Alison Lurie - The Nowhere City

Ten minutes, they assured her. They would be there in ten minutes. But in ten minutes he could still smash a window, force his way in, and rob and rape and murder her. If only she had kept those dumb dogs; they might at least have barked. She was going to keep them in the first place so as not to hurt the Suharaja’s feelings, but then one of them made a mess on the rug, and she screamed at Maxie to get them out of here.

Glory was still holding on to the phone, though now it was connected to nothing. Everything was quiet; she took a breath. She still didn’t feel as if she could scream: “There’s a man here.” The way the girls shrieked in the films was all wrong. It was much scarier this way. She must remember how she had said that, if she got out of this: “There’s a man, trying to get in.”

She hung up the phone, walked down the hall, and looked out. A dark shape was hurrying away along the edge of the illuminated pool, which glowed green in the dark. He dodged round the chairs and tables, and then stopped for a moment in front of a fat rubber sea monster, a pool toy that Maxie had given them. Was he flippy enough to be afraid of that? No. He picked it up, and put it under one arm. Then he ran into the bushes, out of the light, and disappeared down the side of the hill. Thank God he didn’t turn round; she didn’t want to see that look again.

In a few minutes the cops would be here. Her pajamas were all right, but she probably ought to put on a bathrobe too. Suppose there was a photographer with them. Oh hell, she’d better call Maxie. His wife would flip, three A.M., but still—Glory began to rush up and down the hall again, this way and that, without reaching any objective. Maybe no bathrobe. It didn’t look frightened enough. And turn off the damned Christmas tree. That was better.

As she stood dialing Maxie’s number, she suddenly caught sight of herself in a gold-framed mirror on the opposite wall: her face a patchwork of dried cosmetic mud, her hair wrapped in a turban of toilet paper. Christ! No wonder he had stared at her like that! She began to giggle out loud with hysterical relief. Why, she looked like something out of a Dracula film.

And the cops would be here any minute. Frantically, as the phone started ringing in Maxie’s house, she began to pull at her headdress and rub her face with her free hand. Shreds of paper fell all round her, but more clung fast, and the paint wouldn’t come off.

Outside, a police siren sounded down the hill. Glory slammed the phone back and raced for the bathroom, shedding lengths of toilet paper. She made it in time. When the officers knocked on the door she was standing before the mirror, smearing green eye shadow on with her fingers.

9

“OH, HELL,” CAME A voice from the kitchen.

It was late in the morning. Paul was just getting out of bed, for the second time; and the second bed. He had got into the habit of going to Nutting, working at his desk for an hour or so, and then leaving for Ceci’s. She would usually be asleep when he arrived; but he had a key now and could let himself in. She slept deeply. Sometimes he managed to take off his clothes and slide into the warm bed before she woke up. He would get back to Nutting about two hours later.

He did this practically every day. He quieted his conscience by pointing out to it that nobody was doing any work in Howard Leon’s department anyhow; they were always having coffee and telling stories; he got there earlier than anyone else and worked harder while he was there, etc. Anyhow, he was in no danger of getting fired. No one kept track of his comings and goings—if he wasn’t in his office he might be on another floor, or doing research up at U.C.L.A. The history of the company still wasn’t moving along very fast, but he had done a couple of popular-science-type articles that had gone over big. Leon had practically said that he could stay on another year if he wanted to. There would be a lot of advantages to that: for one thing, it would give him more time to finish the thesis. There would probably be a raise, too.

“Oh, hell!”

“What’s the matter?” Paul called. “Is the water gone again?”

“No, I am. I forgot to get coffee. I know what let’s do—let’s go over to the Tylers. Josie will give us some breakfast.”

“Okay.” Paul was pleased that finally Ceci was going to show him some of her friends. “Who’re the Tylers?”

“He’s a writer. Really way out. They have five kids and a big pad over on Beach Street.”

“Five children? How can he support five children, if he’s a writer?”

“Oh, he drives a cab for bread. Hey. What did I do with my clothes?” Dressed only in the old shirt that she used as a bathrobe, Ceci knelt down and began rummaging in her closet. “Here they are. Jesus, look at that hole. I’ve got to go over to the Goodwill again.”

Paul laughed. “Is that where you get your clothes?”

“Mostly.” Ceci pulled the jersey over her head; there was a long rip under the arm, through which the curve of a breast showed. “Sometimes I go to the Salvation—Wow. Do that again.”

“I’ve made the hole bigger,” Paul said a moment later. “You can’t go out on the street like that.”

“I can too. I’ll hold my arm down, this way. Everybody will think, the poor chick, she has a gimpy arm. Besides, it’s all I’ve got that’s clean.”

“You’re crazy,” Paul said fondly. He began to put on his shirt. “How do you know these people, the Tylers?”

Ceci answered, but not immediately. “They’re friends of Walter’s.”

Within his shirt, Paul made a face. Instinct told him to drop it, but reason, or what he chose to call reason, urged him on. “You never mention him, do you?” he asked. “It’s funny, he’s your husband, and I don’t know the first thing about him.”

“What would you like to know?” Dressed, Ceci was brushing out her hair.

“I don’t know,” Paul lied. “Well, for instance; what does he do?”

Ceci glanced up at him. “I can tell you,” she said. “But it won’t mean anything.” He went on looking at her, not letting her out of it. “Okay. When I first met him he was washing dishes in the same place where I worked and taking courses at City College. Then he went into the Merchant Marine for a while. ... Last year he was mostly reading for exams up at U.C.L.A., and he had a gig with a pool man.” She explained: “Like he went round in a truck with this guy and cleaned out people’s swimming pools. Right now he’s pushing Fuller brushes.”

Paul clutched at the item that fitted into his frame of reference. “Exams? Exams in what?”

“Philosophy. Master’s exams in philosophy.”

They were both dressed by now; Paul moved over to Ceci and put his arm around her as if to take the chill off their conversation. “Did he pass them?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Then he has an M.A. in philosophy. And he’s a Fuller brush man? I don’t get it. Couldn’t he find a job teaching anywhere?” Paul remembered what he had heard from Fred Skinner about local discrimination against Orientals.

“He thinks teaching’s a drag,” Ceci said. “He only took the exams because he digs taking exams. It’s like a kind of game for him.” She leaned gently against Paul, then stood aside. “Let’s go, huh?”

“Okay.” But Paul frowned. He wanted to understand Walter Wong in order to understand Ceci O’Connor—Ceci Wong she must be legally. Only the more he heard the less he understood either of them. He tried again. “Does he like selling Fuller brushes?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

“Dunno.” Ceci smiled, taken in. “He said it might not be so bad, only they screwed him on his territory. They sent him over to Hollywood, where nobody thinks about cleaning their place up, and they’re not home all day anyhow. But he was telling me, Sunday, he’s started going round at night now, and he’s running into a lot of weird scenes.” She laughed, and was about to go on, but Paul interrupted her; again he had heard only one thing.