The bloodstone, p.27
The Bloodstone, page 27
At eight A.M. Ron checked out of the Hilton and came back to the carriage house with baggage, The New York Times, a bag of fresh bagels and a spring bouquet of flowers. Chandal put the flowers in water, and they listened to a melodious, soothing radio station that accompanied them as they munched their breakfast in their separate corners, Ron with the Times on the sofa, Chandal with her checkbook and a multitude of bills at the dining table.
They were comfortable in their silence and a trustful calm took hold. It was a triumph of sorts as early morning was not their finest hour. Beyond the briefest mention of Luther’s accident, Ron did not pursue the topic, but it remained on Chandal’s mind in a contemplative way. She wasn’t exactly sure why it bothered her so much since apparently Luther was quite all right.
She sighed and glared at her checkbook. There simply was no way to stretch one hundred and twenty-seven dollars to eight hundred and sixty-three, the total amount due on invoices facing her, with several stores still not heard from. God knew how she had landed herself in this predicament on top of everything else. The strange thing was that now she couldn’t even remember what she had purchased. Articles of clothing had blended with her old wardrobe, never even to be remembered except when she would suddenly come across a new article such as a pair of silk panties or her new spring coat hanging in the closet still unworn.
The only purchase that seemed to her to have validity was the statue. A slight smile came to her lips as she turned to stare at it, but then almost immediately her attention shifted back again to Dr. Luther’s accident. Why did she have this strange feeling about his accident? As though constantly drawn to compare it to Billy Deats’ death. She knew they were non-related. She had reaffirmed this fact to herself time after time. Probably it was egocentric to compare them, as if they had fallen victims because both men had had clues to her past.
Irritated, she decided to send Bloomingdale’s thirty dollars. She wondered why in the hell they had been so willing to give her credit on the spot (the official charge card had arrived in yesterday’s mail) and decided it was probably because of her Master Charge card acquired in California, not to mention American Express and a Gimbel’s charge card which had arrived unsolicited through the mail.
Suddenly she felt two arms embrace her.
“Hey,” Ron said, leaning over her shoulder. “What do you say we take a walk?”
Puzzled, she turned to look at him squarely. His tousled hair, his clean good looks, the fresh male cologne smell of him, all helped to cut through the maze of her confusion, and she grinned. Swiftly he bent down and kissed her. The kiss was reassuring, comforting.
“Again,” she whispered.
His lips closed over hers again in a fuller, longer and more satisfying manner, though non-possessive still. He was being there for her, she realized gratefully, but being careful not to ask for more than she was ready to give.
“Now,” Ron smiled, “there’s a world out there. What say you?”
“No, I need to get some of these bills paid.”
“You could do that later.”
“Later, then I wouldn’t—”
“You’re stalling.”
“You’re right.” She shrugged. “I don’t want to go out looking like this!”
“Like what?”
“Twenty-nine, going on fifty.”
“You look like no such thing.”
Then, abruptly, she laughed. “Of course, I do, and so what? Fifty is a perfectly respectable age. Why, some of my best friends are fifty!”
Actually, Ron noticed, Chandal looked better than she had in days. By some twisted sense of fate—she was even lovelier that day than Ron had ever remembered her. She had come down that morning wearing a pair of jeans, a comfortable pair of shoes and a silk blouse, with the sleeves rolled up.
“Christ, you look like a teenager!” Ron boomed and dragged her up from the chair.
“Yeah,” she said, “from across the room. But when you get up close—”
“I am up close.”
“I know.”
“I like what I see.”
Chandal smiled for a moment, then allowed the corners of her mouth to turn down a little. “What will it be—ham, eggs, toast, more coffee...?” She turned away.
“You’re not running away from me, are you?” he asked, the tone of his voice indicating half-kidding impatience.
She hesitated. “Matter of fact, when you get right down to it, maybe I am.”
“Why?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe part of it’s because....”
“You suddenly had an urge that scared you.”
“God! There’s no keeping any secrets from you!”
“Why would you want to?”
“I wouldn’t, I guess.”
“Sorry, kid. I’ve finished my coffee and my bagel. I don’t want—what was it—ham, eggs, toast. And you don’t want to go out.” Ron smiled wickedly. “So...”
“So?” Chandal felt wide awake now, with the bright sunlight streaming in from the outside world. She let out a deep breath. “What the hell, why not!”
They laughed a good bit. And touched each other. Ron hesitated a moment longer, looking at her nude body in the sunlight that splashed across the sheets and pillows and then at her smiling face. He kept whispering that she was lovelier than he had ever seen her.
She could not resist, and she forgot everything else now as Ron stroked the soft suppleness of her flesh. She moved her face against his, and pulled him over on top of her. The love they made was tender and warm. And for once, nothing was held back.
The gasp of pleasure Chandal gave as she felt herself explode with passion had to do with a great deal more than sex. It was being able again to touch and be touched by love.
“A blue ribbon experience,” Ron laughed and nibbled at her ear.
She tried to hold him closer than she had ever held him before, closer than she had ever held anyone before, then had a strange sensation that she was also trying to hold onto a part of herself she was in danger of losing.
“What’s the matter?” Ron asked with some sort of ESP.
She answered him with a kiss which was the only way she could think to put it.
Around two they threw on clothes. “Comfortable, but classy,” Ron directed, “just in case we decide to get ourselves a piss-ass elegant dinner.”
Today, walking was more like flying, Chandal decided, hand-in-hand with Ron as they entered Central Park at 72nd Street. Just one more carefree couple in hundreds who were out enjoying a brilliant day.
“I want a hot dog,” she giggled.
“No, absolutely not. I refuse to have you be a cheap date today,” Ron ordered decisively. “You will starve, woman. I want you so hungry that when we saunter into the Plaza in a few hours, you will order without looking at the prices.”
“Oh, my God, you’d have to starve me for six months before I could do that,” she decided.
“Six months it is!” proclaimed Ron, waving his index finger at her. “And then, by God, when you walk into the Plaza—”
“—crawl into the Plaza,” she corrected him, helpless with laughter.
It was ridiculous, she thought, how easy it was to talk then, to tell Ron absolutely everything. Things poured out of her that she had thought impossible to express. About the senseless debts she had run up; about the feeling she sometimes had that she was losing her ability to be a good, caring person; or on the other hand her confused feeling that perhaps this coarsening was a natural part of growing up—becoming less vulnerable, becoming a modern woman free of the need to “do good for one and all except herself.” About the experience of being cast in the play and how important playing Rachel had become, how she had horrified herself by her own conduct.
Ron cast a quick puzzled glance at her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked instantly, a slight fear leaping out clearly as if she had just realized she might be offending him.
“It’s just that you never mentioned to me that you have a job, Del. My God, you already landed yourself a role in a legit play.... Do you realize the odds against that?”
She reddened. “Well, I hate to spoil it by mentioning I got fired.”
“Oh, Jesus, that’s too bad.”
“I’m not sure,” she said somewhat vaguely. “It might be all for the best.”
“Who’s the director who was brilliant enough to cast you in a play and then damn fool enough to fire you?”
“His name is Eric Savage.”
“See there?” he exclaimed triumphantly. “I knew he had to be a loser. I never heard of him.”
“God, you’re wonderful.”
“You want to talk about how it happened?”
Briefly she told him the story and he whistled. “You poor baby,” he sighed and then added matter-of-factly, “so you went too far one time because you were having a rough time of it emotionally. But it happens to the best of us, Del. You’ll go on to hundreds of jobs. I’ll make sure of that.”
She could think of nothing more to say in the face of his calm noncritical acceptance of her failure, and they walked on for some time in silence.
It was Ron who finally spoke. “Del, that envelope I brought you from California. Do you remember?” He could feel her sudden tension by the way her hand drew up in his as if trying to escape.
“Yes,” she mumbled.
“Well—” he hesitated, “—did you open it?”
“I hate that sort of thing,” she exclaimed softly.
“Yes,” he agreed, relieved. “I didn’t care for it myself. But, Del—I found it in your apartment in Malibu....”
“My apartment?” she exclaimed blankly. “You went to my apartment?”
“I—I hope you don’t mind. I don’t know, I was just, I was lonely for you and...”
“You found that—that thing in my apartment?”
“Yes.”
Thoughtfully she pondered, her eyebrows drawn tight together and concluded, “I never saw it before. Never.”
“Well, that’s okay, isn’t it?” He squeezed her hand. “We stole it then. One of your friends left it or something.”
She nodded. “Joyce down the hall. Maybe it’s hers. Where was it?”
He avoided the question by pointing out they still had time to duck into a movie before dinner. “Let’s see what’s on. Come on, run! We’re not five blocks from ten theaters.”
The frown cleared from her brow as they raced hand in hand down the street. The new Gene Wilder comedy was at Loew’s and laughing seemed to be the tonic for the day. Later, they were ravenous, having denied themselves both popcorn and candy, but they were fortunate enough to stumble into a new restaurant specializing in both an excellent French cuisine and an unusually elegant atmosphere.
The day was officially a success, they decided, toasting each other over martinis. Later in the evening at the carriage house, it seemed even better as they crawled into bed together and lay holding each other before Chandal finally succumbed to sleep.
Smiling, Ron thought: from a hotel bed, to a couch, to sleeping beside her. He was definitely working his way up.
The sun was getting high—nearly ten o’clock—and Chandal still hadn’t woken up. Ron lay there quietly, softly, beside her. The pleasure from the night before lingered. How long he remained that way, he couldn’t tell. He wondered if she was asleep. Then he thought she might be pretending; there was something too shallow in her every breath, as if she were regulating her breathing, anticipating his next move. He decided not to disturb her, whatever the case might be.
After a while, he quietly got out of bed. The stairs creaked under his feet as he dropped into the downstairs hallway. He moved into the bathroom and urinated. Then stood motionless before the bathroom mirror. He breathed deeply, in a steady, unbroken rhythm, and he supposed he was all right. Still, he looked much worse than he had appeared yesterday, or last week, or even the week before that.
Massaging his cheek with his palm, he yawned, and then drew water for a bath. He would have preferred the vigor of a shower, he reflected as he reached for his shaving cream and razor, but then... He broke off the thought. While shaving, he nicked his chin. He seized a tissue, dabbed blood. When the flow stopped, he moved to discard the tissue. His eyes shifted to the small trash basket under the sink filled to overflowing. On the top was a round plastic container. Slowly he reached for it. Chandal’s birth control pills.
He reflected for a moment. Why would she throw the pills away, he wondered. He fidgeted with the container as his thoughts swirled around. Finally he shrugged. Oh, well—maybe she had decided to use other means.
After his bath he dressed, then ambled into the kitchen, where he set about making a fresh pot of coffee.
From the instant Chandal’s daintily muled feet hit the first step of the stairway, Ron, who stood looking up, coffee pot in hand, knew that she had shifted gears again.
“Good morning,” he said with guarded enthusiasm.
“Have you touched that statue?” she asked at once, pointing toward the mantel.
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s been turned around. That’s one thing in this house that isn’t supposed to be touched. It’s irreplaceable.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No. A glass of milk.” Heedlessly she dragged a chair back from the table, scratching the floor.
Ron felt his temper automatically boil up. He restrained himself from comment only with effort, but remained calm enough to rationally decide whether or not to fetch the milk. No, he eventually made up his mind. Being tolerant was one thing. Catering to moodiness was merely a way of encouraging it. Deliberately he strode into the kitchen, poured himself coffee and returned to the table without the milk.
She shot him a brief incredulous look, then decided to fend for herself—strictly for herself, pouring the milk, making toast and soft-boiled eggs.
Ron gritted his teeth, wondering how much effort would have been involved in dropping an extra egg into the water. Still, he managed to mutter as good-humoredly as possible, “It’s another great day. I thought we might surprise Dr. Luther with a visit. See how he is.” He waited for her to reply. There was none. His anger began to grow in reluctant degrees. “Maybe he could use some cheering up.” Silence. “Maybe we could all use some cheering up!” Silence.
Disgustedly, he dropped his cup into the sink.
“I’ll be back,” he said stiffly.
Twenty minutes later he had managed to reclaim equanimity of mind over a ham and egg crepe, orange juice and coffee. She’s not herself, he thought, and now he could see it very clearly. It was the other personality, possibly even “Elizabeth” who had come down those steps and he had been so wrapped up in his own ego, he had missed it.
“Check,” he said briskly to the cone-capped waitress who had come to pour more coffee.
Defeated, he wandered aimlessly around a city that made him extremely anxious. Everywhere—he had the sense of vigilance and distrust; iron-gated stores with quadruple locks, police-trained Doberman pinschers, mace hidden away in handbags and coat pockets, peepholes, latches and everywhere—chains. If it could be moved, no matter what the size, it was securely shackled and chained. All the protection seemed nighmarish in itself.
He walked fitfully, stopping here and there to peer into a store window, until finally he ducked into a corner drugstore for a gift. Cologne or something, he reasoned, unable to think of anything more original, and then stopped short. At the front of the store were tables heaped with Easter baskets of varying sizes and prices.
“It’s Easter Sunday,” he thought, shocked that he had forgotten such a thing. It came to him in a flood of reality that over the last week he had paid attention to nothing—nothing—save Chandal. Day by day, moment by moment, she had obsessed him completely, even on those first days when she wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t even talk to him by phone. Everything else in his life had no more substance than a shadow. He remembered the messages from Mimi. He had called her only once at the beginning of the week. For all he knew, decisions might have arisen that only he could make. But even now he couldn’t feel that it made all that much difference.
Shaking his head, like a dazed man without much desire for salvation, he picked up the largest, most extravagant Easter basket and made his way to the cash register. Humming a little, he took a cab back to the carriage house.
“What in the world is that?” Chandal demanded, staring at the bright-colored basket, wrapped in green paper and containing chocolate Easter eggs, bunny-shaped candies, jelly beans, gilt-wrapped chocolates and a large chocolate Easter bunny. In the center of it all was a stuffed rabbit, a delightful creation of soft yellow fur, with white cuddly chest and feet and floppy ears. In its paws, a bag of still more eatables.
“It’s your Easter basket, silly!” Ron chuckled and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Come on, enjoy it. Did you know it’s Easter Sunday? Everywhere people are giving their little kids Easter baskets. So I bought my little kid one.”
Chandal’s face was drawn. “Easter Sunday?” she murmured, lifting her hand to her pendant. She seemed to gasp for air as her fingers closed frantically around the stone. Her mouth began to shape silent words, nothing Ron could decipher, except that she appeared to be praying. Both of her hands were now clasped about the bloodstone in a prayerful way; her eyes were cast downward. The basket sat ignored on the coffee table.
The rest of the day passed in anguished silence. For an hour or so Chandal paced restlessly, her lips continuing to move in a ritualistic response to an inaudible ceremony. At least, it was inaudible to Ron, who attempted to console himself with some of the chocolate from the basket. The chocolate tasted cheap and stale and he wondered if it had always tasted like this or had they used to make it better? Maybe it’s me—my Easter spirit is low.
In the afternoon Chandal took the statue and went up to her room, locking the door behind her. Ron heard the decisive click and knew that meant he was on the outside for today, although maybe she would still get a hold on herself, change back to the Chandal of yesterday, he hoped wistfully. Hours passed silently. He occupied himself by reading an old book he found on a shelf in the den and by eating more bad Easter candy. Shortly before seven he went to stand at her bedroom door. He thought perhaps he would take her for a bite of dinner. He paused, on the verge of knocking, when he heard her voice, hardly recognizable.
