Joan Didion: Play It as It Lays

'Why don't you sound like it."

"Carter, I do ." She paused, abruptly exhausted. 'Maybe it’s not such a good idea."

"Do what you want," he said, and went upstairs.

Maria sat with her eyes closed until the vein in her temple stopped pulsing, then followed him upstairs. He lay on the bed in their room, staring at the ceiling. Only by an increased immobility did he acknowledge her presence.

"I was going out to see Kate," she said finally.

"How many times you been out there lately?" He still did not look at her.

"Hardly at all," she said, and then: "In the past few weeks, maybe a couple of times."

"You've been there four times since Sunday.' Resolutely Maria walked into the dressing room and began pinning her hair back.

"They called me,' Carter said from the bedroom, speaking as if by rote. "They called me to point out that unscheduled parental appearances tend to disturb the child's adjustment.'

'Adjustment to what." Maria jabbed a pin into her hair.

"We've been through this, Maria. We've done this number about fifty times."

Maria put her head in her arms on the dressing table. When she looked into the mirror again she saw Carter's reflection. There had come a time when she felt anesthetized in the presence of Ivan Costello and now that time had come with Carter.

"Don't cry," Carter said. "I know it upsets you, we're doing all we can, I said don't cry."

"I'm not crying," she said, and she was not.

"I'M ADAMANT about the mixes, I'm sorry, I just won't use them," the masseur who wanted to be a writer called from the kitchen. Maria lay face down on the sand beyond the sun deck and tried to neutralize, by concentrating on images of Kate (Kate's hair, brushing Kate's hair, the last time she went to the hospital Kate's hair was tangled and she had sat on the lawn and brushed it, worked out the tangles into fine golden strands, they told her not to come so often but how could she help it, they never brushed Kate's hair), the particular rise and inflection of the masseur's voice. There was always someone Maria tried not to hear at BZ and Helene's.

Either there were the sulky young men BZ met in places like Acapulco and Kitzbühel and Tangier or there were Helene's friends, the women with whom she shopped and planned restorative weeks at Palm Springs and La Costa, the women with the silk Pucci shirts and the periodically tightened eye lines and the husbands on perpetual location. They were always in their middle forties, those friends of Helene's, always about ten older than Helene herself.

"Heaven pajamas," years

Helene's friends would say to one another, and they would exchange the addresses of new astrologers and the tag lines of old jokes. One of Helene's friends had been at the house when Maria and Carter arrived. "I'll tell you one thing, he's a great phone ," she said several times, and she and Helene would laugh. It seemed to be a joke but Maria had failed to hear the beginning of it. Usually Maria could avoid hearing Helene's friends but BZ's friends were more difficult, and this one was particularly difficult. Part of it was his voice and part of it was that Maria had met him before, she was certain she had. He did not seem to recognize her but she was sure that she had met him three years before, at someone's house in Santa Barbara. He had come in after a polo game with some people who spoke only to the host and to one another, never to Carter and Maria-there had been an actor whose last several pictures had failed, the actor's mother, and a nervous steel heiress with whom the others seemed to have spent a week in Palm Beach-and then he had been not a masseur but the actor's secretary. Even lying in the noon sun on this blazing dry October day Maria felt a physical chill when she thought about that afternoon in Santa Barbara. The way he looked was the problem. He looked exactly the same. He looked untouched, and she did not.

"BZ, you’ve planned this to torment me," he was saying now. He stood on the deck, holding a plastic lemon at elaborate arm's-length.

"You couldn't possibly buy artificial lemon juice, someone left it here, it's a bad joke."

"All BZ’s friends are purists," Helene murmured without opening her eyes.

"You're a nasty," BZ said, and laughed. He twisted a silver medallion on his chest so that it flashed in the sun. BZ was perpetually tanned, oiled, gleaming, not the negotiable health-club tan of people like Freddy Chaikin but tanned as evidence of a lifetime spent in season. "Isn't Helene a nasty, Carter? Haven't I got a bitch for a wife? And question number three, who am I impersonating ?"

"Yourself," Helene suggested.

"Carter's not listening," the masseur said. "Don't be draggy, Helene, run down the beach and ask Audrey Wise for a couple of lemons. Ask Audrey and Jerry for Bloodys even. I mean we could definitely stand a few giggles."

Helene opened her eyes. "You know what Jerry gave Audrey for her birthday?"

"Let me guess." BZ touched a finger to his tongue and held it to the wind. "One perfect white rose."

"One perfect thousand-dollar bill," Helene said. "Smartass."

"Maybe she can buy herself a good fuck," BZ said.

Helene giggled. "Jerry's a good phone."

"The lemons ," the masseur said.

Carter threw down the script he was reading and stood up. "I'll get the goddamn lemons," he said. Maria lay perfectly still until she knew that he was beyond the dunes and then she sat up, everything swimming in her vision. Beneath the faded American flag hanging over the sun deck they were arranged in tableau: BZ and the masseur, their bodies gleaming, unlined, as if they had an arrangement with mortality. Helene stood on the edge of the deck, looking down the beach toward Audrey and Jerry Wise's house.

Helene was not quite so immune to time, there was a certain texture to Helene's thighs, a certain lack of resilience where fabric cut into Helene's flesh. It occurred to Maria that whatever arrangements were made, they worked less well for women. That nervous steel heiress with whom Maria had last met the masseur, something bad had happened to her. She had been shot in the face by her fourteen-year-old son. It had been in the newspapers a few years ago. After the boy killed his mother he shot himself, and was later described by his father as a victim of divorce and drugs. Maria imagined that she had sunstroke. She closed her eyes and concentrated on a prayer she had learned as a child.

"That's one less for lunch," Helene said.

'I seem to have come in after the main titles," the masseur said petulantly. 'Is he going to get the lemons or isn't he?"

"Faggots make Carter nervous," Helene said pleasantly.

BZ laughed and blew Helene a kiss off his fingertips. "Actually, Nelson," he said then, "that lemon is not artificial. That lemon is re con stituted."

Maria stood up and grabbed a beach towel from the deck and ran into the house with the towel clutched to her mouth and a few minutes later when, pale under her sunburn and covered with cold sweat, she stopped the dry heaves and pulled off her bathing suit she saw that for the fifty-first day she was not bleeding.

“I WASN'T JUST CRAZY about your asking Helene how much money BEs mother gives them

to stay married,” Carter said on the way back in from the beach.

The top was down and Carter was driving too fast because he had to meet Freddy Chaikin and a writer from New York at Chasen's at seven o'clock. 'I wasn't just crazy about that at all.”

"Well, she does."

"Does what."

"Carlotta gives them money to stay married.

'So what."

"I'm sick of everybody's sick arrangements."

'You've got a fantastic vocabulary.”