“No, I’m not breaking up with you. What’s up with that?”
“I don’t know,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m just afraid this is going to end.” I couldn’t believe I was telling him what I really felt. I rarely told people what I really felt. Especially boys.
“Don’t waste your time with fear,” Jacob said calmly. “Fear won’t keep you safe from being hurt.”
“It could,” I said.
“I don’t think so.”
“What if you’re scheduled to fly to Japan and at the last minute you chicken out, then the plane you were supposed to be on explodes into a ball of fire over the ocean?”
“You can’t think like that. That’s not living.”
“Everyone’s afraid of something,” I said.
“Okay then,” he said, trying to think of something quickly. “I’m afraid of sleeping another night without you. How’s that?”
“That’s good. Say ‘okay’ again.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” A, B, C, D…
“Tell me what you’re so afraid of,” Jacob said.
Shit, I thought, this could take all day. My life was ruled by my fears.
“I’m afraid of everything. Fear of being alone, fear of being hurt, fear of being made a fool of, fear of failure. I even have a fear of being kidnaped, although I also have some perverse sexual fantasies associated with that one, stemming from a made-for-TV movie about Patty Hearst that I saw when I was a kid, so it doesn’t really count. Still, I think all my fears bleed from one big one.”
“What’s that?”
“Death,” I said. “As long as I can remember being conscious of existence, I’ve been conscious of death. Eternal rest isn’t some abstract concept to me. It’s real. It chases me down like a dog behind a bicycle. I’m faster than it is, for the moment, but I might pop a tire any second and it’ll sink it’s teeth into my heels. Or worse, into the heels of someone I love.”
“I’m tempted to tell you that you think too much, but I’m not really one to talk,” Jacob said. “Henry Miller wrote something about fear making you fearless. It’s a very powerful emotion. Use it to get what you want. I mean if it’s going to rule your life, it might as well rule you to freedom, right?”
“But no matter what, it won’t make you immortal. It can’t save you from the inevitable end.”
“Nothing can save you from the inevitable end.”
“Exactly. Doesn’t that scare you?”
“I’m not afraid to die,” Jacob said. “I look forward to finding out what’s on the other side some day.”
“But what if it’s nothing?”
“Well, if it’s nothing, then what’s there to worry about? Nothing can’t possibly hurt you. The way I see it, there’s only two alternatives in death: you either get eternal bliss, you know, some kind of spiritual heaven; or you just aren’t anymore. Neither of them sound too horrifying to me.”
I asked Jacob if he believed in God. My mother always told me it was rude to ask people their views on politics or religion, but I figured since Jacob and I had ingested a dozen ounces of each other’s bodily fluids, anything was fair game.
“Not in the conventional sense,” he said. “I was raised with a belief in God. My mother’s Catholic. But I saw through the bullshit of organized religion by the time I was old enough to piss standing up. I think we are God. We all have that inside of us. And I believe we go on after we’ve turned to dust. Our souls, I mean.”
“I wish I believed that. To me, it’s highly improbable. In my soul, there’s just a big hole where God’s supposed to be.”
“That has nothing to do with God. The hole, that is. Everyone feels that void. Everyone who has the balls to look inside themselves, anyway. It’s what life’s all about.”
“What?”
“A search. We’re all searching for something to fill up what I like to call that big, God-shaped hole in our souls. Some people use alcohol, or sex, or their children, or food, or money, or music, or heroin. A lot of people even use the concept of God itself. I could go on and on. I used to know a girl who used shoes. She had over two-hundred pairs. But it’s all the same thing, really. People, for some stupid reason, think they can escape their sorrows.”
Jacob’s words hit me deep in the gut. I could have never articulated it like he did, but I guess I didn’t have to. What he said was exactly how I felt sometimes: like a bottomless pit.
“Jacob,” I said, “do you think there’s anything in life that can fill up the hole? And not only fill it up, but keep it filled?”
“That’s the real trick, isn’t it?” he said incisively. “It’s easy to plant a seed and sprinkle it with water, but once the sun scorches the ground, and the earth soaks up all the moisture, you’re left with nothing but a thirsty little flower trying desperately to make it out of the dirt.”
I hadn’t been arid since I set eyes on Jacob Grace.
Neither of us said anything for a long time. We both stared out the window, thinking, I suppose, about the emptiness of it all. I wish I could have read Jacob’s mind at that moment. I wanted to know what had created the chasm in his spirit. Maybe it was a broken heart. Maybe it was the rejection of his father. Or maybe it had always been there, like mine. Because really, I could blame my existential sadness on a lot of issues, but the truth is, it’s been a part of me since Day One. When I was four years old and my mother would come to my bed to say goodnight, she’d turn off the light and I remember feeling it even then—the sensation that your heart weighs more than your body—that it might burst out of your chest and splatter all over the wall. I suppose it’s called loneliness.
Just thinking about it started to depress me. I rerouted my mood by concentrating on another one of the holes in my being that I wanted Jacob to fill. Father forgive me for I have sinned, it’s been eighteen hours since my last orgasm.
“Are you ever going to tell me what you wanted to talk to me about?” I finally said.
“Oh, right. Sorry. You kind of got me off on a tangent.” He had the check in one hand, and was digging through his pocket with the other.
“Trixie,” he said, “how do you feel about moving in together?”
TEN
Jacob lived in a building that, when it rained, smelled like worms. We decided to live at my place until the lease was up, then we had bigger plans.
“This prison holds not our destiny,” Jacob said, shaking his head in a momentary fit of impatience. He wasn’t referring to our apartment, but to Los Angeles County and all of its surrounding areas, and he repeated the very same conviction every day when he came home from work, worn out by the traffic nightmare that was the 10 freeway.
“We have to escape as soon as we get the chance, n’est pas?”
“Oui,” I said.
And thus began our obsession: we were going to leave California.
“The minute I sell the book,” Jacob said.
We had no idea when that was going to happen. He had to finish it first. But if and when it did get published, we resolved, once and for all, to defect. It became what we lived for. It fueled our days, it pacified our nights. It kept us driving down the congested highways when all we wanted to do was pull over and fly away. To finally cross the state line and not look back would be our renaissance. I told Jacob that we didn’t have to wait. I had enough money. Between my income and my trust fund, we could live comfortably for a long time.
“We can go now,” I said. “We can buy that little house with a porch. You can finish the book there. I’ll make jewelry and learn how to bake pies, and we’ll have sweaty sex whenever we want.”
Jacob sighed. “I could never let you do that. I need to be able to support myself. You understand that, right?”
Of course I understood. The man had integrity. It was admirable as hell. But it meant our dreams wou
ld have to wait.
The day he officially moved in, Jacob didn’t have much to bring over. Almost all of his clothes were already in my apartment. Besides his sparse wardrobe, he had a few boxes of books, his music collection, an old Steel Case desk and his computer. Pete helped him haul everything in. He teased Jacob about co-habitating with a television.
“It’s not mine,” Jacob said.
“Just count how often he watches it,” Pete begged me.
Jacob and I were unpacking in the office, and Pete was just about to walk out the door when somebody knocked.
“I’ll get it,” Pete said.
I figured it was Sara picking him up, until I heard the discordant shrill of my mother’s voice. Pete said hi to her and she asked him, in the most embarrassingly indignant way, if this was still Beatrice Jordan’s apartment and, if so, who was he. Of course it was still my fucking apartment, Mom, and did I forgot to tell you, I’m living with two men now. We all sleep together and we’re going to have babies and start a commune and what on earth will you tell your friends?
I know that’s exactly what she was thinking.
“Shit,” I whispered, “it’s my mother.”
Jacob’s face became effervescent. “Cool,” he said, and headed for the door. I ran in front of him.
“Mom,” I said, “what are you doing here?”
Her thin lips formed the shape of an artificial smile, which caused her frosted, perfectly coiffed, chin-length bob to rise up as a unit. The expression on her tanned face said she was relieved to see me. She eyed Pete, then Jacob. “Beatrice, is this a bad time?”
She always asked me that, every time she showed up, which she did the third Sunday of every month, when she would come down from Santa Barbara to go shopping and have dinner with my brother and his family. I’d forgotten what day it was, otherwise I would have been conveniently absent from the apartment.
“Actually, it is kind of a bad time,” I said.
Pete exited as fast as he could. My mother, meanwhile, inspected my coffee table. She asked if it was new.
“It’s not new, I just painted it,” I said.
“You painted it black, Beatrice?”
The table was clearly black, so unless she’d gone color-blind in the last thirty days, I didn’t know why she was asking.
“Mom, this is Jacob. Jacob, meet Diane.” I knew she was going to ask, so I beat her to the punch. “Jacob and I met a couple weeks ago. He’s moving in today. Isn’t that great?”
She looked Jacob up and down. I was pretty certain her immediate impression of him would be unfavorable. He looked poor, and she didn’t like poor people. Especially if I happened to be sleeping with them.
“I didn’t know you were seeing anybody, Bea.”
Jacob took my mother’s hand with both of his and greeted her just like he’d done when I first met him. He immediately engaged her in conversation and asked her if she wanted some coffee.
“No, thank you,” she said. She was so uptight I thought a cork might pop out of her ass.
“Oh, sure you do, come on,” Jacob said, still holding her hand. He dragged her into the kitchen while her eyes darted all over the place, I’m sure to see what she could pick on next. She always picked on something when she came over. She thought my apartment was small and shabby, even though the rent was astronomical. She found it preposterous that I didn’t hire a decorator, and, in her opinion, hardwood was tacky if you could afford carpet. She was wearing her weight in gold, which was the reason I refused to work with that particular metallic element, and I could smell her signature three squirts of Chanel No. 19 from where I stood. It made me want to regurgitate my lunch directly into her brand new designer clutch. I resented the fact that she was in my house and that she was, I suspected, judging Jacob, when she didn’t know him and could never in a million lifetimes understand what he was all about.
Jacob and my mother came out of the kitchen a few minutes later with cups in their hands. My mother stared at me like she knew something I didn’t. I swear I saw her smirk. And she looked completely disarmed, wandering around, making small talk—mostly with Jacob—until she finished her coffee. Then she picked up her bag and went to the door.
“Well, Beatrice, I must say, you’ve found yourself a charming young man.”
If I’d been standing when she said that, I guarantee I would have fallen over. I can tell when my mother is being patronizing, and I can tell when she’s telling the truth. She meant it. I didn’t know what Jacob had spiked her coffee with, but whatever it was, it had taken hold.
“I guess we’ll see you tonight,” she said on her way out.
“Tonight? What do you mean?” I said.
“You’re joining us at your brother’s for dinner. Jacob said you would.”
I looked at Jacob. He gave me a wide, gaping smile, like he’d put itching powder down my pants and was waiting for me to start scratching.
“Fuck you,” I whispered to him behind my mother’s back.
“Mrs. Jordan,” he said, “your daughter has quite a foul mouth, do you know that?”
“Yes, I know. Now don’t be late tonight. Beatrice has a tendency to be late for family functions.” She took Jacob aside. “Why don’t you ask her to fix her hair and put on something nice. She can be so pretty when she tries.”
It was a good thing I didn’t own a gun.
As soon as my mother was safe inside the elevator, I hurled a pillow in the direction of Jacob’s head. He caught it just as it sideswiped his ear, then he threw it back at me. I ducked, and he tackled me onto the couch. He tried to kiss my neck but I was too distracted to keep still.
“Now do you see how she is? That’s what I was talking about. She just shows up here, barely says hello. She didn’t even kiss me or anything. She was nicer to you than she was to me. I haven’t seen her in weeks and she treated me like I was her garbage man.”
“I think you’re a little hard on her. She needs to be placated, that’s all.” He was trying to unbutton my shirt.
“Jacob, did you fuck her in the kitchen or what? I mean what the hell was that all about? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are not the kind of man she would normally take to.”
“I give off good vibes,” he said. “Kids, dogs, and middle-aged divorcées like me.”
“I’ll bet they do.”
“You don’t give her enough credit. At least she was here. At least she tries.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Let’s just do it and forget about her.”
ELEVEN
My younger brother, Cole, was off in Washington D.C. finishing up law school. Last time I’d talked to him he had political aspirations. My older brother, Chip, the one we had the pleasure of dining with, is a hot-shot film producer. He lucked out with a small-time action flick that ended up making millions at the box office and, consequently, scored a five-picture deal with Warner Bros. He thinks his shit smells like daisies because of it. I’d bet a g-note his shit smells more like month-old chili con carne.
Chip is fat; has black, greasy hair; and a black mole on his chin where a lone black whisker grows. He lives in the posh neighborhood of Holmby Hills with his wife, Elise, who is not fat, and his son, Chad, who is also not yet fat but has the propensity. Their twelve-thousand square-foot, Tudor-inspired abode is right down the street from the Playboy mansion.
I usually made it a point to only see Chip on holidays, and Thanksgiving was still over six months away. I cursed Jacob the entire drive to Chip’s house. Jacob found my anxiety wholly amusing. I think he saw it as writing fodder. To Jacob, everything was writing fodder.
My mother’s car was in the driveway when we pulled in. That meant we were late, even though we were ten minutes ahead of our scheduled arrival time. I gave Jacob one last chance to back out. He stepped in front of me and rang the bell.
Every time I walked
into Chip’s house, the formality of it made me feel like I was walking onto the set of Dynasty. I expected Linda Evans to swoop down the brass staircase and give me a coquettish little smile, like the one she gave in the TV show’s intro. Instead, Elise answered the door for us. Elise was a petite blond, with lips pumped full of collagen. She was one of those failed actresses—the cutest, most popular girl from the Midwestern town she came from, who moved to Hollywood after high school expecting to become the world’s next great thespian, but just ended up contributing another dime to the dozen. Elise never even got as far as hooking herself an agent, but as luck would have it, she met Chip at The Whiskey Bar one fateful evening. I guess she figured he was her best ticket out of the ant-infested, two-room bungalow she shared with a couple of bargain-basement strippers.
Chip ruled Elise’s life. He instructed her how to talk, how to dress, and which charities she could support. I had a strong, ever-present notion to tell her to kick Chip in the balls and stand up for herself, but if she didn’t mind, I figured it wasn’t my business to do so. I got along okay with Elise. She was no Rhodes scholar, but she was nice; she called me the black sheep of the family and meant it as a compliment.
“Beatrice! I’m so glad you came,” she said. “And you must be Jacob. Diane told us all about you. We hear you’re a writer.”
They probably had his social security number and shoe size, too.
My mother appeared from behind the door, took Jacob by the elbow, and with Chad in tow, gave him a tour of the house. Jacob couldn’t have cared less about the damn house, but he appeased her nonetheless, pretending he was enthralled. While the three of them walked the grounds, Elise took me up to her closet to show me one of the new dresses she’d been given for an upcoming movie premiere. The garment was long, red, skin-tight, and had a strange green stitching around the neck and hem. It looked like a bloodstained mermaid, but I didn’t have the heart to tell that to Elise; she was so riveted by it. She wanted to know if I would make her a bracelet and necklace to match.