I'd done the right thing by breaking the date.
At one, hoping to exchange one lovely mask for another, I phoned San Luis Obispo. Robin's mother answered.
"Yes?"
"This is Alex, Rosalie."
"Oh. Hello."
"Is Robin there?"
"No."
"Do you know when she'll be back?"
"She's out. With friends."
"I see."
Silence.
"So, how's the baby, Rosalie?"
"Fine."
"Okay, then. Please tell her I called."
"All right."
'"Bye."
Click.
The privilege of owning a mother-in-law without having to do the paperwork.
Monday, I struggled through the morning paper, hoping the venality and low-mindedness of international politics would cast my problems in a trivial light. It proved effective, until I finished the paper. Then that old empty feeling returned.
Page 36
I fed the fish, did a wash, went down to the carport, started up the Seville, and drove into South Westwood to do some grocery shopping. Somewhere between frozen foods and canned goods I realized my basket was empty; I left the supermarket without buying a thing.
There was a multiplex theater up the block from the market. I chose a feature at random, paid the early-bird discount price and sat low in my seat along with giggling teenage couples and other solitary men. The show was a low-grade thriller graced by neither coherent dialogue nor plot. I walked out in the middle of a sweat-soaked love scene between the heroine and the dashing psychopath who was going to try to carve her up for postcoital dessert.
Outside, it was dark. Another day vanquished. I forced a fast-food burger down my throat, headed for home, then remembered that the newspaper had been temporarily therapeutic.
Evening. A new edition. A blind vendor was hawking it from a curb on Wilshire. I pulled over, bought a paper, paying with a dollar bill, not waiting for the change.
Back home, I called my service—no impersonal machine for old Alex. No messages either.
Stripping down to my undershorts, I took the Times and a cup of instant coffee to bed.
Slow news day; most of the evening special was a rehash of the morning edition. I stuffed myself on swindles and subterfuge. Found my eyes blurring. Perfect.
Then I was brought abruptly back to focus by a story on page 20.
Not even a story, just filler: a couple of column-inches next to a wire-service piece on the sociological structure of South American fire ants.
But the headline caught my eye.
PSYCHOLOGIST'S DEATH POSSIBLE SUICIDE
Maura Bannon Staff Writer
(LOS ANGELES) Police sources said the death of a local psychologist, found this morning in her Hollywood Hills home, probably resulted from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The body of Sharon Ransom, 34, was discovered this morning in the bedroom of her Nichols Canyon home.
She had apparently died sometime Sunday night.
Ransom lived alone in the Jalmia Drive house, which also doubled as an office. A native of New York City, she was educated and trained in Los Angeles, received her Ph.D. in 1981. No next of kin have been located.
Sunday night. Just hours after I'd called her.
Something cold and rank as sewer gas rose in my gut and bubbled in my throat. I forced myself to read the article again. And again.
A couple of column inches. Filler... I thought of black hair, blue eyes, a blue dress, pearls. That remarkable face, so alive, so warm.
Page 37
No, you 're one person to whom I don't have to pretend. No, I haven't been fine, not at. all.
A cry for help? The implied intimacy had angered me. Had it blocked me from seeing it for what it was?
She hadn't looked that upset.
And why me? What had she seen in that quick glance across the shoulders of strangers that had led her to think I was the right one to turn to?
Big mistake... old Alex fixated on his own needs, soft white thighs and pillowy breasts.
No, I haven't been fine. Not at all.
I'm sorry to hear that.
Dispensing vending-machine empathy.
I'd reeled her in, not giving half a shit. Enjoyed the feeling of power as she floated toward me,
At one, hoping to exchange one lovely mask for another, I phoned San Luis Obispo. Robin's mother answered.
"Yes?"
"This is Alex, Rosalie."
"Oh. Hello."
"Is Robin there?"
"No."
"Do you know when she'll be back?"
"She's out. With friends."
"I see."
Silence.
"So, how's the baby, Rosalie?"
"Fine."
"Okay, then. Please tell her I called."
"All right."
'"Bye."
Click.
The privilege of owning a mother-in-law without having to do the paperwork.
Monday, I struggled through the morning paper, hoping the venality and low-mindedness of international politics would cast my problems in a trivial light. It proved effective, until I finished the paper. Then that old empty feeling returned.
Page 36
I fed the fish, did a wash, went down to the carport, started up the Seville, and drove into South Westwood to do some grocery shopping. Somewhere between frozen foods and canned goods I realized my basket was empty; I left the supermarket without buying a thing.
There was a multiplex theater up the block from the market. I chose a feature at random, paid the early-bird discount price and sat low in my seat along with giggling teenage couples and other solitary men. The show was a low-grade thriller graced by neither coherent dialogue nor plot. I walked out in the middle of a sweat-soaked love scene between the heroine and the dashing psychopath who was going to try to carve her up for postcoital dessert.
Outside, it was dark. Another day vanquished. I forced a fast-food burger down my throat, headed for home, then remembered that the newspaper had been temporarily therapeutic.
Evening. A new edition. A blind vendor was hawking it from a curb on Wilshire. I pulled over, bought a paper, paying with a dollar bill, not waiting for the change.
Back home, I called my service—no impersonal machine for old Alex. No messages either.
Stripping down to my undershorts, I took the Times and a cup of instant coffee to bed.
Slow news day; most of the evening special was a rehash of the morning edition. I stuffed myself on swindles and subterfuge. Found my eyes blurring. Perfect.
Then I was brought abruptly back to focus by a story on page 20.
Not even a story, just filler: a couple of column-inches next to a wire-service piece on the sociological structure of South American fire ants.
But the headline caught my eye.
PSYCHOLOGIST'S DEATH POSSIBLE SUICIDE
Maura Bannon Staff Writer
(LOS ANGELES) Police sources said the death of a local psychologist, found this morning in her Hollywood Hills home, probably resulted from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The body of Sharon Ransom, 34, was discovered this morning in the bedroom of her Nichols Canyon home.
She had apparently died sometime Sunday night.
Ransom lived alone in the Jalmia Drive house, which also doubled as an office. A native of New York City, she was educated and trained in Los Angeles, received her Ph.D. in 1981. No next of kin have been located.
Sunday night. Just hours after I'd called her.
Something cold and rank as sewer gas rose in my gut and bubbled in my throat. I forced myself to read the article again. And again.
A couple of column inches. Filler... I thought of black hair, blue eyes, a blue dress, pearls. That remarkable face, so alive, so warm.
Page 37
No, you 're one person to whom I don't have to pretend. No, I haven't been fine, not at. all.
A cry for help? The implied intimacy had angered me. Had it blocked me from seeing it for what it was?
She hadn't looked that upset.
And why me? What had she seen in that quick glance across the shoulders of strangers that had led her to think I was the right one to turn to?
Big mistake... old Alex fixated on his own needs, soft white thighs and pillowy breasts.
No, I haven't been fine. Not at all.
I'm sorry to hear that.
Dispensing vending-machine empathy.
I'd reeled her in, not giving half a shit. Enjoyed the feeling of power as she floated toward me,
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