Alison Lurie - The Nowhere City

Iz should have been in the photo. Maxie had wanted her to call him up and ask him over, if you can imagine, but she wouldn’t. So Maxie phoned Iz himself. He couldn’t reach Iz at the apartment he’d taken over in Westwood, or at the University, where he was working on some research thing, so he called the office in Beverly Hills.—Did Glory tell you to call me? Iz asked. (She was listening in on the extension.)—Uh-uh, Maxie said, it was my idea.—I thought so, Iz said. It’s the kind of thing I would expect from you. You really believe that I would come back just to pose for a picture so you can prove to everybody, the newspapers, that Glory and I are still living together.—There’s been a lot of unfavorable comment, Maxie said. It’s been now a month; people are speculating.—Well, screw them, Iz said. Tell them to hedge their bets.—You want to ruin this girl’s career? Maxie asked. Is that what you want to do? All right, don’t answer me now; think it over. Only why don’t you have some consideration for her? It’s a little thing, it’s a nothing to you, a few minutes of your time. So why be a louse?—I have a patient waiting, Iz said. I can’t discuss it with you now. Is Glory there? I’d like to speak to her. Glory shook her head violently.—Glory’s not here, Maxie answered.—All right. Let me give you some professional advice, Maxie, Iz said. I’ll give you this advice gratis, absolutely free. Go fuck yourself. He hung up.

Glory extinguished the bathroom light and went on into her all-white bedroom. Her bare feet sank into thick white carpeting and white fur rugs; the opaque glass lamps threw soft fans of light along the white walls. She had always gone for this room. Iz dug it too; he had helped her shop for all the kooky white or near-white plants that stood along the sliding glass doors to the patio.

Iz had never liked Maxie in the first place. Before he met him he already didn’t like him, because of Maxie’s profession. Maxie had a more open mind; he liked Iz fine until he met him. And you couldn’t blame Maxie, the way Iz treated him, like he was some kind of bug. When he heard they were getting married he kept shaking his head.—What are the fans going to think: a psychiatrist? he said. “Whatsa matter, is she sick? Or maybe she’s becoming an intellectual.”—What’s wrong with that? Glory had protested. Jill St. John is an intellectual, I read all the time. Monroe married a writer.—Yeah, Maxie said, and look what it did for her. Anyhow, for you I don’t see it.

Glory took off her white silk bathrobe. Her spectacular body was a very pale, glowing pink—she avoided suntan, because it photographed badly and dried out your skin. (The hair between her legs also matched the Christmas tree. Like her girlfriend Mona said, you have to keep up the property: never know when you’ll have guests.) With her weirdly painted face and paper fez, she looked like one of those Egyptian gods who wear the heads of beasts.

Naked, she crossed the carpet, got into the huge bed, and turned out the light. Now the room seemed even larger than it was; funny-shaped shadows moved on the curtains, advanced and retreated across the walls. Glory got up again, went over to the closet, and after some searching found and put on a pair of pajamas which had never been worn except in publicity stills. It was dumb, of course, because if anything bad wanted to come and get her tonight a pair of white silk pajamas wasn’t going to stop them. She lay down in bed again, on her stomach, her paper turban disposed to one side.

Ever since Iz walked out on her, Maxie had been giving her trouble.—What am I supposed to do, he kept asking. What do you want me to say to the papers? Have a little consideration for my problem. Make up your mind: it’s over; it’s not over.—Why don’t you ask Iz? Glory finally shouted. Because I don’t know! As far as I’m concerned, we’re still married! I’m merely simply waiting for him to come home.—Aw, now, Maxie said. Don’t give me that. You threw him out, you got to ask him back. A man has his pride.—Listen, Glory said. He knew perfectly well I was putting him on when I said to split. I have some pride too. Any time he feels like it he can—

What was that? Glory raised her head. From outside came a noise like someone walking up the gravel drive. Wait. No: everything was quiet now. She lowered her head carefully again, turned on her side, and crossed her arms over her breasts.

Where was Iz now? What was he doing? Glory stared into the dark. She felt ugly and rejected. Like a goddess betrayed by a god, it made absolutely no difference to her that temples still stood all over the land in which her image was worshiped nightly by multitudes, that praises and petitions arrived daily from the faithful.

Two A.M. She wasn’t going to sleep; she would look a mess tomorrow. And it was too late to take a pill; if she did that she would be dopey and stupid at the studio next morning. It was too late to phone up anyone, and if she did, what would she—There it was again. Somebody or something was out there, around the corner of the house near the living-room.

Hell, probably it was just some dog. But Glory knew that she would never sleep until she was sure. Without turning on any lights, she got out of bed and walked down the hall. Now that her eyes were used to the dark she could see the shapes of the furniture, the dim reflections from pictures and mirrors, the tall spider-web silhouette of the Christmas tree against the window, the—Oh God. There was somebody out there: a man, standing near the glass doors.

In panic, Glory pressed the light switches in the hall. The rooms sprang up bright around her, the Christmas tree began to sparkle and play “Silent Night.” She was exposed as if on stage.

She reached, fumbling, trembling, along the wall to turn on the patio lights, the pool lights, all the outside lights. For a split second as they went up she thought the intruder was Iz, because he had a beard. But Iz’s beard was short and neatly trimmed—this man’s was long and scraggy, and he had a pale, flat sort of Oriental face, like a villain out of the grade-B spy thrillers of her childhood. But the worst thing was the way he stared at her—totally without admiration or desire, rather with an expression of inscrutable disgust. For twenty years no man had looked at her that way.

He stepped forward and put his hand on the glass door. Glory could see and hear the inside handle turn. She opened her mouth to scream, as the beautiful victims had screamed in all those thrillers; as she herself had screamed on cue before the cameras. Only nothing came out; her throat had turned to cardboard.

But the latch held; the door remained closed. The man slipped off to one side. Wait. Wasn’t that him around at the window, trying to open the window! But it was locked too. Was everything locked?

Now a nightmare chase began; Glory ran from room to room of her house checking the locks of the doors and windows, panting across her thick carpets, stopping to listen, afraid every time she pulled back a curtain that she would come face to face with that look of repulsion. He must be a pervert or something. Bathroom, bedrooms, dining-room, kitchen.

Finished, she leaned against the wall by the front door, breathing hard, and listened. Every sound to her now was the enemy walking round her house, in every direction, rattling the doors. She ran back and forth aimlessly: a few steps one way, a few steps another. Down the hall in the living-room the Christmas tree went on twinkling and playing.

The telephone! She could telephone the cops! She grabbed the receiver off the wall and dialed O. “Therth a man!” she lisped. “A man here, trying to get in. I want the cops.” Her voice began as a hoarse whisper, but it came back to her as she spoke.