Good Rich People(11)

All of Sunday, I pace the floor. Occasionally, the housekeeper annoys me.

“You seem tense,” she says.

Finally, I dismiss her. “It’s Sunday. Shouldn’t you have the day off?”

Graham comes home on Sunday afternoon. He doesn’t mention Demi, but I know it bothers him that she’s not here yet.

He sets up at his desk at the far end of the living room, the apex, so the entire view crams in around him. He pulls at his collar and rubs at his neck, releasing his scent like a scratch and sniff. I try to think of things to do that feel like actual things, but end up moving from the kitchen to the window, to the bedroom and back, like a thing trapped.

“Can you stop pacing?” Graham says. I can’t blame him. I am annoying myself.

I perch on the sofa under the window that looks out over the stairwell that leads to the guesthouse. “Do you think she’s down there and we just can’t hear her?” The sound from below is not always reliable. It’s something we’ve often wondered about. Sometimes we won’t hear a thing for days, when suddenly a sentence breaks through, clear as a bell, like the person below is standing in the room with you.

“We would have seen her.” Graham doesn’t look up.

“Why isn’t she here?”

“She probably has things to do. Like everybody does.” His words are pointed, but I know I am not the reason he can’t work.

“Do you think I should check? To see if she’s down there? Just in case?”

Graham leans forward a little, peering below. “The curtains are closed; she’s not there.” Like it’s that simple.

“But maybe she likes to keep the curtains closed. Maybe she doesn’t like people seeing everything she does.” I scan our wall of windows, but we are so high, only the birds can see inside.

He sits back, rubs his neck. “Lyla, you’re obsessing.” He doesn’t say this unkindly. “Why don’t you go for a walk or something? Try to think about something else.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to check.”

Graham groans, goes back to his work. “She’s not down there.”

I prepare to go for a walk. I select the perfect gray outfit in case she’s there and sees me, in case she comes in as I’m going out. I stop at the door to put on my shoes. Graham looks up, smiles at me.

“You’re the prettiest girl in the world,” he says. I feel an almost overwhelming spike of dopamine, but then it drops away, when it used to last and last.

And I want to run to him, to hold on to the good, but I know that if I do, he will immediately say, I’m working, I’m tired. You’re being silly now. Not because he doesn’t want me, but because he only wants me at the right distance: not too close, not too far. Like an abstract painting that only comes together in one spot marked on the floor in an empty gallery. His love is farsighted. If I get too close, it blurs.

I don’t go downstairs to check if Demi is there. Instead I take the same walk I take every day. On the way back, I find Margo and Bean parked outside a great white van. The windows are covered with old blankets. Bird shit runs down the side like blood.

“Where did that come from?” I ask.

Margo’s chin jerks in my direction. “It’s an eyesore. We’ll have to pay to have it moved.” Bean is sniffing frantically, clawing the asphalt. Margo never bothered to have her trained. She wanted her to be herself, so she often acts in the most animal fashion. She barks once and then rapidly, one on top of the other. “Bean!” Margo jerks her leash but looks a little proud.

“I don’t think you can have it moved. You don’t own the street.”

“Don’t be silly.” Bean lunges. The collar catches her in the air. Bean whimpers and comes to Margo, who squats and makes a fuss of her. “That’s all right, my darling girl, my vicious little girl.” She stands. “This neighborhood is going to hell.”

Margo owns half the neighborhood. There are other houses on our street, but I don’t think people live in them. On occasion I will see someone rambling along the street, looking startled, as if they’re not sure how they got there. But I never see the same person twice. That is what Margo likes about the neighborhood, what she likes about Los Angeles in general: You will never find a city where people care less about what you get up to.

“Have you met the tenant yet?” Margo asks, regripping the leash so she can tug Bean away from the van and toward the gate that leads to her garden.

“No. She hasn’t arrived.”

“You’ll let me know every detail”—the gate screeches as she opens it—“as soon as she does.”





LYLA



Demi arrives just after midnight. Graham and I are in bed, at the stage in our sleep pattern where we turn our backs to each other. Graham sleeps on the side closest to the gate, so when I hear her, I shift to his side and peer through the opening below the shade.

He gasps, awake. “What are you doing?”

“I thought I heard something,” I say, knowing I heard her.

“Get your elbow—” I move it. “It’s probably that silly woman living downstairs.” He is half asleep, so I try to be quiet, but she is struggling to unlock the gate, turning the key this way and that, jangling the fence, swearing under her breath. Graham comes together; anger puts his parts in place. “Does she have to be so fucking loud?”