Silent Partner

8

The following morning, I called the real estate office. Mickey Mehrabian was a woman with a Lauren Bacall voice, slightly accented. I made an appointment to see the house at eleven, spent the next hour thinking about the first time I’d seen it.

Something to show you, Alex.

Surprise, surprise. She’d been full of them.

I expected her to be flooded with suitors. But she was always available when I asked her out, even on the shortest notice. And when a patient crisis caused me to break a date, she never complained. Never pushed or pressured me for commitment of any sort- the least demanding human being I’d ever known.

We made love nearly every time we were together, though we never spent the night together.

At first she begged off going to my place, wanted to do it in the backseat of the car. After we’d known each other for several months she relented, but even when she did share my bed, she treated it as if it were a backseat- never completely disrobing, never falling asleep. After waking up several times from my own postcoital torpor to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, tugging her ear, I asked her what was bothering her.

“Nothing. I’m just restless- always have been. I have trouble sleeping anywhere but my own bed. Are you angry?”

“No, of course not. Is there anything I can do?”

“Take me home. When you’re ready.”

I accommodated myself to her needs: rut and run. Some of the edge was taken off my pleasure, but enough remained to keep me coming back for more.

Her pleasure- the lack of it- preyed on my mind. She went through passionate motions, moving energetically, fueled by an energy that I wasn’t sure was erotic, but she never came.

It wasn’t that she was unresponsive- she was easily moistened, always willing, seemed to enjoy the act. But climax wasn’t part of her agenda. When I was finished, she was, having given something to me, but not her self.

I knew damn well that it wasn’t right, but her sweetness and beauty- the thrill of possessing this creature I was sure everyone wanted- sustained me. An adolescent fantasy, to be sure, but a part of me wasn’t that far past adolescence.

Her arm around my waist was enough to make me hard. Thoughts of her trickled into idle moments and filled my senses. I put my doubts aside.

But eventually it started to nag at me. I wanted to give as much as I was getting, because I really cared for her.

On top of that, of course, my male ego was crying out for reassurance. Was I too quick? I worked at endurance. She rode me out, tireless, as if we were engaged in some sort of athletic competition. I tried being gentle, got nowhere, switched and did the caveman bit. Experimented with positions, strummed her like a guitar, worked over her and under her until I dripped with sweat and my body ached, went down on her with blind devotion.

Nothing worked.

I remembered the sexual inhibitions she’d projected in practicum. The case that had stymied her: communications breakdown. Dr. Kruse says we have to confront our own defense systems before being able to help others.

The attack upon her defenses had brought her to tears. I struggled to find a way to communicate without breaking her. Mentally composed and discarded several speeches before finally coming up with a monologue that seemed minimally hurtful.

I chose to deliver it as we lay sprawled in the back of the Rambler, still connected, my head on her sweatered breast, her hands stroking my hair. She kept stroking as she listened, then kissed me and said, “Don’t worry about me, Alex. I’m just fine.”

“I want you to enjoy it too.”

“Oh, I do, Alex. I love it.”

She began rocking her hips, enlarging me, then wrapping her arms around me as I continued to swell inside of her. She forced my head down, smothered my mouth with hers, tightening the pressure of her pelvis and her arms, taking charge, imprisoning me. Arcing and swallowing, rotating and releasing, heightening the pace until the pleasure was squeezed out of me in long, convulsive waves. I cried out, gloriously helpless, felt my spine shatter, my joints come loose from their sockets. When I was still, she began stroking my hair, again.

I was still erect, began to move again. She rolled out from under me, smoothed her skirt, took out a compact and fixed her makeup.

“Sharon-”

She placed a finger on my lips. “You’re so good to me,” she said. “Wonderful.”

I closed my eyes, drifted away for several moments. When I opened them she was gazing off in the distance, as if I weren’t there.

From that night on, I gave up hope of perfect love and took her selfishly. She rewarded my compliance with devotion, subservience, though I was the one being molded.

The therapist in me knew it was wrong. I employed the therapist’s rationalization to quell my doubts:

It did no good to push; she’d change when she was ready.

Summer came and my fellowship ended. Sharon had completed the first year of grad school with top grades in all her qualifying exams. I’d just passed my licensing exam and had a job lined up at Western Pediatric come autumn. Time to celebrate, but no income until autumn. The tone of the creditors’ letters had turned threatening. When the opportunity to earn some real money presented itself I grabbed it: an eight-week dance-band gig back up in San Francisco, playing three sets a night, six nights a week at the Mark Hopkins. Four grand, plus room and board at a Lombard Street motel.

I asked her to come north with me, spun visions of breakfast in Sausalito, good theater, the Palace of Fine Arts, hiking on Mt. Tamalpais.

She said, “I’d love to, Alex, but I’ve some things to take care of.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Family business.”

“Problems back home?”

She answered quickly: “Oh, no, just the usual.”

“That doesn’t tell me a thing,” I said. “I have no idea what the usual is, because you never talk about your family.”

Soft kiss. Shrug. “They’re just a family like any other.”

“Let me guess: They want to haul you back to civilization so they can fix you up with the local scions.”

She laughed, kissed me again. “Scions? Hardly.”

I put my arm around her waist, nuzzled her. “Oh, yeah, I can see it now. In a few weeks I’ll pick up the paper and see your picture in the society pages, engaged to one of those guys with three last names and a career in investment banking.”

That made her giggle. “I don’t think so, my dear.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because my heart belongs to you.”

I took her face in my hands, looked into her eyes. “Does it, Sharon?”

“Of course, Alex. What do you think?”

“I think after all this time I don’t know you very well.”

“You know me better than anyone.”

“That’s still not very well.”

She tugged her ear. “I really care about you, Alex.”

“Then live with me when we get back. I’ll get a bigger place, a better one.”

She kissed me, so deeply I thought it signaled agreement. Then she pulled away and said, “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Things are just… complicated. Please, let’s not talk about this right now.”

“All right,” I said. “But consider it.”

She licked the underside of my chin, said, “Yum. Consider this.”

We began necking. I pressed her to me, buried myself in her hair, her flesh. It was like diving into a vat of sweet cream.

I unbuttoned her blouse, said, “I’m really going to miss you. I miss you already.”

“That’s sweet,” she said. “We’ll have fun in September.”

Then she began unzipping my fly.

At ten-forty, I left to meet the real estate agent. The mild summer had finally begun to wilt, surrendering to high eighties’ temperatures and air that smelled like oven exhaust. But Nichols Canyon still looked fresh- sun-washed, filled with country sounds. Hard to believe Hollywood- the grifters and geeks- was only yards away.

When I got to the house the lattice gate was open. Driving the Seville up to the house, I parked it next to a big burgundy Fleetwood Brougham with chrome wire wheels, a phone antenna on the rear deck, and plates that said SELHOUS.

A tall dark brunette got out of the car. Mid-forties, aerobics-firm and shapely in tight acid-washed jeans, high-heeled boots, and a blousy, scoop-necked black suede top decorated with rhinestones. She carried a snakeskin purse, wore large onyx and glass costume jewelry and hexagonal, blue-tinted sunglasses.

“Doctor? I’m Mickey.” A wide, automatic smile spread under the glasses.

“Alex Delaware.”

“It is Dr. Delaware?”

“Yes.”

She pushed the glasses up her forehead, eyed the coat of dirt on the Seville, then my clothes- old cords, faded workshirt, huaraches.

Running a mental Dun and Bradstreet on me: Says he’s a doctor, but the city’s full of bullshit artists. Drives a Caddy, but it’s eight years old. Another phony putting on the dog? Or someone who once had it and lost it?

“Beautiful day,” she said, one hand on the door handle, still scrutinizing, still wary. Meeting strange men up in the hills had to give a woman frequent pause.

I smiled, tried to look harmless, said, “Beautiful,” and looked at the house. In the daylight, the déjà vu was even stronger. My personal patch of ghost town. Spooky.

She mistook my silent appraisal for displeasure, said, “There’s a fabulous view from the inside. It’s really a charmer, great bones- I think it was designed by one of Neutra’s students.”

“Interesting.”

“It just came on the market, Doctor. We haven’t even run ads- in fact, how did you find out about it?”

“I’ve always liked Nichols Canyon,” I said. “A friend who lives nearby told me it was available.”

“Oh. What kind of a doctor are you?”

“Psychologist.”

“Taking a day off?”

“Half day. One of the few.”

I checked my watch and tried to look busy. That seemed to reassure her. Her smile reappeared. “My niece wants to be a psychologist. She’s a very smart little girl.”

“That’s terrific. Good luck to her.”

“Oh, I think we make our own luck, don’t we, Doctor?”

She pulled keys out of her handbag and we walked to the slatted front door. It opened to a small courtyard- a few potted plants, glass wind chimes that I remembered, dangling over the lintel, silent in the hot, static air.

We went inside and she began her spiel, all well-rehearsed pep.

I pretended to listen, nodded and said “Uh huh” at the right times, forced myself to follow, rather than lead; I knew the place better than she did.

The interior smelled of carpet cleaning fluid and pine disinfectant. Sparkly clean, expunged of death and disorder. But to me it seemed mournful and forbidding- a black museum.

The front of the house was a single open area encompassing living room, dining area, study, and kitchen. The kitchen was early deco-massacre: avocado-green cabinetry, round-edged coral-colored Formica tops, and a coral vinyl-covered breakfast nook tucked into one corner. The furniture was blond wood, synthetic pastel fabrics, and spidery black iron legs- the kind of postwar jet-streamed stuff that looks poised for takeoff. Walls, of textured beige plaster, were hung with portraits of harlequins and serene seascapes. Bracket bookshelves were crowded with volumes on psychology. The same books.

A bland, listless room, but the blandness projected the eye toward the east, toward a wall of glass so clean it seemed invisible. Panels of sheet glass, segmented by sliding glass doors.

On the other side was a narrow, terrazzo-tiled terrace rimmed with white iron railing; beyond the railing an eyeful- a mindful- of canyons, peaks, blue skies, summer foliage. “Isn’t it something,” said Mickey Mehrabian, spreading one arm, as if the panorama were a picture she’d painted.

“Really something.”

We walked out on the terrace. I felt dizzy, remembered an evening of dancing, Brazilian guitars.

Something to show you, Alex.

Late September. I got back to L.A. before Sharon did, $4,000 more solvent, and lonely as hell. She’d left without leaving an address or number; we hadn’t exchanged as much as a postcard. I should have been angry, yet she was all I thought about as I drove down the coast.

I headed straight for Curtis Hall. The floor counselor told me she’d checked out of the dorm, wouldn’t be returning this semester. No forwarding address, no number.

I drove away, enraged and miserable, certain I’d been right: She’d been seduced back to the Good Life, plied with rich boys, new toys. She was never coming back.

My apartment looked dingier than ever. I avoided it, spent as much time as possible at the hospital, where the challenges of my new job helped distract me. I took on a full caseload from the waiting list, volunteered for the night shift in the Emergency Room. On the third day she showed up at my office, looking happy, almost feverish with delight.

She closed the door. Deep kisses and embraces. She made sounds about missing me, let my hands roam her curves. Then she pulled away, flushed and laughing. “Free for lunch, Doctor?”

She took me to the hospital parking lot, to a shiny red convertible- a brand new Alfa Romeo Spider.

“Like it?”

“Sure, it’s great.”

She tossed me the keys. “You drive.”

We had lunch at an Italian place on Los Feliz, listened to opera and ate cannoli for dessert. Back in the car, she said, “There’s something I want to show you, Alex,” and directed me west, to Nichols Canyon.

As I pulled up the driveway to the gray, pebble-roofed house, she said, “So what do you think, Doc?”

“Who lives here?”

“Yours truly.”

“You’re renting it?”

“No, it’s mine!” She got out of the car and skipped to the front door.

I was surprised to find the house furnished, even more surprised by the dated, fifties look of the place. These were the days when organic was king: earth tones, home-made candles, and batiks. All this aluminum and plastic, the flat, cold colors seemed déclassé, cartoonish.

She glided around exuding pride of ownership, touching and straightening, pulled open drapes and exposed the wall of glass. The view made me forget the aluminum.

Not a student’s pad by a long shot. I thought: an arrangement. Someone had set the place up for her. Someone old enough to have bought furniture in the fifties.

Kruse? She’d never really clarified their relationship…

“So what do you think, Doc?”

“Really something. How’d you swing it?”

She was in the kitchen, pouring 7-Up into two glasses. Pouting. “You don’t like it.”

“No, no, I do. It’s fantastic.”

“Your tone of voice tells me different, Alex.”

“I was just wondering how you managed it. Financially.”

She gave a theatrical glower and answered in a Mata Hari voice: “I haf secret life.”

“Aha.”

“Oh, Alex, don’t be so glum. It’s not as if I slept with anybody to get it.”

That shook me. I said, “I wasn’t implying you had.”

Her grin was wicked. “But it did cross your mind, sweet prince.”

“Never.” I looked out at the mountains. The sky was pale aqua above a horizon of pinkish brown. More fifties color coordination.

“Nothing crossed my mind,” I said. “I just wasn’t prepared. I don’t see or hear from you all summer- now this.”

She handed me a soda, put her head on my shoulder.

“It’s gorgeous,” I said. “Not as gorgeous as you, but gorgeous. Enjoy it.”

“Thank you, Alex. You’re so sweet.”

We stood there for a while, sipping. Then she unlatched the sliding door and we stepped out onto the terrace. Narrow, white space cantilevering over a sheer drop. Like stepping onto a cloud. The chalky smell of dry brush rose up from the canyons. In the distance was the HOLLYWOOD sign, sagging, splintering, a billboard for shattered dreams.

“There’s a pool, too,” she said. “Around the other side.”

“Wanna skinny-dip?”

She smiled and leaned on the railing. I touched her hair, put my hand under her sweater and massaged her spine.

She made a contented sound, leaned against me, reached around and stroked my jaw.

“I guess I should explain,” she said. “It’s just that it’s involved.”

“I’ve got time,” I said.

“Do you really?” she asked, suddenly excited. She turned around, held my face in her hands. “You don’t have to get back to the hospital right away?”

“Nothing but meetings until six. I’m due at the E.R. at eight.”

“Great! We can sit here for a while and watch the sunset. Then I’ll drive you back.”

“You were going to explain,” I reminded her.

But she’d already gone inside and turned on the stereo. Slow Brazilian music came on- gentle guitars and discreet percussion.

“Lead me,” she said, back on the terrace. Snaking her arms around me. “In dancing the man’s supposed to lead.”

We swayed together, belly-to-belly, tongue-to-tongue. When the music ended she took my hand and led me through a short foyer into her bedroom.

More bleached, glass-topped furniture, a pole lamp, a low, wide bed with a square, bleached headboard. Above it, two narrow, high windows.

She removed her shoes. As I kicked off mine I noticed something on the walls: crude, childish drawings of apples. Pencil and crayon on oatmeal-colored pulp paper. But glass-framed and expensively matted.

Odd, but I didn’t spend much time wondering about it. She’d drawn blackout drapes across the windows, plunged the room into darkness. I smelled her perfume, felt her hand cupping my groin.

“Come,” she said- a disembodied voice- and her hands settled upon my shoulders with surprising strength. She bore down on me and lowered me to the bed, got on top of me, and kissed me hard.

We embraced and rolled, made love fully clothed. She, sitting, with her back against the headboard, legs spread and drawn up sharply, her hands clasping her knees. I, kneeling before her, as if in prayer, impaling her while gripping the top rim of the headboard.

A cramped, backseat position. When it was over she slid out from under me and said, “Now, I’ll explain. I’m an orphan. Both of my parents died last year.”

My heart was still pounding. I said, “I’m sorry-”

“They were wonderful people, Alex. Very glamorous, very gracious and courant.”

A dispassionate way to talk about one’s dead parents, but grief could take many forms. The important thing was that she was talking, opening up.

“Daddy was an art director for one of the big publishing houses in New York,” she said. “Mummy was an interior designer. We lived in Manhattan, on Park Avenue, and had a place in Palm Beach and another on Long Island- Southampton. I was their only little girl.”

The last sentence was uttered with special solemnity, as if lacking siblings were an honor of the first rank.

“They were active people, traveled a lot by themselves. But it didn’t bother me because I knew they loved me very much. Last year they were in Spain, on holiday near Majorca. They were driving home from a party when their car went off a cliff.”

I took her in my arms. She felt loose and relaxed, could have been talking about the weather. Unable to read her face in the darkness, I listened for a catch in her voice, rapid breathing, some evidence of sorrow. Nothing.

“I’m so sorry for you, Sharon.”

“Thank you. It’s been very hard. That’s why I didn’t want to talk about them- it was just too much to handle. Intellectually, I know that’s not the optimal way to deal with it, that keeping it bottled up only leads to pathological grief and raises the risk of all kinds of symptoms. But affectively, I just couldn’t talk about it. Every time I tried, I just couldn’t.”

“Don’t pressure yourself. Everyone goes at their own pace.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s true. I’m just explaining to you why I didn’t want to talk about them. Why I really still don’t, Alex.”

“I understand.”

“I know you do.” Deep kiss. “You’re so right for me, Alex.”

I thought of the constricted way we’d just made love. “Am I?”

“Oh, God, yes. Paul-” She stopped.

“Paul what?”

“Nothing.”

“Paul approves of me?”

“It’s not like that, Alex. But, yes. Yes, he does. I always talk about how wonderful you are and he says he’s glad I’ve found someone so good for me. He likes you.”

“We’ve never met.”

Pause.

“He likes what I’ve told him about you.”

“I see.”

“What’s the matter, Alex?”

“Sounds like you and Paul have lots to talk about.”

I felt her hand reach around and take hold of me. She squeezed gently, kneaded. This time I didn’t respond and she lowered her fingers, let them rest upon my scrotum.

“He’s my faculty adviser, Alex. He supervises my cases. That means we have to talk.” Gentle stroking. “Let’s not discuss him or anyone else anymore, okay?”

“Okay. But I’m still curious about where the house came from.”

“The house?” she said, surprised. “Oh. The house. Inheritance, of course. It belonged to them. My parents. They were both born in California, lived here before moving back East- before I was born. I was their only little girl, so it’s mine now. It took time for the estate to clear, there was so much paperwork. That’s the reason I couldn’t go with you to San Francisco- I had to clear everything up. Anyway, now I have a house and some money- there’s a trust fund, administered back East. That’s how I got the Alfa. I know it’s a little showy, but I thought it was cute. What do you think?”

“It’s adorable.”

She went on for a while, talking about the car, the places we could go in it.

But all I could think about was: a house. We could live here together. I was earning good money now, could pay the utilities- pay all the expenses.

“You’ve got a lot more room now,” I said, nibbling her ear. “Enough for two.”

“Oh, yes. After the dorm room, I’m looking forward to being able to stretch. And you can visit me up here, any time you want. We’ll have fun, Alex.”

“… good-sized, especially by today’s standards.”

Mickey Mehrabian was hitting her stride.

“Tremendous decorator potential, fabulous flow, and the price includes all the furnishings. Some of these pieces are really deco classics- you could keep them or sell them. Everything’s tiptop. The place is really a gem, Doctor.”

We toured the kitchen and walked through the short foyer that led to the bedrooms. The first door was closed. She passed it by. I opened it and went in.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “This was the master bedroom.”

The shampoo/disinfectant smell was stronger here, mixed with other industrial scents: the ammonia of glass cleaner, the malathion bite of insecticide, lye soap. A toxic cocktail. The drapes had been removed; only a tangle of cords and pulleys remained. All the furniture was gone. The carpet had been pulled up, revealing hardwood flooring marred by tacks. The two high windows revealed a view of tree-tops and power lines. But no breeze, no dilution of the chemical bath.

No apple drawings.

I heard a buzz. She heard it too. Both of us looked around for the source, found it immediately:

A swarm of gnats circling the center of the room, an animate cloud, its borders shifting amoebically.

Pinpointing the spot.

Despite the attempts to wash away the aura of death, the insects knew- had sensed with their primitive little gnat brains- exactly what had taken place in this room. On that spot.

I remembered something Milo had told me. Women kill in the kitchen and die in the bedroom.

Mickey Mehrabian saw the look on my face and mistook it for squeamishness.

“The open windows, this time of year,” she said. “No problem taking care of it. There’s a motivated seller, extremely flexible. I’m sure you’ll have no problem including any repairs or adjustments as contingencies during escrow, Doctor.”

“Why is he or she selling?”

The wide smile reappeared. “No he or she- an it, really. A corporation. They own lots of properties, turn them over regularly.”

“Speculators?”

The smile froze. “That’s a naughty word, Doctor. Investors.”

“Who lives here now?”

“No one. The tenant moved out recently.”

“And took the bed.”

“Yes. Only the bedroom furniture belonged to her- I believe it was a woman.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know L.A., people coming and going. Now, let’s take a look at the other bedrooms.”

We left the death room. She asked, “Do you live alone, Dr. Delaware?”

I had to think before answering. “Yes.”

“Then you can use one of the bedrooms for a study, or even to see your patients.”

Patients. According to the newspaper, Sharon had seen her patients here.

I wondered about the people she treated. The impact her death could be having on them.

Then I realized there was someone else in her life. Someone upon whom the impact would be tremendous.

My mind went into overdrive. I wanted to be out of there.

But I let Mickey show me around, allowed her patter to pass through me for a while before consulting my watch and saying, “Oops, I’ve got to get going.”

“Do you think you’ll be putting in an offer, Doctor?”

“I need time to think about it. Thanks for showing it to me.”

“If it’s a view site you’re after, I’ve got some other listings I could show you.”

I tapped the watch. “Love to, but can’t right now.”

“Why don’t we make an appointment for another day?”

“Not even time for that,” I said. “I’ll call you when I’m free.”

“Fine,” she said, coolly.

We left the house and she locked up. We walked silently to separate Cadillacs. Before she could open the door of her Fleetwood, a hint of movement caught our attention. The rustle of foliage- burrowing animals?

A man shot out of the greenery and began running away.

“Excuse me!” Mickey called out, struggling to stay calm, her weirdo fantasies come to life.

The runner looked back, stared at us, stumbled, fell, and picked himself up again.

Young. Disheveled hair. Wild-eyed. Mouth open as if in a silent scream. Terrified, or mad, or both.

Patients…

“That gate,” said Mickey. “It needs to be fixed. Better security- no problem.”

I was looking at the runner, called: “Hold on!”

“What is it? Do you know him?”

He picked up speed, disappeared around the curve in the driveway. I heard an engine start, began running myself, to the bottom of the drive. Got there just as an old green pickup pulled away from the curb. Gears grinding, swerving erratically, going too fast, weaving. Some letters were painted in white on the door, but I couldn’t make them out.

I ran back to my car, got in.

“Who is that?” said Mickey. “Do you know him?”

“Not yet.”