A. Homes - In A Country Of Mothers

Claire laughed.

“It’s true,” Jody said.

“Did anything good happen?”

“I guess you could call the plane not crashing good, depending on how you look at it.”

“What happened once you were there?”

“We looked around, flew home, and I took the train back to New York.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Jody looked at Claire. How could she not believe her. “Okay, we didn’t look around and then we flew home.” She paused. “I made my mother go to Forest Lawn and spend two hours looking around for graves of famous people. All she said was, ‘Well, it’s nice to be outside on such a beautiful day.’”

“I think you had a good time and don’t want to admit it,” Claire said.

“Don’t start thinking you’re brilliant or anything,” Jody said. “It’s pretty basic.”

“Some people’s mothers wouldn’t have gone at all.”

“It’s not a comparison study,” Jody said. “It’s just my life, okay?”

“Sorry,” Claire said. “You’re right. So what about UCLA — are you going?”

“Harry says I’m a fool if I go to graduate school. ‘Film students are retards.’” She did a perfect imitation.

“Who’s Harry?”

“Harry Birenbaum, the film director. He made Trial of Love and a bunch of other stuff.”

“Really?” Claire said, excited. “That’s my favorite movie.”

“It’s everyone’s favorite movie.”

“That’s who you work for?”

“No. Technically I work for a film producer, who sent me to spy on Harry. Last week, before I left, Harry gave me a long lecture and then took me to some benefit dinner dance at the Plaza where everyone kept saying they didn’t know he had a daughter so grown-up.”

“What’s he like?”

“He wanted to have a sleepover. I should probably introduce him to my friend Ellen. All they both talk about is fucking. Who they fuck, why they fuck, how much more they want to fuck. Every week or so Harry picks a female project and works on them until they either give in or quit.”

“Are you one of his projects?”

“I’m not talking about myself. Every word out of my mouth is not about me,” Jody said, and immediately wished she hadn’t. She had the urge to apologize, to start the session over, walk in the door and go on about how sunny and warm California was. She was quiet.

“Is there something you’d like to talk about?”

“The weather,” Jody said.

Claire smiled. They sat silently. The longer they were quiet, the more nervous Jody got. She played with the ends of her shoelaces, with a quarter from her pocket, with a piece of hangnail on her thumb. She crossed and recrossed her legs, trying not to look at Claire. She looked at Claire’s shoes, brown suede slip-ons. Nice. Probably from Saks. She looked at the air conditioner. She wiggled around, trying to look like she wasn’t wiggling. She fought the overwhelming desire to fall asleep. There was no air in the room. There was air in the room but it was treated with special tranquilizer dust. Claire had pushed a secret button on her chair and released an invisible cloud of the stuff and Jody was falling asleep. Her head was weaving around. Her neck felt too thin and weak to support her skull. Not only was it exhausting not to talk, but it made the hour seem incredibly long.

“Are you all right?” Claire asked.

“Fine,” Jody said.

“Well, we’re out of time for today,” Claire said.

Jody had a hard time getting out of the chair. Her body was like lead.

“Would you like to come in on Wednesday, same time?” Claire asked.

I have to work, Jody thought. I have a job. I like having a job even if I don’t fully understand what I’m supposed to be doing. But Claire was nice to her. She’d gone all the way to Los Angeles for Claire. She couldn’t say no.

“So Wednesday’s all right?” Claire asked. Jody nodded. “We’ll talk more about things then.”

Jody walked out. She might not want to talk about things Wednesday. She might not want to talk about them later in the week, later in the year, or ever.

She called Ellen from the phone in Harry’s trailer while Harry went out to lunch with a reporter from Premiere.

“Third National,” Ellen said.

“I screwed up at shrink,” Jody said, glancing out the window at the Hell’s Kitchen location — special security guards had been hired for the afternoon to keep panhandlers away.

“And how may I help you this afternoon, Ms. Goodman?”

“I didn’t talk. I must be having a nervous breakdown.”

“No, we don’t give oral sex for opening new accounts anymore. It’s toasters. One moment, please, I have to put you on hold.” There was a long pause, and Jody started opening the cabinets in the trailer; one was filled with boxes of Jiffy Pop microwave popcorn, the other with packs of unused Polaroid film. Jody slipped some film into her knapsack.

“Sweetie,” Ellen said, “you don’t just walk into a shrink’s office a few times and all of a sudden have a nervous breakdown. All day long people go to shrinks and don’t say anything, it’s no big deal.”

“I kept looking at her shoes, her feet and stuff, and the more I didn’t talk, the worse it got. Then she made an appointment for Wednesday. She used to want me to come in every day. I don’t think she likes me anymore.”

“You’ve only been going for two weeks? Why do you care what she thinks? Maybe she’s busy tomorrow. Maybe there’s a sale at Bergdorf’s or something. Don’t take it personally.”

“I am taking it personally.”

“Majorly. She sounds like a lousy shrink. How come she didn’t do anything to make you start talking? You haven’t known her long enough to be completely silent together. Look, I met this guy — maybe you want to come out with us tonight.”

“Penis four thousand fifty-four.”

“I like sex, okay?” Ellen said loudly. Jody could picture all the other people behind their desks at the bank whirling around and staring. “I like it a lot. Everyone always tries to make me feel bad about it, like I’m some kind of pervert. I like to fuck‚ to get fucked — what’s wrong with that? If we weren’t supposed to, we’d be built differently!”

“You’re yelling,” Jody said.

“No, I’m not!” Ellen yelled. “I’m just talking to you and you don’t like it.”

“I worry about you,” Jody said. “It’s selfish, but if something happened to you I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to. Sex is dangerous. It’s not like when we were growing up.”

“I have to go,” Ellen said. “Someone’s waving at me. Talk to you later.”

Later that afternoon, the assistant director barked “It’s over” down the street, and Carol Heberton was led from her trailer to a waiting car. Two guys in suits climbed into another trailer behind Harry, and someone dumped the rest of the coffee from the huge insulated vat into the gutter. The PAs were checking their walkie-talkies in for a recharge, and one of them turned to Jody. “We’re going for beers, wanna come?”

It was the first time they’d invited her anywhere. Every night she’d seen packs of production assistants walking off the set together, relaxed, laughing, never looking back.

“So, are you related to someone?” one of them asked as they walked down Eighth Avenue.

“No,” Jody said, “Not related.”

“Well, so, what’s your job exactly? Me,” he said, “every morning I buy flowers for Heberton’s trailer, I buy her a fried-egg sandwich at a quality diner. I spend my days fetching whatever needs to be fetched. Before I check out, I turn in receipts and get paid back. But what do you do and who do you do it for?”

“I work for Michael Miller. I help raise money, but for now I’m on loan to Harry.”