sorry it was over.

We drove into the Marina district and I knew he was taking us home.

"Don't look so sad. It's not over yet."

"It's not?" I was pleased.

He drove along the docks and then parked next to the Yacht Club.

"Let's get out. Sam's sound asleep. We can sit out here for a bit." We walked out into the cool night air and looked across the bay at the view. The water was lapping at the narrow rim of beach and it made a pleasant sound. It was the most peaceful moment of the day and it was lovely. We sat on the low retaining wall, dangling our feet and looking outward, and there was nothing left to say. It was all right there. And I didn't feel alone anymore.

"Gill . . ." He seemed to hesitate as he looked out across the bay.

"Yes?"

"I think I'm in love with you. That's a h.e.l.l of a way to say it, but I think I am."

"I think I am too. And don't worry how you say it, it's nice to hear."

"You may be sorry that you love me one day." He looked at me earnestly in the dark as he said it.

"I doubt that. I know what I'm doing. And I think I know what you are. I love you, Chris." He leaned over gently and took me in his arms and kissed me, and then we smiled at each other in the dark. All was well with the world.

We drove the few blocks to my house in silence and he lifted Sam gently out of the truck, took her inside, and put her down on her bed. And then he looked at me for a long moment and left the room.

"What's bugging you, Chris?" We were standing in the living room and I could tell he had something on his mind.

"I'm going back to my place tonight. And don't try to make me feel guilty about it. Ever. Do you understand that? Never, Gill, never . . . and besides, you couldn't anyway." I started to answer him, but he was gone. There had been a strange fire in his eyes as he said those words to me . . . and then he was gone.

6.

Monday was a horrifically busy day. I got a super job from an advertising agency that had never used me before and I spent the entire day getting accessories for the shooting of some textile ads the following day. It was fun work and I kept busy bouncing in and out of boutiques and department stores looking for jewelry, shoes in the right sizes, handbags, hats, and great odds and ends. All a stylist really needs is taste, imagination, and good, strong legs. You have to run around a lot.

The art director of the agency took me to lunch at Ernie's and it was fun to see the chic people come and go. He was a man of about forty-five, was recently divorced, and had the worst case of the hots I'd seen on anybody yet. He kept trying to talk me into coffee and brandy at his apartment after lunch, on Telegraph Hill where he had a terrific view. . . . Come on, baby, are you kidding? I had work to do. And I had Chris.

My last stop of the day was at I. Magnin's fur shop, and I had a ball picking out sable capes, ermine throws, mink this, and leopard that. They would work well with the textiles, and it was a lovely, luxurious feeling to be picking out furs, practically by the gross.

Sam had been parked with the neighbors again for the afternoon and she was visibly annoyed at me when I swept in in good spirits and a new black wool dress that I'd bought at Magnin's on the way out. I was feeling chic and successful, like the people I'd seen at Ernie's at lunch.

"Is that a new dress, Mommy?"

"Yes, do you like it?"

"No. It's black." Tough, Sam, I like it. But I knew she was mad that I'd been busy all day and hadn't been able to take her to the beach. But this was a big job. Two days for four hundred dollars.

"Come on, Sam. I'll cook dinner and you can tell me about your day."

"Well, it was miberatzil."

"Miserable? As bad as all that?" But suddenly she had taken off towards the house like a shot. And then I saw why. Chris was in front of the house, all cleaned up, the s.h.a.ggy blond hair immaculately clean, and a fresh pair of jeans, and he was carrying an armful of flowers.

"Wow! How pretty."

"So are you, Gill. Listen . . . I was lousy to you last night and I'm sorry. Really, really sorry. We'll have a nice night tonight, and . . ."

"Relax. I had a nice night last night and the night before. Everything's okay, Chris. I understand. It's okay."

"What are you talking about? I don't understand." I had forgotten that Sam was in our midst and she was looking confused.

"Nothing, Sam. Go wash your hands. I'll cook dinner."

"No, you won't, Gill. I'm taking you out. Get a sitter."

"Now?"

"Now. I'll make the peace with Sam." He pointed at the phone and then left the room to talk to Sam.

He had come through . . . flowers and all. And he was right, he had been kind of lousy. But not very. He had only told me that he was living with someone, which was honest, and he had gone home to sleep, which hurt, but he had to go home sometime. The funny thing was that I really did understand, and I knew he didn't mean to hurt me.

I called the sitter and she agreed to come by in half an hour. But there was still Sam to contend with. I wasn't so sure Chris could snow her. Maybe me, but not her. I put his flowers in a vase and waited for her to emerge. It didn't take long.

"Uncle Crits says you're going out. But I guess it's okay. He said you worked hard all day, and something like that. You can go out, Mommy."

"Thanks, Sam." I wasn't so sure I was pleased with getting permission from a child three feet tall, but it was best that she wasn't mad about it, whatever he'd told her. Then, Chris took charge of me, and it struck me again how nice it was to have a man in the house.

"Now, you go get dressed. Put on something beautiful and s.e.xy and I'm going to show you off. And wear your hair down. And by the way, Mrs. Forrester," he lowered his voice and whispered in my ear as I walked by, "I'm so G.o.ddam in love with you I can hardly think straight. You're wrecking me."

"I'm glad to hear it." I planted a kiss on his mouth and practically floated into my room, where I dressed to the sounds of Chris neighing like a horse and Sam playing an ardent cowboy scene. It was nice to hear them, and I felt great.

"Where are we going?"

"Dinner on Clay Street. The compet.i.tion is giving a party. But I've got something I want to say to you first." What now? He stopped the truck, pulled over to the side of the street, and turned to me with a funny look, then he took me in his arms and kissed me so hard it hurt. "You look fantastic. I said dress s.e.xy, I didn't say make me drool for crissake."

"Flatterer." But I was pleased. I had worn a green and gold Indian shirt a la hippie, and tight black velvet pants with black suede boots. My hair was down, as per his orders, and I had nothing on under the shirt. And it seemed to be effective. Chris looked absolutely lecherous as we drove along.

The party was given by a San Francisco filmmaker who had made a recent hit with a film about drugs, and he was giving a party to celebrate in his brand new house. When we arrived, there were easily two hundred people roaming in the empty house to the sound of a wailing blues singer that was coming at us seemingly from all over the house. That seemed to be the only thing the new tenants had set up. The stereo. There was no furniture, nothing on the walls. The only decorations were the people, and they were exceedingly ornamental, all young, and nice to look at, in the style of Chris. There were girls in hippie shirts and skin-tight jeans with electric-looking hair and Bambi eyes, and long-haired boys in the same kind of clothes. Almost everyone was stoned and the smell of gra.s.s hung heavy in the air.

The house itself was a large b.a.s.t.a.r.dized Victorian, with a huge, sweeping staircase that seemed to soar toward a skylight miles above. There were people draped all over the banisters in earnest conversation, or necking heavily. It looked just like the parties I'd heard were typical of San Francis...o...b..t had never seen.

"Too heavy for you, Gill?" I felt a little bit square in that ambiance and Chris's question made me wonder if I looked it.

"No. It's neat. I think I like it."

"And I think I like you. Come on, I'll take you around to meet some of the troops." He took me by the hand and we drifted through the crowd, occasionally accepting a hit of hash or a puff on a joint as we went, and stopping for refills of red wine from one of the gallon jugs sitting on the floor. There must have been at least fifty of them in key points.

It seemed like a particularly low-key party. And much quieter than the scene at the Art Directors' bash on Friday. I was expecting exciting things to happen at any minute; it looked like the sort of group that would take off its clothes and begin to writhe on the floor in orgiastic glee. But instead, the crowd seemed to be thinning. We had been watching the scene for almost two hours, and then I looked up at Chris, wondering.

"It looks like more ought to be happening. Or am I missing the point?" He looked amused at my question, and seemed to hesitate.

"Like what?"

"I don't know." I felt silly having asked. Maybe this was it.

"Well, little Gillian, you're not too far wrong, but I thought we'd stick with the gang downstairs." We were still on the ground floor of the house. If you can call it that in San Francisco. Ground floor in this case had been two dizzying flights up the side of a hill as we approached the house from the street.

"Is something else happening upstairs?" I was curious.

"Maybe." Chris looked vague. He could have been dodging me, or it could have been the gra.s.s and hash.

"I want to see, Chris. Show me."

"We'll see." He introduced me to a few more people, necked with me in a corner for a while, and then we sat down on the floor to talk. But I noticed after a while that the crowds on the main floor seemed to walk up the stairs never to return. The party had moved on, and we were left like pebbles on the sh.o.r.e after the tide goes out. There were only a dozen people left sitting on the floor around us.

"Is the party over, or has the action moved on?"

"Gillian Forrester, you're a pest, but you asked, so . . . here goes . . . get up. We're going upstairs." He made it sound like a major event. "But I'm not sure you're going to like this."

"What lurking evils are you protecting me from, Mr. Matthews? Or should I wait and see?" We were weaving our way through the remaining bodies on the stairs; they were either drugged or drunk, but there seemed to be little life in them. The blues music on the stereo had turned to hard core jazz, and the sounds wailed through the gut as they did through the house, with a kind of strange pull and tug.

At the top of the first flight of stairs, Chris turned and looked at me for a long moment before kissing me longingly with his hand on my breast. The shirt I was wearing was so thin that I felt naked to his touch, and I suddenly longed to go home and make love to him.

"Gill, there are two scenes here . . . in there a bunch of people are dropping acid. It's not much to see, and I don't recommend it, and upstairs they're doing other stuff."

"What other stuff? Heroin?" My eyes were wide and I wasn't happy. I didn't like the idea of that scene at all.

"No, dopey. Not heroin. Other stuff . . . come on, at least I know you can handle that." He grinned to himself as he tucked my hand under his arm and raced up the stairs with me in tow. We were just under the skylight then, and that and two huge candles provided the room with its only light. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust. I knew that there were a lot of people where we were, but I couldn't tell how many, or what they were doing, or what kind of room we were in. It struck me only that there was relatively little noise. And then I saw where we were.

We were in a room the width and length of the house, a kind of loft that lay just beneath the skylight and had few windows, and like the rest of the house no furniture. But it had more action. Lots. In the sea around us were most of the two hundred bodies we'd seen downstairs, their jeans and shirts off, their bodies pretzeled into odd positions, locked into each other in groups of four and five and six, and they were all making love. It was an orgy.

"Gill . . . is this okay?" I saw him watching me in the candlelight.

"I . . . uh . . . yeah . . . sure, Chris . . . but . .

"But what, love? We don't have to get into this." A scene behind him had just caught my eye. There were two girls making love to each other while two men stroked their bodies with hungry pleasure and yet another girl wove her tongue between one of the observers' thighs.

"I . . . uh . . . Chris . . . I don't think I want to." I knew I didn't want to, but I was still a little too stunned to speak coherently. I was twenty-eight years old and had been hearing about stuff like this for years. But it was different seeing it . . . and I didn't want to do it.

Chris took my hand and led me slowly back down the stairs, smiling over his shoulder at me, and stopping to kiss me on the way. The kiss was a gentle one and his smile was warm. He didn't seem sorry we had left.

"I'll take you home." . . . And come back here alone? . . . My heart sank and my face must have showed it. "Not like that, dopey. No sweat. I can do without that. Group s.e.x is a bore." I wondered how often he'd tried it until it became a bore, but I didn't say anything. I was grateful for his reaction. And I was glad we were going home, I'd seen enough. My education was complete, without joining in a g.a.n.g.b.a.n.g. I'd seen it. Basta cos.

"Thanks, Chris. Am I a horrible stuffed-shirt?"

"Nope. Kind of a nice one." He grinned happily at my transparent shirt, leaned down to kiss one breast, and led me out the door. We were going home.

The ride back to my place was brief and comfortably silent, and I felt even closer to him than I had before. He parked the truck in front of the house and helped me out, and I wondered if he was going to stay.

I paid the sitter and she left. And before she did, she diligently told me there were no messages, which made me smile. I was with the only one I would have wanted anyway.

"Some wine, Chris?" He shook his head and looked at me for a long moment as we stood there. "Are you angry we left?"

"No. I like your style. Come on, Gill, it's late. Let's go to bed. I've got a lot of work to do tomorrow."

"So do I." There was a nice homey feeling as we turned off the lights in the living room and crept past Sam's room to mine. I was glad he was staying and thought it funny that we had so easily slipped into the kind of relationship we had-"let's go to bed, it's late, I've got a lot of work tomorrow." I expected him to peel off his jeans, sit lazily on the edge of the bed as he set the alarm, and then kiss me goodnight before going to sleep. I didn't even mind not being made love to, it was comfortable the way it was.

I was smiling to myself as I brushed my hair and Chris looked surprised.

"What are you doing, Gill?"