Ten #3
I see myself in Olivia de Havilland at first. A working girl like me—like us—until it all goes wrong.
The story falls into place. She doesn’t even know her name.
The park bench she’s been sitting on isn’t a park bench at all—it’s on the grounds of a mental hospital.
I find myself sitting on my hands as I watch.
All these desperate women on the screen, their drab clothes, the crowded rows of beds and the straitjackets and sorrowful moans.
How vulnerable the character is, saying, I feel as if I’d done something and I just couldn’t remember what, as if something was following me all the time.
Fear in her eyes, slump in her shoulders, strap in her mouth before the electric shock.
There’s an ache in my jaw; I’ve been clenching it.
After, we huddle on the sidewalk in front of the theater. It’s a cool night, lit street, dark sky above.
“I have a friend in a hospital like that,” Sally says. Her mascara’s bled, her lip quivers. I feel terrible. She’d wanted a comedy.
Janine puts her arm around Sally’s waist. “My aunt was in one, too. Shhh. There, there.”
I want my sisters. Imagine the three of us right here, finally talking about Papa together.
“Let’s go get a drink,” Marcus says, and he leads us to a bar nearby, a place that’s hospitable to all of us.
He buys a round of martinis and I sip mine, distracted, and finally slip away to a pay phone against the far wall.
I close myself in and the bar noise fades. Adele answers on the third ring.
“I have an idea,” I say. “Is Claire still there?”
“She’s right here.”
“I just saw The Snake Pit. It was remarkable. How about you two come join me? I’ll get us tickets for the ten o’clock show. My treat.”
“Tonight?” Adele says.
“It’s just a one-day screening.”
“What’s it about?” Claire asks. I picture my sisters, cheeks pressed together, sharing the receiver.
“A woman in a mental hospital and everything she goes through. It would mean so much to me,” I say.
“I’m still finishing washing up. Claire just got the kids down.”
“They were all riled up without you,” Claire says.
“There’s plenty of time. I can hold our seats.”
It’s quiet on the line.
“I don’t think so,” Adele says.
“I’m tired,” Claire says. “You know how I need my rest.”
“Sure,” I say. “All right.”
But I’m ferocious with anger, hanging up the phone.
Through the booth glass I see my friends by the bar.
Marcus is telling a story, the girls lean in to listen.
Janine shakes her head, Ivy laughs with her mouth wide open, and I want to talk about Papa, but the opportunity’s passed now.
This feeling—it’s bringing me back to tubes of paints and smears of color and the turpentine smell.
Making art is its own kind of frustration but one I wish I hadn’t closed off.
My body’s full of need. A flash of Hattie’s sewing room floor, my urgency turning to pleasure.
I press my hands hard against the phone booth glass for the pressure of it, close my eyes and push until my muscles weaken.
Let go, and Marcus is on the other side, peering in at me.
I open the door. Make myself look and keep looking. Hazel eyes, same shade as mine, and a boyish sweetness. So close, but it’s okay. He isn’t Cyril. He’s himself. “You said you’re selling your car?” I ask.
“I am.”
“Can I see it?”
“It’s parked a couple blocks away.”
We leave the others, weave among strangers on the busy sidewalk.
All these people out late, enjoying their lives together.
My sisters, home in their neat little houses, unwilling to meet me.
My heart pounds. “There it is,” he says, pointing to a car on the corner.
“A 1941 Studebaker Commander.” It has two doors, curves at the roof and over the tires, chrome details.
“What color is it?” I ask. It’s too dark to make it out.
“Mint,” he says. “With black stripes and a cream interior.” He unlocks the driver door and gestures for me to climb in.
I run my hands over the stitches in the steering wheel, the shiny dash.
“There’s a built-in radio,” he says. “Great sound. And the engine runs real smooth. The front fender has a scratch on the right side. Other than that, nothing’s wrong with it. Want to take it for a drive?”
I do. He hands me the keys. I start the engine, a thrill. “How much are you asking for it?”
“Kelley Blue Book says a thousand. I can take a little off for the fender, though.” I steer us toward the hills, turn again before I get too far.
The gas pedal is solid and easy underfoot.
I accelerate and he sucks in a breath, exhales when I slow at a light.
I could find a cheaper car, but I want this one. I want it now.
“If we drive down to Compton, I can pay you and get you a taxi back home.”
“You don’t want to sleep on it?”
“No. It’s exactly right.”
“Well, okay then. Great. This was unexpected.” He tells me about the car as I drive. The fuel mileage, how often he gets it serviced. I pull into the driveway. All the lights are off in the house.
“Everyone’s sleeping,” I say. “Do you mind waiting here?”
“I don’t mind. But there’s no hurry. We could talk awhile.” There’s a tension, a look of deciding something, and I realize he’s about to kiss me.
“Let’s keep this businesslike,” I say, and he pulls back. We sit for a minute in the dark. “Did Bernard or Al ever tell you that you look just like my late husband?”
He turns to me. “No.”
“You do. If I’ve ever seemed rude, it’s just that it was hard to be reminded.”
“What was his name?”
“Cyril.” He waits for more. “I’ll be right back,” I say.
I tiptoe to my room, take my shoebox off the closet shelf, turn my bedside lamp on to count the bills. He’s lowered the price to nine hundred for me, a kindness I find hard to stomach but will accept anyway. It’s almost all the money I have.
Marcus is shutting the car door when I step back outside.
I hand him the money and he hands me the key.
He signs a sheet of paper, using the hood as a surface.
“This terminates my rights to the car. It’s yours now.
” I take it from him, step back to look from a distance.
It’s handsome in the driveway, parked next to Al’s.
They’ll be shocked, looking out in the morning, seeing it.
It’s selfish of me, rash and impulsive and maybe even petty.
If only my sisters had joined me for the ten o’clock show.
“What did you make of the movie?” he asks.
“I thought it was incredible. You?”
“I agree. Difficult to watch, but very artistic.” He’s less and less Cyril every moment. His face, in profile, is entirely his own.
I say, “The part where the doctor’s interrogating her and then it cuts away to the storm and the ocean and the waves and she’s drowning…”
“Powerful.”
“It’s really a film about memories, isn’t it? The ones we have and the ones we repress.”
“I suppose it is.”
“That part when the shadows are huge, towering over everything…”
“I imagine we’ll all have strange dreams tonight.”
“Are you interested in dreams?”
He raises his hands up, interlaces his fingers, stretches.
“I’m no Freud or anything like that.” He drops his arms. “But yeah, dreams interest me.” We talk for a while longer.
At one point he pauses and takes a long look at me.
Smiles when I cock my head. Says, “We seem to have a lot in common. And our business transaction is over with.”
“I’m not looking to date,” I say. “It’s nothing personal.”
He’s perplexed by me, I can tell. It’s clear he isn’t used to being turned down. “All right,” he says. “Just thought I’d give it one last shot.”
The taxi I called for him pulls up. We say goodnight.
Before I go back into the house, I follow the path to the driveway, slide into the car.
I shut myself in, run my hands over the soft seats, press my foot on the clutch and the gas and the brake, touch the ceiling and the window glass.
I sit and breathe. The car smells like leather and clove and metal. It’s mine.
When I get up the next morning, Adele’s standing at the kitchen sink, drinking coffee, staring through the window at the driveway.
“How much did it cost you?” she asks.
“Nine hundred.” I’m tired from the late night, my head still fuzzy with waking.
“I thought we had a plan.”
“I’ll earn it back.”
“I’ll give you a year. Then I’m going to need the room.”
I can tell she means it. It’s more than fair. She pours me a cup of coffee, tops it with cream, sets it on the counter. A tremor in my hand as I reach for the mug. “A year. Okay.”
We sip together, faces to the window. My car and Al’s, side by side in the daylight.
“It’s a great-looking car,” she says.