Chapter 32 1994
Orson has never been a particularly good Catholic, but homesickness has him going to St. Robert Bellarmine with Susie on Sundays.
They sit in the strangely modern building, which feels familiar and foreign to both of them, the neoclassical facade, the long white nave, the chandeliers strung from the ceiling like disco balls, all of it like a movie set, each angle hosting a different scene.
But the lull of Father Patrick’s voice, even if Orson doesn’t believe in it anymore, is soothing.
If not home, it’s at least a place he understands.
Susie has it too, the homesickness, along with the guilt that she confesses constantly—to him as well as Father Patrick—of leaving her kids behind, of not raising them in the faith.
Privately, but with little shame or remorse, he confesses his own sins: the girl in the green bra at the Century Lounge, the singer in that band at Café Largo.
He can’t tell Susie about these; it’s become too strange to talk about that sort of thing anymore.
One afternoon, after church, she asks if he wants to go for a drive. “A joyride,” she calls it, but lately she’s seemed more desperate than joyful. They crawl down the freeway toward Pasadena, Susan talking fast, excitable, almost manic.
“I told Sebastian I was investigating a heist,” she said. “He liked that. Turn left up here.”
“He must think you’re incredible.”
“Why is it so easy to lie to them?”
“It’s not a lie, it’s a game. You’re giving them a story they can digest.”
“They’re both so obsessive,” she says. “Viola will just keep asking you something until she gets the answer she wants. Is it dinner, is it dinner, is it dinner?”
“Sounds like you’ve had some early dinners.”
“It’s worse when I call and she asks if I’m coming home tonight. Right, go right.”
“They’ll grow out of it,” Orson says, though he has no experience in this. “It’s the age.”
She directs him to a cluster of low houses, and into the drive of a modest condominium with a “For Rent” sign out front. Susie jumps out, peering over at the house like it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever laid eyes on.
“What do you think? It’s only a sublet, but it’ll give me some time to buy everything they need.”
“Holy Mary, Susie B. Did your man see the light, then?”
“I’m doing this without him,” she says.
Shit. All those years of complaining, and she’s finally doing it.
What kind of bastard wouldn’t move out here with her?
Anyone could see how much she needed this.
Still, the poor fuck had a nasty shock coming to him.
Watchful tears rim her eyelids, and she reaches for the sunglasses on top of her head.
“You’re sure this is a good idea?”
“Well, if it’s not, it’s too late now. Come on inside.”
She leads him. The house is full of someone else’s family, their smells, their furniture, their children in framed school photos on the wall behind the door.
One bedroom has a vague Disney theme. Simple, sedate.
Plenty of light. As she steps in the room, she is still talking about the children, how the bunk beds will be perfect.
She seems so much older to him, the problems in her life so much more real.
Down the narrow hallway she hovers in the doorframe of the master bedroom, and he is suddenly aware of how quiet it is in here with the carpeting and the low ceilings, how different it feels from being in his lonely bachelor apartment.
“So, I guess the thing is to figure out schools around here. You know, because they’re starting next year. And that will make it easier, I think, for filming and all that. Kids make friends pretty quickly at this age, right? They’ll adjust?”
When she pushes up her sunglasses, her eyes are searching him for something solid, some level of certainty that he could not possibly contain. God, what can he say? The whole house feels like a set, like they are about to do a scene in here. Like she wants him to be a character.
Like an audition.
“I guess I wouldn’t know, Suze. I’ve never known a thing about kids.”
It would be unkind to let her believe anything else. To conflate him with her desire for a happier life.
She nods, and places her sunglasses back over her eyes, moves her mouth to one side. She’s just scared, he tells himself. She’s just worried about being alone.
“God help me,” she says quietly.
“Fuck God, I’ll help you,” he says. “Anything you need, Susie.”
But she knows as well as he does: anything has a limit.