Joseph Kanon - Stardust

“Wait,” she said, a whisper, no louder than a hiss. Then she was past the patio, following him down the flagstone steps, out of earshot. “Wait,” she said again.

Ben turned, his body still tingling, everything mixed up.

“I guess I should have called,” he said, his voice neutral.

“It’s not what you think,” she said, no longer whispering, but soft, conspiratorial.

“What is it, then?”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

He looked at her for a second. “Does he know that? I didn’t.”

She stared back, biting her lip. “Don’t.”

Silence again, the air churning, any words likely to wound.

“Talk to me,” she said finally.

He kept looking at her, not speaking, things still shifting inside, falling. “You’d better get back,” he said, turning to the car.

She reached out and they both looked down at her hand on his arm, something out of place. She pulled it back, the movement opening the top of her robe, so that she had to clutch the lapel, covering herself.

“Did you swim first?” he said, nodding to the robe.

Her eyes flashed, then looked away. “You’ve no right.”

“I guess not. What was it? Just one of those things.”

“No,” she said quietly. “You know that.”

“Getting back at him? Something like that?”

“Don’t be-”

“Not that I didn’t enjoy it. Just next time, let me in on it.”

“We can’t talk now. You’re so-”

He waited. “So what?”

“I don’t know. Angry.”

“Ah,” he said, exhaling it.

She looked down. “How could we go on like that? Him always there.”

“Instead of like this?” he said, motioning toward the pool.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said again.

“It does to me.”

“We have to talk later. Now it’s-”

He shook his head. “You don’t owe me an explanation. Let’s justnot.” He turned to go.

“It’s nothing,” she said, her head down.

“You must have had a good laugh. Me being so-”

She leaned forward, her head close to his chest.

“No. I wasn’t laughing.”

He could feel the robe near him, aware of her. He stepped back.

“You better go finish him off. Before he starts playing with himself. You should have him about halfway there by now. If I remember it right.”

She looked up, her eyes suddenly filling, stung. “Go to hell.”

He took out his car keys, flipping them, about to say something more, but instead just nodded and held one up, a kind of wave, and got into the car. He turned his head backing out, not wanting to see her standing there in her robe, a good-bye glimpse.

In a few minutes, twisting down, he was out of the hills. He stopped for a red light and sat staring out, jumpy, afraid for a second he might be sick. The light changed, then went red again, unnoticed, no one behind him to make him move. Staring, no longer queasy, his mind blank. When he finally turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, the Rexall, the theaters, all of it was still lit up, as if nothing had happened. But he felt that if he got out and walked by the plate glass windows again his reflection wouldn’t be there, that his heart was still beating but the rest of him had disappeared.

Sam Pilcer invited most of the studio to his son’s Bar Mitzvah. The list had begun modestly, just the commissary head table, but then he felt he had to include people in his unit and after that it became impossible to draw the line. People would feel slighted, and why leave yourself open to resentment? Besides, it was the kind of occasion that wanted a crowd. He canceled the small ballroom he’d booked at the Ambassador and took over the Grove instead.

By midmorning there was already a line of cars in front of Wilshire Boulevard Temple. The lot behind was full, but Ben circled around and finally found a spot two blocks in on Hobart. The temple was Byzantine inspired, a scaled-down Hagia Sophia, and the crowd gathering outside made it feel a little like one of the big movie theaters downtown. Ben stopped for a minute, watching people being helped out of black Packards and hugging each other on the sidewalk, another premiere. There were photographers and even the usual cluster of fringe people who’d come to see stars, held away from the entrance doors by ushers. Sam and his younger wife stood at the top of the stairs, hemmed in by well-wishers. Women were in dressy day clothes, navy set off with a diamond brooch, peach silk with pearls, everyone in hats and a few in fur stoles, in spite of the bright autumn sun.

Ben thought, looking at the guests, that all weddings and family parties were the same, everyone falling into predictable place. Rosemary stepped out of her car all ready for the camera, but the beefy middle-aged man off to the side, looking slightly lost, was probably Uncle Al, who ran a linen supply business in Inglewood. Sam’s mother-in-law, on a cane, was being escorted by an older grandchild-Jonathan, the Bar Mitzvah boy, would already be inside looking over the Hebrew passage. Al’s daughter, the pretty one, had brought a new man. Aunt Rose, whom nobody ever knew what to do with, was beaming at a photographer. Happy families, all alike.

The front office people were now arriving, the Lasners first, then everyone else in a quick jumble so that they all reached the steps at once, swarming around Sol the way they had at Grand Central. Fay teetered on high heels, holding on to his arm.

“What are you, walking?” Sol said, seeing Ben.

“I parked behind.”

“Yourself? What if people see?”

“What people?” Ben said, laughing.

“People. There’s always people. You should know that.”

“Just saving the studio money,” Ben said, brushing it off.

“You and who else?”

But he dropped it, tugged by Fay to start up the stairs.

“Rabbi Magnin’s doing it himself,” she said to him, leaning in. “Say something to Esther. She’s thrilled.”

Lasner turned slightly to Ben. “Come sit with us,” he said.

But Ben held back, already imagining Bunny’s scowl, Fay’s appraising glances. Liesl was getting out of a car with Dick Marshall, a little excitement running through the spectators.

“Dick! Over here!” Almost a squeal as he waved, flashing the Marshall grin.

Ben kissed Liesl on both cheeks, a European family greeting.

“You look nice.”

She smiled, relieved, but still tentative. “Wardrobe. I think from the Wehrmacht,” she said, touching one of the padded shoulders. “You know Dick?”

But Dick was flashing the grin again for one of the photographers.

“Save me a dance later.”

“What?” she said, slightly thrown, not sure if it was a double-entendre.

“At the Grove. Sam hired the band, too.”

“Oh. Yes, that would be nice.” Letting her eyes stay on him, talking.

More car doors were slamming, voices getting louder, rising like heat waves.

“Better get inside. There’s Polly,” he said, spying her farther down the row of cars.

“No, we’re supposed to talk to her.”

Dick, seeing her, put his arm around Liesl. “Hey,” he said to Ben, drawing a blank.

Liesl put on a public smile and started to turn.

“Have fun,” Ben said, sliding away, heading for the stairs.

“So glad you could come,” Pilcer said as they shook hands. “You know Esther?”

“Congratulations. You must be proud.”

“Ask me after,” she said pleasantly. “It’s still touch and go with the Hebrew.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said, a meaningless reassurance. But wasn’t it always? How many had he seen-struggling through their readings, rabbis at their sides, but always ending with elated grins. He remembered a whole season of them, the year Danny was thirteen, dreading the boredom of the service, all of it alien to them, who weren’t being instructed, who weren’t in their friends’ eyes even Jews. Otto had been indifferent and their mother gentile, so they’d escaped the Hebrew lessons, the tedious weeks of preparation. The services themselves were exotic, a series of risings and sitting downs and words repeated phonetically, just to go along. Most of the boys used the synagogue in Fasanenstrasse and afterward there would be a formal lunch across the street at the Kempinski, all good manners and politely smiling grown-ups. Years later, after they had left, it had been torched on Kristallnacht. Now there was nothing, a few shell-like walls.