Telling Lies

Chapter Twelve

Emily’s apartment had a cold, unused feeling. First thing, I switched on all the lights and turned up the radiator. Mrs. Lim had tidied up from the night before.

For the services at La Placita, Max had taken the field jacket from the bag of clothes I had carried home from the hospital. The rest of the stuff, jeans, shirt, underwear, Mrs. Lim had rinsed out and hung up to dry. The sweats I had borrowed to wear while my own things dried were neatly folded on top of the dresser.

I took off the jeans I had worn all day and slipped into the sweats again. I was feeling the lack of sleep and had begun to notice that I hadn’t eaten all day. Without much optimism, I headed for the kitchen to see what I could find.

Mrs. Lim, bless her, had considerately laid out tea-making things for me on the kitchen counter. Silently, I apologized for any less-than-kind thoughts I had ever entertained about her.

I turned on the fire under the kettle and looked in the refrigerator for something to eat, knowing how bleak the prospects were. Again, I had underestimated Mrs. Lim. Sitting next to a block of tofu, I found a beautiful, thick, chicken sandwich with sliced tomatoes on the side.

I took Vivaldi off the CD, put in Phil Collins, and turned up the volume. Sitting on the floor with my back against the sofa, I ate the sandwich and washed it down with hot tea. If the room had been warmer, I would have fallen asleep right where I sat, with crumbs on my lap and an empty cup in my hand.

But I was cold and grubby. I had a lot of repair work to do before I confronted Celeste Baldwin Smith at the Century Plaza.

I went into the bathroom, stripped, and stood under a hot shower for longer than is kosher in drought-stricken California. I shampooed my hair with Emily’s shampoo, shaved my legs with her razor, wrapped myself in her terry robe when I got out. It felt very strange to be there, handling her things, without hearing Em rattling around in the next room or popping in and out to talk to me. I kept hearing noises that I knew existed only in my memory. It was spooky to be there alone, but it was also reassuring to be among her ordinary, private little essentials.

The many dramatic events of our lives had, I think, overshadowed my recollection of the texture of our everyday routines. I regretted that. Emily was more than the radical peacenik, more than the sainted doctor. She could be incredibly funny. She sang off-key in the shower and left wet towels and dirty clothes all over the bathroom. On the few occasions when I had come to stay with her, or her with me, she would come into the bath-room while I bathed, sit on the toilet lid and talk to me. Generally with a glass of wine in her hand.

Emily could be an incorrigible tease. She often made me furious. I thought about those times, too, because I needed to re-member everything about her. I dabbed on some of her L’Air du Temps and breathed in her scent from my skin.

Emily was six feet tall. She had bought her robe at a men’s big-and-tall shop, the only place she could find one to reach her ankles. I had put on her robe because it was all there was other than a skimpy bath towel. The robe was so big that I kept trip-ping over the hem while I blew my hair dry and used her makeup to correct a night without sleep. The thing was a nuisance. I was tired and my fuse was very short. By the time I had finished with the bathroom routine, I was plain old cranky.

I didn’t expect Garth with my clothes from Desert Mode for another couple of hours. So I went to the kitchen, opened Emily’s bottle of celebratory Chardonnay, and poured myself a glass. We had already shared so much, why not this?

I turned on the television and sat down on the sofa with my glass of wine to watch the evening news. The Ken and Barbie news team told me nothing that I didn’t already know: Emily was being moved to Stanford, there was a new rainstorm on its way down the coast, Aleda had been bailed out and was in seclusion. The single new story was about the Vice President’s official Christmas card going out in the mail with an embarrassing typo. I don’t remember what the typo was, because I heard it just as I drifted off to sleep.

Someone banging on the apartment door interrupted a dream I was having about swimming in a pool with no water. It all made perfect sense, until I woke up. Disoriented, I staggered through the apartment in the direction of the knocking and opened the door.

“Jesus, Maggie,” Garth said, looking me over. In his perfect silk tux, he looked like the ornament from the top of a wedding cake. “I thought we had a date.”

I was a mess, hair and makeup undone, the nubbly weave of the couch upholstery pressed into one cheek. I took the garment bag Garth carried and waved him in.

“There’s wine in the kitchen,” I said. I won’t be long.”

“Take your time, honey. Take your time. Party starts at eight. We don’t want to get there too early or too sober.

“What time is it now?”

“Eight-fifteen.”

“I don’t want to miss Celeste. What if she decides to go home early?”

“She won’t. It’s her bash.”

“Just the same.” I tripped over the robe and he caught me by the elbow.

“How much of that wine have you had?” he asked, laughing.

“Obviously, not enough. Go away. I’ll only be five minutes.”

My hands were filled with the long garment bag, but I managed to gather up enough of the robe’s hem to stumble into Em’s walk-in closet. I spent some time repairing the hair and face, in essence girding my loins before I braved a look at the creation Desert Mode had sent me. At last, I pulled the zipper on the garment bag.

I had been right: sequins and shoulder pads. That is, one shoulder pad. The basic dress was a slinky, black-sequined tube that covered one arm to the wrist and left the other one bare, as well as a good part of the chest. A massive red-sequin poinsettia bloomed atop the single shoulder and leafed across the cleavage. The flower’s stem was a spangley green-and-silver vine down the front of the dress, ending where the slit in the skirt began, about five inches below my crotch.

I didn’t know whether I could walk in the thing, much less sit. This confection was almost funny to me, whose only after-five attire is a well-cut black-silk suit I bought on sale at Saks six years ago. The suit looks great and no one ever remembers it. If it didn’t get wrinkled in a suitcase, it would be perfect.

There was a fur coat in the bag. I hung it up and intended to leave it behind. A paper sack in the bottom of the garment bag held the rest of the costume essentials: three-inch silver sandals, metallic silver hose, underwear, accessories. I started with the strapless bra. It was too small around the back, and too big up front, so I tossed it aside and did without a bra. Everything else fit beautifully, to use beautifully loosely.

The piece de resistance was a pair of crystal earrings long enough to dust the top of my single bare shoulder.

When I was in full regalia, I took a long look in the mirror on the back of the closet door. As a whole, it was okay, certainly not to my taste, but what the hell? I have worn jungle fatigues in El Salvador, a chador in Iran, Laura Ashley in England, medium gray on Wall Street, all to blend into the environment. Reminding myself that this rig was only another form of camouflage, I opened the closet door and slinked out to dazzle Garth.

“Yo, baby,” he grinned, twirling me around. “Why waste this gorgeous creature on some boring-as-shit fundraiser? Let’s go dancing.”

“Let’s just get this over with. Are you ready?”

“Get your coat.” He tilted his wine glass to drain it. When he saw me drape my camel coat over my arm, he froze. “Desert Mode should have sent over some fur.”

“They did. But there’s no way I’m going to take responsibility for a full-length mink. If some animal rights nut doused me with paint, I couldn’t pay for the repairs.”

“I’ll be responsible for the coat,” he said.

“It’s useless to argue,” I said, taking his arm. “How many times have you been able to change my mind?”

I can remember a few little victories,” he said, holding my camel coat for me. “But Pyrrhic victories, every one.”

I kissed his cheek as I went past on my way out the door. “Have I told you how nice you look?”

“Not yet.”

“You are elegant, Garth,” I said, taking his arm as we walked down the hall. “A credit to your sex.”

“Thank you.” He kissed the hand that I had tucked into his arm. “I brought the videotapes you wanted. They’re in the car.”

I don’t have words to tell you how much I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”

He bumped my shoulder. “Try.”

“I thought I just did.” I laughed.

“You’re a wordsmith. You can do better.”

“I’ll work on it,” I said. “Sorry I’m such miserable company. The whole idea of going to this party, even if it’s the only way I can get at Celeste, seems all wrong when I think about Emily. This dress makes me feel like an absolute ass.”

“Emily would get a kick out of your efforts on her behalf. You’re doing the right thing.”

“Did I forget to tell you how nice it is to see you again, Garth?”

“For some messages, you don’t need words.”

Garth’s latest car was a black Jaguar XJS with a buff-colored ragtop and chrome wire wheels. It little more than purred as he sliced through traffic along Sunset and down to Santa Monica Boulevard. “Thus Spake Zarathustra” blasted on quad speakers. I folded my coat across the gape-front of the dress, leaned into the smooth leather upholstery and tried to get into the spirit of things.

Garth pulled into the curved drive in front of the Century Plaza, taking his place in the line of limos and Rollses waiting to disgorge passengers. As we got out of the car, some paparazzi snuck past the attendants and took a few quick flash shots of us, just in case we were somebody. I wanted to tell him not to bother, but Spiro Agnew was walking in ahead of us, and his picture was taken, too. If he’s news, then so am I.

I recognized many of the faces in the receiving line. Though there was an abundance of designer gowns and Versate tuxes, I saw early on that this was definitely a B list of political and entertainment figures. Then, who could expect Madonna to show up to help raise funds with a woman who called for the censorship of rock lyrics? Big names or not, there were certainly plenty of big bucks, all of them from the Right side of the political aisle.

Celeste stood just outside the ballroom, under a bower of decorated Christmas pines, greeting arriving guests. Her dress was strapless red taffeta, simple and tasteful to set off the handfuls of baroque rubies that circled her neck. The exposed skin of her face and shoulders was magnificent, like polished white alabaster-smooth, hard and cold.

Stories from the old days were legion about Celeste dropping onto her back and spreading her legs for anyone who asked nicely. Male or female, straight and quick or kinky as hell, she had been an equal opportunity lay. Sex had been part of her politics, a rejection of traditional relationships that she said re-pressed women.

I looked at this latest incarnation of Celeste and could not imagine her fucking anyone or anything. Ever. She was the epitome of the frigid society matron. Never changing the degree of her smile, she greeted each guest by name, said something appropriately friendly, sent them along into the elaborately decorated ballroom.

I had been brazenly staring at her as we inched our way up the line, wondering what she would find to say to me. She had my hand in her light-as-a-butterfly grip before she realized who I was.

“Maggot!” she said, drawing back. “I had no idea you were coming.”

“Good to see you, Celeste,” I said. “I want to have a nice long chat.”

“Yes?” For the first time her smile flagged.

Her hand fell away from mine, but just seemed to hang there in midair until Garth caught it.

“Wasn’t it sweet of Maggie to come with me tonight?” he effused. “Couldn’t keep her away. She’s so involved with teens and drugs.”

I don’t know how Celeste read the remark, or how Garth intended it. She smiled a tight Bryn Mawr smile. “Lovely to see you, Maggot, so all grown up. We’ll find a quiet moment later, to catch up.”

“Until later, then,” I said as the people behind me pressed forward.

“What do you think?” Garth whispered in my ear as we went inside.

“She looks stoned,” I said. I wonder what they had to give her before she could show up tonight.”

“A little dope wouldn’t have hurt you,” he said. “Relax, Maggie. Emily wouldn’t care if you had just a little bit of fun.” “I’m working up to it, Garth. Stick with me.”

“Like glue.”

He stayed tight beside me as we walked through the room. We greeted people as they surged toward us, but didn’t merge with any of the little conversational clusters that beckoned us.

At the far end of the room, a full orchestra played waltzy music while half a dozen mirrored balls rotated over the crowded dance floor. The spangles on women’s dresses and their fresh-from-the-vault jewels caught the light until it hurt my eyes to look at them. I could hardly look down at my dazzley self.

That is not to say that others didn’t look at me. There was no way I could walk without showing a lot of thigh. Garth was loving it. As we walked toward the trays of Dom Perignon, I watched women look at me, at my hand on him, then up at his face with greedy interest. I hoped this was some payback for the help he had given me.

We had to wait until the stream of newcomers dwindled before Celeste was approachable. I gulped my second glass of champagne and started for her. T. Rexford Smith, the husband, got to her first and led her onto the dance floor.

“Do something,” I said to Garth.

We followed them. Shadowed them actually, trying to get close to our hosts. Garth took me in his arms and we wedged through the box-stepping crowd.

T. Rexford was an energetic if graceless dancer. We had to dodge some elbows, but Garth managed to get us inside, close enough to manipulate a partner swap. Since I was the one who wanted to speak with Celeste, I didn’t know what the point was of getting me into T. Rexford’s arms. I watched Garth float away with Celeste and hoped he remembered why we had come.

In my heels, I was three inches taller than T. Rex, making it difficult to follow his lead. He sweated a great deal, roamed with his hand down my back more than we were taught was accept-able at St. Catherine’s.

“I’m Maggie MacGowen,” I said, trying to keep my feet out from under his. “I’ve known your wife for a very long time.”

“Have you?” His hand dipped to my ass. I pulled back and twirled him by the fingertips in a wide pirouette. He rebounded off the couple next to us, spun back and clutched me against his round, ruffle-fronted tummy.

He grinned at me. “How many of the men in this room have you slept with?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t had time to look around much.”

“Lovely dress. When you walked across the room, I could see the entire inner curve of your thigh.”

“Mr. Smith,” I crooned. “You’re an insufferable toad. If you don’t move your hand, I will emasculate you with the zipper of that rented monkey suit. Capiche?”

“Capiche,” he laughed. “I’m familiar with your films, Miss MacGowen. Brilliant work. I’m not sure I can agree with the liberal undercurrents, but I can’t fault the craftsmanship.”

“What do you know about filmmaking?”

“The two essentials: Profit and Loss. I know that a good, low-budget product with long-term potential is a far better investment in this economy than a blockbuster that’s top-heavy with star salaries and perks. Good and cheap, that’s what you deliver consistently, Maggie. Films that will accrue earnings into the millennium.”

“I don’t do theatrical films.”

“You will,” he said smugly, maneuvering me into a dip. “Come see me after the holidays.”

“I’m going to Ireland after the holidays on a project.”

“Oh? Another paean to the IRA?”

“Not this time. We’re going to talk with young Irish women about coping with the chronic shortage of marriageable men. I think it will be fun.”

In the same tone he might quiz a leper, he asked, “Are you a feminist?”

“Are you?”

Garth and Celeste were beside us. “May I?” Garth asked, and I simply danced into his arms before T. Rex could answer. T. Rex grasped Celeste around her tight waist and they glided away into the crowd.

“What a workout,” I said, as Garth waltzed me off the dance floor. “Learn anything?”

“Celeste will meet you out on the terrace in five minutes. I’ll stay outside the door and run interference for you.”

“How did you manage it?” I asked.

“Easy. I told her I had been working on Emily’s video obit and Celeste’s face kept showing up in the file footage. She asked what it would take to be forgotten. I said she had to talk to you. I told her you were the boss on the project.”

“You’re a genius. Thanks. I’m going to the terrace now. Keep an eye on Celeste. Make sure no one slips her anything like cyanide or a nine-millimeter slug before she joins me.”

“That isn’t funny,” Garth said. “You keep a sharp eye out for yourself. And a clear head.”

My head was already a bit muzzy from the champagne. I knew better, but when I walked past a waiter bearing a full tray, I said to hell with it and took a glass. Sipping champagne along the way, I went out through a side door that led to a small balcony overlooking Avenue of the Stars.

I wasn’t nearly drunk enough not to feel the cold. I was thinking about going back inside for my coat when Celeste came.

She stayed near the door, ready for flight. I could see that she was nervous about being with me.

“I received the message you left at my house this morning,” she said. “You said, Aujourd’hui Emily est morte.’ But Emily didn’t die today, did she?”

“No.”

“Then why did you say she had?”

“To see if you remembered.”

“Oh, yes, I remembered.” She relaxed a little. “That’s the opening line from The Stranger. I remember throwing Camus at your head once when you were being especially awful.”

“It wasn’t Camus you threw; it was a guide for making explosives.”

“Was it?” She smiled. “Such a long time ago.”

I was sorry to hear about your daughter,” I said. I never met her, but I have a daughter of my own and I can’t imagine going on with life if I lost her.”

“Who says I’ve gone on with my life?” Her chin quivered slightly, the first show of genuine emotion I had seen from her. “Have you ever lived with an addict?”

“No.”

“Then you have no idea.” She came further out onto the balcony, the movement of her feet hidden by the long red dress so that she seemed to float toward the rail at the edge. She seemed weightless, so otherworldly that I wondered how gravity managed to keep its hold on her. If there hadn’t been a Plexiglas windscreen behind the rail, I would have worried about her blowing away. Or jumping. She had a scary, desperate quality about her.

“Do you have other children?” I asked, holding us to this world.

“Yes, two.” She looked at me over her shoulder. “Paix graduates this June from Princeton, and young Rex is a freshman in prep school.”

“Paix,” I repeated. “The name means peace, doesn’t it? He must be graduating young.”

She laughed softly. “You always were nosy, Maggot. In June, he will be twenty-two. What does that suggest to you?”

“Suppose you tell me.”

“My eldest was born exactly nine months after I saw your brother, Marc, for the last time.”

“Are you saying my brother was the father?”

She gave me a small sardonic smile. “Check the calendar. Could have been Marc. Could have been Ho Chi Minh, or maybe a redcap at the Honolulu Airport. You would have to look at Paix and decide that for yourself.”

“I’d like that. Tomorrow morning all right?”

She sagged against the balcony rail. “Oh, Maggie, never mind.”

“If he is Marc’s son, he’s my nephew. And I mind very much.”

“No point. Rexford accepted him, and that’s all that matters to me. Paix grew up, and I grew up along with him. Everything that happened before was nothing more than youthful folly.”

“It was a great deal more than folly,” I said. “People died.”

“Tom Potts,” she sighed as she reached for what was left of my glass of champagne. “I’ve worked so hard to put all that behind me. Won’t it ever end?”

“You brought it up.”

“Emily called me yesterday,” she said. “Such a surprise. I hadn’t spoken with her for years. She wanted to see me. When I heard what happened to her… “

“Did she say why she wanted to see you?”

“A reunion, she said. And a memorial service for Marc. I couldn’t possibly go. Not with this bash happening tonight.” A sudden breeze made her shiver. “The whole idea gave me the creeps. We’re only entitled to one funeral per customer. I always thought Emily’s attachment to Marc was a bit perverse.”

“Perverse?”

“Poor Jaime. Can you imagine what it must have been like to go to bed with a woman who was fixated on her dead brother?”

“Watch yourself, Celeste. Don’t forget who I am.”

“None of this ever occurred to you? My God, poor Marc had to go to Vietnam to get away from Emily. And still she followed him. She killed him, you know. The trip to Hanoi, the Berkeley demonstration, all the publicity.”

“You were with her through it all. Does this mean you share some blame?”

“No,” she snapped. “Emily choreographed every step we took. She and Aleda. They insisted we stop over in Honolulu to see Marc on the way to Hanoi. I thought it was a waste. Who did Emily think she was, anyway, dragging us along behind her? Queen Emily. Queen Bee Emily.”

“You’re so bitter.”

“Perhaps I have a right. Maggie, have you any conception what that little epoch cost me?”

“Suppose you tell me.”

“It cost me my life.”

“You hardly seem deprived,” I said, noting the way her rubies seemed to sparkle even in the near-dark. “You’ve married a rich and powerful man; you have access to the movers and shakers.”

She was shaking her head. I didn’t marry a rich and powerful man, I made one. I bought him access to the movers and shakers. But it means that Rex is having the life that should have been mine. Don’t tell me not to be bitter.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What was to stop you from doing anything you wanted?”

“Surely you’re not so naive. It happened to all of us, Maggie.”

“What did?”

“The dirty suggestions,” she seethed. “We would apply for jobs and someone would show up to plant the seeds, show copies of our FBI files to the right people, make vague threats. We were blocked from the work we wanted to do, should have been doing.

“They even did it to my son, Paix,” she said. “I was raising him alone. I enrolled him in a good preschool, but when we showed up for the first day, suddenly there were no openings.”

“Maybe there were no openings, Celeste,” I said. “Look at Emily’s career. How can you say anyone interfered with her success.”

“Success? Inoculating illegal immigrants is hardly the path she had in mind. She and Jaime were going to spearhead health reform throughout the Third World. But there wasn’t an international health organization that would touch them. Or a federally funded American research institution that would hire her. Look at Jaime. What sort of practice does he have?”

“He seems happy.”

“Then you should look again. And while you’re at it, look at your own career.

“You’re nuts,” I said. I was just a kid during all that. It had nothing to do with me.”

“Do you remember an offer for a Capitol correspondent job that evaporated as soon as you resigned from your old anchor position? Where was that? Atlanta?”

“But surely…”

“And then a long dry spell, no job offers came, did they? Some of your husband’s clients drifted away, too. And where did you end up? PBS. Was that the goal you had in mind?”

“Sounds so paranoid. Why would anyone bother with me?”

“To get at Emily.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“To pay old debts,” she said. “It’s still happening, Maggie. I told you my son is graduating in June. Ask him about what happens after job interviews.”

“You’re saying they are the FBI?”

I wish it were, because then I would know how to fight back. I only know that this has been a very personal vendetta from the beginning. Whoever it is has access to the single most powerful tool that exists in our political system.”

“What?”

“Information. Information for blackmail.”