Steve Erickson - Rubicon Beach

In the days and nights that followed, her face became more. Her eyes became more and her mouth became more. Her hair became more. Her beauty blossomed like the flower of a nightmare; it pulsed through the house. The throb of it kept her awake at night; the throb of it kept Llewellyn awake at night. They both lay awake feeling the throb and pulse of her face at opposite ends of the house. I’m caught in America, thought Catherine, where people know their faces and wear them as though they own them. Perhaps, she thought, in the beginning their faces were the slaves of their dreams. Perhaps, she thought, in the end their dreams are the slaves of their faces. At his end of the house Llewellyn thought to himself, It wasn’t enough to capture her face within the boundaries of a photograph; it hasn’t rid me of the vision. He got up and, for the first time in two years, went into his study. When Maddy woke in the morning she was flooded with joy to hear the sound of his typewriter.

MADDY WAS no less distressed by Catherine’s presence in the house, but the sound of her husband working after so long was a welcome sign of normality. She rationalized to herself that the recent strange dynamics of the house hold were a kind of catharsis for her husband, some last bit of eccentricity to be dispensed with before he got down to serious labor. The studio still called every day and Llewellyn still stubbornly refused to return the calls; but now at least Maddy could sound convincing when she explained he was at work, and once she even held out the phone in the direction of the closed study so Eileen Rader on the other end could hear the telltale clatter. Maddy wanted Catherine out of the house but decided to forgo that confrontation a while until Llewellyn had gotten the new script well under way. Besides, a new plan of action had presented itself with Richard and one of his increasingly frantic phone calls. “He’s writing, Richard,” she said one day.

“At the studio,” Richard said dubiously.

“Not at the studio. Here, in the house.”

“Really?” There was silence. “Listen, Maddy. I have a rather large favor to ask. Some kind of bash is happening here at the hotel in June, some anniversary or other.” A pause. “I may need a place to stay.” Another pause. “Should the management decide to collect on any outstanding bills, in anticipation of. . inviting some guests to leave.”

“For Cod’s sake, Richard,” she said. Richard, she thought, living here? Along with the crazy housekeeper. . and then Maddy realized the opportunity.

“It would only be for a while, of course,” Richard said quietly, keeping his dignity. “I wouldn’t make a nuisance of myself, honestly—”

“Richard,” she cut in, “there’s a room in back. It’s not much. As far as I’m concerned you’re welcome to stay a bit. But there’s the housekeeper. .”

“Housekeeper?”

The one you brought here, you idiot. “The one you brought here, Richard. Remember? Almost a month ago?” More silence and then he said, “Yes, I remember now.” “I think you should talk to Lew about this. Maybe you can come by this evening or when it’s convenient. I mean, you’re a friend. Surely you take priority over a housekeeper, I should think.”

“l haven’t been sure of Lee’s priorities in a long time,” Richard finally said. “Maybe we were never as good friends as all that,” he added almost questioningly, hoping Maddy would contradict him. When she didn’t, he said quickly, “I’ll be by this evening.”

She hadn’t contradicted him because it struck her as odd that Richard, who’d known her husband some twenty years, since he was a nineteen-year-old New York poet named Llewellyn, now called him Lee, like everyone else in this town.

When Richard showed up that night he’d had at least two stiff drinks. Llewellyn greeted him warily and Maddy had the feeling her plot was a mistake. The two hadn’t seen each other in a while. Heard you’re working, Richard said. Llewellyn answered as though in a trance. Richard, who was wary himself, and drunk on top of it, did not ask this particular evening if Llewellyn was writing him a part; he was afraid to. As do all people with no hope, these days he staked everything on a single hope that was bound to fail. Not despite the fact it was bound to fail but because of it. He had come to Los Angeles to fail, on the assumption that in Los Angeles it was an easier thing to do. “Maddy tell you why I came?” He got to the point directly.

“Because it’s easier to do,” Llewellyn said.

Richard blinked at Maddy, who decided to intervene.

“Richard’s afraid he may be evicted. I thought we might give him the back room for a while.”

Richard hastened to explain. “Something in June at the hotel. Some anniversary or other.”

Llewellyn nodded. “Twenty years,” he said.

“Twenty years?”

Twenty years ago they shot a man who quoted poetry. “Back room’s occupied,” Llewellyn said.

“Surely,” Richard answered acidly, as much to Maddy as to Lew, “a friend takes priority over a housekeeper.”

Llewellyn sat in a chair in the living room corner, not far from the remaining spots of blood on the carpet. He rubbed his eyes with his hand. “Why don’t we,” he said in a monotone, “wait and see. You haven’t been evicted yet have you? Maybe something will turn up at Eileen’s party. We can ask around.” He waved his hand in the air absently. He seemed to Maddy very distracted.

“Is Eileen giving a party?” she asked. She didn’t understand how he knew such a thing, since he hadn’t talked to Eileen in a long time, judging from the persistent phone calls.

“Some Academy Award nonsense,” he waved his hand again.

“Am I going?” she said.

“Of course,” Llewellyn answered. “You and Catherine and l.”

She looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses; she was barely able to repeat what she’d heard. “You and I. . and the housekeeper?”

“I’m sure I must have told you,” he said, rubbing his eyes again. Richard appeared absolutely befuddled. Maddy stared at her husband, head pounding with such incredulous fury that she was speechless. Slowly she turned to the stairs and then back to the two men, and then to the kitchen. She couldn’t think what to say or do or where to go.

Richard watched her walk into the kitchen. He was still befuddled. “Don’t want to go to a party,” he mumbled after her, almost to no one. “I’m tired of the parties in this town. Don’t want to see people I have to explain things to.” He said, “It’s a bloody fucked place with bloody fucked people. Eileen Rader and all the rest of them. My agent. Your producer. That awful Crow fellow. I like New York people better.”

Llewellyn looked at Richard. For a moment he seemed out of his trance. “Your agent is from New York,” he said through his teeth. “My producer is from New York. Larry Crow is from New Jersey. This whole city is full of people who came from somewhere else, and when they got here they looked at everyone around them and said, Isn’t this a terrible place. Four months later they’re still here and someone else has just gotten into town and is looking at them, saying, Isn’t this a terrible place.” He sighed. “Why are you here, Richard?” Richard stared back at Llewellyn glumly. He didn’t know if Lew meant why he was here in Los Angeles or why was he here in this house; either way it didn’t seem a promising question. He was trying to think of a promising answer when there was the sudden outburst in the kitchen, the sound of Maddy’s voice, and the heightened incomprehensible language of the housekeeper.

When Maddy came into the room, her speechless fury of moments before had found expression. In her hands she held a small white kitten. Catherine was behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching at her shoulder. Maddy turned and, efficiently and steaIthfully, reached back and landed a blow across the girl’s face. Catherine fell back against the wall and then came at the woman. Llewellyn jumped up from the chair and took her by the wrists.