Thirty-Two
AT TWO IN THE MORNING on a night in April, the telephone rings.
I rush out of bed, toward Clément and Nathalie’s door.
They’re high school juniors now—they stay out late sometimes on the weekends, past the hour when I fall asleep—and I’m disoriented and panicked, feeling my way through the dark, turning the knob.
Nathalie’s bedside light clicks on. They’re sitting up in their beds, as alarmed as I am, home and safe.
A wash of relief but the phone’s still ringing, and I go to the kitchen to answer it.
Lionel’s voice speaks low on the other end.
“This is gonna sound strange,” he says. “You know how I went with some bird men to Palm Springs?”
“Yes.”
“These aren’t the guys from the neighborhood.
One of them drove me out here in his car, and at first it was fine but …
We’re at a house, waiting for a cat named Raymond to come.
A real old guy, best breeder in the world, so they tell me.
But he keeps not showing up. The whole mood is off.
No one’s telling me anything.” He pauses.
“I’m starting to think I’m not here by choice anymore. ”
Prick at my palms, an instant sheen of sweat. “I can leave right now,” I say.
He exhales, hard and fast. “I thought about calling Al but it’s a delicate situation.
He might fuck it up. If you can leave in the morning, that’ll be fine.
No need to drive in the middle of the night.
I’ll offer to pick up sandwiches. That’s what I’m going to tell them.
There’s a deli a few blocks from the house.
You can wait for me in its parking lot around lunchtime.
It’s on Indian Canyon Drive, a big yellow sign out front. ”
“Okay. And give me the house address just in case.”
“No. I’m not about to put you in any danger. If I can’t make it to the deli at lunchtime, there’s a motel across the street from it. Soon as I get a chance, I’ll meet you there.”
“Lionel. The house address.”
“Not gonna happen. I’ll see you soon.”
I hang up and turn around and Clément and Nathalie are in the doorway, Clément’s shoulders newly broad, Nathalie’s body a woman’s, twin furrows in their brows as they watch me. “I have to do something for Lionel,” I say. “He’s gotten himself into a situation. I need to help him out of it.”
“Should we be worried?” Nathalie asks.
“Lionel’s plans tend to work out. Now let’s all get back to sleep.”
But each time I start to drift off, Lionel’s exhale, his instructions, his refusal to give me the address startle me awake.
I toss and turn until the sun rises. I call in sick to work.
I pack lunches for Nathalie and Clément, and two more for Lionel and me.
And then I’m in my car before they’re awake, morning light across the dash as I take my Thomas Guide from the glove compartment.
I search the index for Indian Canyon but the street isn’t there.
None of my maps go far enough. I start the car anyway.
I know to take the 60, and from there I could probably rely on road signs but what if I can’t, and Lionel goes to the deli and I’m not there, I’m turned around on some desert back road?
I decide to stop at a filling station for a map along the way, but some primitive, less rational part of me guides me to Ginny’s street, then up the stairs to her door.
I hesitate before knocking. I could change my mind. But I don’t.
Pamela answers. I’ve never before seen her up close.
She’s taking a curler out of her hair. She has delicate wrists, downy blond hair on her forearms, a crisp blouse with a square button at the collar.
She’s waiting for me to speak, so I apologize for showing up like this, ask if Ginny’s home, say we have a mutual friend who’s in some trouble.
Ginny appears, her hair a little longer now, midway down her neck, surprised to see me, eyes widening at what Lionel’s asked me to do.
“I’m pretty sure we have a Palm Springs map,” she says.
“We went there with some friends on vacation last year,” Pamela adds, and moves aside so that I can step in.
Unfamiliar furniture, a new citrus scent, a crowdedness to it that hadn’t been here when it was only Ginny’s.
A framed film poster of Elizabeth Taylor and a collection of seashells in a glass bowl on the coffee table.
Pamela disappears down the hall to the bathroom and I wonder if she knows how much time I’ve spent here. If she knows anything about me at all.
“Here,” Ginny says from the kitchen. She emerges with a map, places it in my hand.
Come with me, I want to say.
But Pamela’s back, the curlers removed from her hair now, lips hot pink, snaking her arm around Ginny’s waist. “You got what you needed?” she asks. Her eyes are hard.
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you. I’m sorry, again, to bother you both.”
“Have Lionel call me when he’s back,” Ginny says before she shuts the door.
Face burning, I start the car. The city fading out, the long stretch of nothing, the desert.
The life they’ve made while I’ve still been dreaming of her.
Imagining her with me when she and Pamela live together without hiding.
I’m passing billboards and houses and highway but what I see are Pamela’s seashells, her smooth brown curls, her arm around Ginny’s waist, showing me how she gets to touch her like that anytime she likes.
Seared into my mind now. “You marry me,” Ginny once said, her legs pinning me in place, and I was foolish and afraid and I pushed her away.
A few minutes after noon, Lionel appears in the distance, his lanky frame moving quickly against the backdrop of modern houses, flat roofs, and cactus gardens.
He walks with his hands in his pockets, his gaze to the ground, glances behind him as he steps into the street to cross, nods at me as he approaches the deli.
I turn around, see him scanning the distance.
And then he’s at my door and climbing in.
“Drive that way a few blocks,” he tells me.
“Let’s get out of sight.” He smells clean, like soap, but perspiration beads his forehead, stains the cotton under his arms. I follow his instructions, park where he tells me to.
He scoots across the seat, hugs me tight.
“Thank God for you, Odette.” He shakes his head like he has so much to tell me and doesn’t know where to start.
“Lionel,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“We should get out of here. But first, there’s a bird. She’s mine. In the coop in the backyard.” I wait. “If the men come looking for me, we can go get her.”
“How will we be able to tell?”
“We’d see them walking by,” he says. “Way over there.” He points toward an intersection a few blocks away.
“There’ll be four of them, if they all go over together.
” We eat the lunches I packed. We wait for a very long time.
And then Lionel bends forward, squints, and two men appear, closely followed by two more. “That’s them. Let’s go.”
We turn on the block one over from them so they won’t see us pass by, and Lionel has me turn another corner to wait, and a few moments later he’s back with a bird in a small cage, racing to the car. “Go go go,” he says, and I accelerate hard, turn fast onto the main road.
“Is this a getaway mission or a heist?” I ask, and he laughs but doesn’t answer me.
He places the cage in the back. Wiggles it to make sure it’s secure.
“Is that bird really yours?”
“It’s a matter of opinion,” he says. “In my estimation, yes.”
“Lionel.”
“What? You’re taking their side?”
I glance at him. He’s humorless. “I’d never take their side,” I say. “I was so worried about you, I couldn’t sleep. Ginny wants you to call her when you’re home.”
“Ginny does, huh?”
“I went to her place this morning to borrow a map. It was a mistake. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I needed certain things to sink in.” He’s watching me, not saying anything. I ask, “Does she ever talk about me anymore?”
“It’s been a little while.”
I nod.
“That doesn’t mean she isn’t thinking about you.”
“It seems like they’ve made a real life for themselves. It’s a home now, that place.”
“Pamela isn’t always good to her. I mean, sometimes she’s bad to her.”
“How so?”
But he shakes his head, won’t tell me. “Pull off up here,” he says. I take the exit off the road, park in front of a restaurant. “Let’s get a cup of coffee.” He leaves the windows cracked for the bird and I follow him inside, a bell chiming after us, an unsmiling man behind the counter.
“We’ll take a couple cups of joe. Some cream for the lady,” Lionel says, and he pulls his wallet from his back pocket.
The man looks him over. “As long as it’s for takeaway,” he says.
The tables behind us are mostly empty, plenty of room at the counter. Lionel scans the place, shakes his head. “Fuck’s sake. You keep your goddamn coffee.” He puts his hand on my back to hurry us out. “Problem is,” he says, shutting the car door. “Now I’m jonesing for a cup.”
We’re back on the road, both of us facing straight ahead.
“You ever think about Delphine’s photograph in that shop window?” he asks.
A gust of wind, straight through me. “Sometimes,” I say.
Lionel sighs, leans back, stares at the roof. “I fucked up, letting those guys take me there. They make it seem like I’m an exception. No colored men in their club—except for Lionel. Lionel Dumas is indispensable. That’s the word they like to use.”
“I’m sure you are, though.”
“No one’s indispensable. Only until you’ve given them what they need. Hell, you know that. You’re right in the middle of it, all that’s going on at the plant.”