Aftermath of Dreaming(68)
The quartet, which had disappeared during lunch, returns and, after getting settled, launches into Brahms’s “Lullaby.” When they finish, Tom goes to the parquet floor and takes a microphone from a sound man standing nearby. He begins with some of the funnier lines from his last hit TV show, then proceeds to speak eloquently of the great honor he and Bill have received. It is the best acceptance speech I’ve heard, and God knows there are a lot in this town, although normally the object received isn’t alive. As he expresses their deep gratitude to Sarah, none of us can keep a dry eye—his warmth and tenderness toward her are vibrant. But as he continues to glorify her, Sarah suddenly breaks down and deeply cries. As huge engulfing sobs capture her body, all the way over on the lawn’s other side, the baby joins her with a wail. The quartet immediately starts playing the lullaby again but louder and faster this time, as Tom practically throws the microphone at the sound man, and he and Bill run to comfort their child, looking for all the world like they want to die.
The still-unintroduced woman at our table scoops Sarah up in her arms and gently leads her inside. Tonette is a blur of creme concern as she flies by, joining them away from our eyes. I look at Michael and the expression on his face says everything I thought it would—he is ready to take this opportunity to flee. We get up from the deserted table and walk over to Bill and Tom to say goodbye. I notice that unknown-movie-star-man is alone on the far side of the tent. All ten baby dolls that were on his table are now sitting on the floor at his feet, like some infantile fan club turned plastic that he can keep.
“Thank you for having us.” I kiss each father on the cheek.
“Don’t forget your baby,” Tom says as he goes to a table, grabs two dolls, and brings them to me, laying one in each of my arms. “In fact, there are so many, take two.”
As Michael and I walk back through the house to leave, Ken is still standing at the front door like a heavenly messenger whose announcement never arrived. When we get outside, Michael takes my ticket to the valet, and I see Sarah, the still-unmet female guest, and Tonette sitting on the curb, so I walk over to tell them goodbye.
But what comes blurting out of me instead is nothing I would have planned. To Sarah I say, “Congratulations,” then immediately deeply wish that I had not, then in a fluster I turn to the female guest I still have not met and give her a hug. After extricating myself from that mistake, I say to Tonette, “It was so nice to meet you—I mean, see you.”
The three of them stare at me as though I am stark raving mad and for a second I wonder if I am, or at least mad from this experience I’ve had. I briefly consider trying the goodbyes all over again, but I decide it is best to just go away.
Walking over to Michael, who is waiting for me next to my truck, I realize I have spoken to the three women the way I wish they really were: a mother who is happy about the situation with her child, a kind friend who has wished me marital bliss, and a woman I don’t know and will never see again.
Michael slips his arms around me and I kiss him, as four fake baby hands dig into my breasts. He helps me into my truck, telling me that he has to get back to the station, but maybe later he’ll come by. I start to offer one of the dolls to him, but I know that he doesn’t have any use for it. Of course, neither do I.
Michael walks to his car, and as I start to turn the truck around, I see Tom and Bill walk outside with their arms around each other and Bill carrying their now peaceful child. Sarah looks at them and smiles. I suddenly feel a terrible wave of sadness, then decide it is just that lonely Sunday thing; if Michael were coming with me, I’d be fine. But a voice deep inside me tells me that’s a lie.
The guards do not glance up when my truck drives out the tremendous gates. It is like leaving a heaven imagined by someone else. I take a left onto Sepulveda and am traveling a good ten minutes before I realize I am heading the wrong way to get home.
20
I moved to Los Angeles Labor Day weekend of 1992 when I was twenty-three, a few months after graduating from SVA and breaking up with Tim. Moved and landed in Suzanne’s guest room. Or rather the guest room of Marc, her boyfriend at that time, with whom she lived in his Spanish-style house in Beverly Hills. The house was large and cool with a pool I would take dips in on the long hot September afternoons while Suzanne and Marc were at work. Marc was a music agent and he introduced me to Bill, the music producer I worked for as an assistant a few days a week. Marc hooked me up with him right after I got to L.A., sending me up to Bill’s home in Silverlake. I liked Bill immediately. He was originally from Detroit with an Ivy League yet groovy vibe about him. He had kind blue eyes, and offered me some of the fresh carrot juice he had just made before we sat outside on his terraced patio to talk about where I was from, the bands he was producing, and the things he needed done.
In my first few days after moving, I started adjusting to the sights of L.A., like the trees. I had never seen such odd ones before. Not that the palm trees were odd—okay, they were out of place, not even indigenous to the city, but they didn’t look odd; their gaunt bodies and full plumes on top reminded me of the anorexic yet heavy-chested actresses everywhere. It was the other types of trees, the regular North American kind, that were so odd. They were small. Tiny. I figured maybe the desert climate kept them from growing full because it was hot here, blazing. The sun was at such a close angle—not the rays buffeted through the humidity that I grew up with in the South, or even the curved slant of it you’d get in New York City. This sun was right next to me, literally on my shoulder, like I’d bump into it if I turned around too fast. So a bunch of nice, full, shade-producing, sun-blocking trees would have been a huge help against that heat-inducing foe, but everywhere I went—Sunset Boulevard, Westwood, Beverly Hills—the trees were so curiously small. It made me long for the deep shade and towering fullness of the virtual forests at home in Pass Christian.