The bloodstone, p.8
The Bloodstone, page 8
Somewhere around four o’clock she finally managed to return to bed, where she lay sleepless, obsessed with images. And something else. With some feeling inside of herself she couldn’t understand. Something that drew great pleasure in remembering Mike’s face.
After a while she let all thought slip from her mind and dropped into a deep dreamless sleep. The last thing she saw was a bony bloodless hand covering her eyes against a circular flood of light that shone down on her from the fifth-floor window of the brownstone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“DAMN!” SHE MUMBLED THROUGH DUST-DRY LIPS, BUT HIT THE alarm button cleanly, uncompromisingly, then sat up straight in bed. Her mouth tasted of stale cigarettes, and a general stiffness had worked its way through her body.
Chandal paused for a moment. Her sleep-befogged brain was trying to make some sort of sense, as she slouched forward. It was morning now, not night. “I’ll never make it,” she groaned, as her feet smacked the cold floor.
Face down, she let her fingers begin to work gently through her fine brown hair. Then she groped for her robe, drew it forward, sliding her arms into the sleeves. Somehow she managed to free her body from the hypnotism of the bed that pulled at her to lie down, just for another half hour, to curl up in a fetal position, to be warm... sleep.
“No,” she mumbled, rose and shuffled in slow motion to the door. She rocked lightly back on her feet, reluctant to go down the stairs. The banister, a sleek hand-carved wooden affair, offered something to cling to. Years of hands brushing the wood had polished its surface to a high sheen, a sheen that bespoke numerous comings and goings. Of life on the move. Discipline, she reminded herself. You must have discipline.
Eyes barely open, she descended the stairs. Through heavy-lidded slits she groped her way into the bathroom. “Umph.” Now she faced herself in the mirror, as she held onto the sink with both hands and prayed for the curtain to lift in her brain.
“Mi-mi-mi-mi-hummm!” she hummed loudly and noticed that she looked gritty from lack of sleep. The kind of grit that didn’t scrub off even with the liberal punishment of a luffa sponge, but rather had to be slept off. Even the mere thought of sleep drew a sustained “ahh” from between her lips. She bent forward and turned on the taps over the tub.
“Oh, God, you beautiful thing, you’re going to be marvelous in that reading today. ‘Sister Susie shelled seashells by the seashore.’ Listen to those sibilant esses. Always, Chandal, always you have sibilant esses after a sleepless night. Especially, you ass, when you fill the hours by chain-smoking. Well, you’ll learn, you’ll learn,” she grumbled. She squirted toothpaste liberally onto her brush, then brushed, rinsed, brushed again, then closed the bathroom door to trap the steam.
Still fighting back her drowsiness, she studied her face through the mist that had started to form on the mirror. “It will be okay. We will be okay,” the voice whispered. Then, abruptly, she felt the incandescent flash of last night’s dream cross her mind. She would never have believed that a dream could be so real. Images continued to form and for a moment she was almost in the dream again, but she forced the images away by concentrating on her own ghostly grimace glaring back at her from the mirror.
“You’re changing,” breathed the voice in her ear.
No. No, I’m not changing! Mike’s face smiled at her and her breathing quickened. Anyway, what if I am changing? So what?
Slowly she let her robe fall to the floor and stepped into the tub. She soaked, took great pleasure in shaving her underarms and every inch of her legs, a job she usually hurried through.
Later, standing naked before the bedroom mirror, she wondered. Have I changed? Don’t overanalyze, she warned herself and reached for her pendant. She held the chain at eye level and allowed the stone to dangle in the bright morning light that streamed through her bedroom window. Hesitantly she pressed the veined pendant to her lips. It was smooth and cool. People change, she told herself. So what?
She turned away and slipped into her panties. She enjoyed the sensation of the silken garment against her freshly scrubbed skin. Then she patted cologne on her throat, upper arms and thighs.
By the time she left the carriage house, she had achieved new vigor.
Locking the front door, she dropped the key into her shoulder bag, which was large enough to accommodate her folder of eight-by-ten glossies with résumés attached to the backs. She smiled and saw herself as she stood there in tight black pants tucked into high boots, an open-necked silk blouse, knotted green scarf and fur coat. God, she felt good. Somehow the grit and the exhaustion were all gone.
Chandal had taken only two steps when something stopped her abruptly. A primitive awareness that she was being watched. She turned quickly and glanced up at the brownstone’s fifth-floor window.
The old woman’s face appeared to hang suspended, framed by a rectangle of aging brick. Chandal stared at the woman plaintively. The woman smiled and beseeched Chandal with her eyes not to be sad and then—vanished. It was as though the woman had never been there.
Chandal drew back instinctively. She remembered that that particular apartment was supposed to be vacant. A Polish woman had lived there at one time but she had died. At least that’s what Miss Ramsey had said.
Still wrapped in thought, Chandal nearly bumped into the mailman at the outer gate. The man looked at her inquiringly, started to speak, but Chandal merely raised her hand in a brief wave and moved rapidly away.
Wasn’t that the same woman she had seen on Thursday? Staring at her from the front door of the brownstone? Then, in a quick return to a carefree attitude, she thought, who cares? Something propelled her forward until she was walking at a fast clip, her hair under a tan beret blowing in the crisp breeze. She didn’t notice the admiring glances that were riveted on her, but instead concentrated on how great it was to be back in New York where the action was. So unlike indolent California where actors hustled themselves off to the beach or sat by their swimming pools waiting for their phones to ring.
She skipped lightly down the subway steps. New York was easier to get involved with. Actors could make rounds of the smaller theaters themselves. They could even make contact with a Broadway show if they knew how to go about it. New York was action!
She was more than a little excited as she emerged from the subway, crossed Broadway near Times Square, walked to Ninth Avenue and entered the dark recesses of a small pocket-size theater.
Hastily a nonentity handed her a fact sheet and told her to read it carefully. Chandal sighed, dumped her bag onto an empty chair and sat. Removing her beret, she shook out her hair, crossed her legs, and began perusing the fact sheet.
Jesus, seventy-two dollars a week—like it’s a big deal—hey, don’t do me any favors here, Chandal thought as the stage manager handed out sides. I can’t afford this job. I’ll starve. I’ll have to take in three roommates in my single-occupancy illegal carriage house. Eagerly she studied the sides. God, it looks good, she thought, hungry to be on the stage again in a really good role. I hope I get it. And grinned at how badly she wanted this job that would land her in debtors’ prison.
“I don’t know why I bother to come to these calls,” the lackluster female who sat next to her said, unfolding the Post. “It’s cast, of course, at least our part is cast.”
“Why our part?” Chandal asked, looking up from her sheet of dialogue.
“Because we’re the young leading lady and the young leading lady is always sleeping with either the playwright or the director.”
“Really? That’s good to know,” chuckled Chandal. “Maybe I can set something up for their next play.”
“They’re booked years in advance,” the girl said, straight-faced, without looking up from her Post. “Now if you’re thinking about the year 1990—oh, shit,” she interrupted herself. “Well, that’s it. The pits. Just what I needed.” Moodily, she tossed aside the paper.
“What’s the matter?”
“Billy Deats,” the girl snapped. “It’s not sour grapes or anything, but that kind of thing really makes me sick.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“What I mean is he’s a rotten actor. Not even passable. Yet everything he touches turns to gold. Two Broadway hits in a row—rave reviews on bad performances—I mean, atrocious—everyone in the industry’s talking about it—and now I’m reading he just signed to star in a new film....”
Billy Deats, repeated Chandal in her mind and wondered why she wasn’t feeling good for Billy. He had been a friend from a happy past. She remembered how Justin and Billy would play chess all night while she would fall asleep on the couch. Their Greenwich Village outings together, the parties, the crazy, unbelievable things they had done together. Good old funny charming Billy Deats. She was glad to hear that he’d made it. She was always glad to hear when a friend made it. She wasn’t one of those jealous... Thoughtfully she reached for comb and makeup and went through the motions of fixing herself up a bit. Looking into her own eyes in the mirror, she seemed to see anger there, an anger way out of synch with anything she should be feeling. Why was she so furious at the mention of Billy Deats’ name—of hearing of his success?
“Chandal Knight?” the voice bellowed.
“Yes, right here.”
“We’re starting on top of page sixty-two.”
“Right. I have it.”
“Good. You’re reading for the director. Inside and turn left.”
“Thanks,” she breathed, then moved forward through the small door and turned left. So far she had done nothing wrong. A few more steps and she found herself standing on a tiny stage ominously lit by one bare bulb clamped to a stepladder.
She shielded her eyes from the glare and stared out into the audience.
A few seconds passed before the director caught sight of her. He smiled broadly and picked his way through a row of theater seats.
“Chandal Knight?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You have an interesting resume. I see that you’ve done some film work in California.”
“I prefer the stage.”
“I’ll see what I can do. You look right for the part.”
There was something about the man that Chandal disliked. He was too sure of himself, his voice was too loud and he made even a simple remark sound like abuse.
“Just drop your things over there. I’d like to see you do the monologue on seventy-one.”
“But the stage manager said sixty-two.”
He smiled. “Seventy-one.” His smile tightened. “Please.”
Chandal moved away to the side. She was surprised to find herself trembling as she dropped her coat and shoulder bag on the chair. The authority which he exuded overwhelmed her, and a wave of nausea broke in the pit of her stomach.
“I’m waiting,” he snapped from the back of the theater.
“Ah, there seems to be a mistake.”
“Mistake?”
“I’m here to read for Sara. Seventy-one is...”
“Rachel. That’s right. I would prefer that you read for Rachel,” he said in a bored tone.
Chandal shook her head. Rachel?
“Would you prefer not to read, Miss Knight? It is Miss, isn’t it?”
“Ah.” She held up her hand again, the light causing her to flinch. “Yes—Miss.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?” she challenged.
“Would you prefer not to read for the part?”
“I’ll read for any goddamn part you’ve got!” she exclaimed.
“Good,” he replied.
By the time Chandal had reached center stage, everything including her stomach had settled down. Having decided, she was prepared to act the hell out of the role. Control, she reminded herself, and began the speech. She felt a great rush of excitement as the words poured from her mouth. Her eyes sharpened with contempt as she screamed.
“People! A bunch of animals who know nothing. Pig-grunts for talk, pig-squeals for laughter. Crude-faced men. Plump women showing off their fat and calling it cleavage. They know nothing, I tell you!” she cried bitterly, the speech rolling from her lips like poisoned honey. She was on fire now. As if by remote control, she turned the page, punched forward in a rush of foul language, and concluded the speech midway down the page with an ironic smile.
She paused, breathless, her heart pounding, the script glued to her sweating palm. She stared out at the director. She could sense that he had not been disappointed. Yet his face remained like a steel mask.
“Thank you,” he said shortly. “You’ll be hearing from me.
“Thanks,” Chandal said and pushed her way off the stage. Jesus, she felt great. Really great!
“And now, recapping today’s headlines,” the news broadcaster’s voice continued, but Ron Talon was not listening.
Eight thousand Btu’s of conditioned air cooled the bedroom, drying the moisture on Ron’s naked body. He wiped the last of the sleep from his eyes and reached for the towel.
Two cups of coffee and a shower had put him back into reality, just where he wasn’t altogether sure he wanted to be. He knew his conversation with Chandal last night had been a bummer. She had sounded so obviously happy about her new carriage house, so innocently greedy for every small joy, that it was impossible to entertain a disturbed thought while she was speaking to him of her successes.
However, when he had mentioned love, the future, her career, she seemed uneasy. And so it went—the private grieving for a girl he knew was making a goddamn mistake!
For a single, angry moment he was tempted to forget the whole damn thing. Ron Talon was too sharp a guy to be snubbed without good reason. Better to forget her and be done with it.
“Shit!” he scowled and knew that to forget Chandal would be impossible. He wrapped the towel around his body and moved to the dresser. He had propped the crucifix against the mirror. He studied it for a moment, then looked up at his own image in the glass. What the hell was bothering him?
Something about the face on the Christ figure. Was he imagining it, or had the face changed in some way?
The crucifix felt warm to the touch as he took it up and held it in the palm of his hand. Now a feeling of nausea pushed up into the base of his throat.
With a small forced laugh, he tossed the crucifix face down on top of the dresser and strode into the living room. Nervously he dropped on the couch and drew a cigarette from the glass case on the table. He stayed still for a minute, puffing away, and then he glanced out the window. Usually he would take time to pause over two poached eggs with bacon and get things aligned, but not this morning. This morning he’d lost his appetite. He puffed again. His mind wandered. Now he shivered, somebody stepping on his grave, no doubt.
The announcer paused. “Cloudy today with possible rain late afternoon, temperatures in the mid-eighties....”
Ron reached out and flicked off the radio. Puffing on his cigarette, he hurried to dress. His mind was still racing, his thoughts focused dead center on the crucifix. “Damn,” he muttered.
He was drawn once again to the dresser. He stood in silence for a minute or two, staring at the crucifix. He began to feel a weakening of thought. It might be better, no matter what happened, to accept everything, to acquiesce where Chandal’s demands were concerned.
He leaned against the dresser, waiting for some savage rebuttal, some power within him to scream: No! Make her see reason! But the power, if it had been there, had been extinguished.
Seconds later he emerged from the bedroom with his blue blazer over his arm and a twenty-dollar bill in his hand. The money was for the cleaning lady, a cheery woman who appeared Monday and Thursday mornings and seemed, with a simple flick of her wrist, to turn chaos into order. He stuffed the bill under the vase on the hall table. Out of simple habit of living alone, he took a last look around.
The house stood hushed, a faint flicker of morning light streaming through the Venetian blinds, casting rows of harsh lines across the living room carpet.
Ron sighed, flipped his blazer over his shoulder, and started out. There was nothing he could do about Chandal now but wait. His thoughts shifted to business matters as he locked the front door and strode toward his Jag. But still, a faint image of Chandal lingered in the back of his mind.
Laughing softly to herself, Chandal swung out the theater door. Contented and carefree, she made her way halfway up the block, then ducked into a phone booth to call Thelma Rose, the agent who had set up the reading.
“Thelma, this is Chandal.”
“Chandal who?” grumbled the hurried voice. “Dear, I’m busy. I’m very busy today.”
“You sent me for the reading at the Pilot Theatre. Chandal Knight.”
“Oh, did I? How did it go?” The voice relaxed slightly.
“I think I’m going to get the part.”
“Did the director commit himself?” asked the voice, alive now with interest.
“Not exactly. But he’s going to call me back and—”
“That’s good. But that’s hardly the same thing as getting the part.”
“Thelma, I know I’m getting the part. Don’t ask me how I know, but—”
“Dear, my phone’s ringing off the hook. Call me tomorrow. What was your name?”
“Chandal Knight. K-N-I-G-H-T.”
“Thanks for calling. Maybe I’ll have something else for you tomorrow.”
Lesson one on how to get thick with a New York agent, Chandal mused, as she took quick sidesteps among the walkers, covering the pavement in a series of swift, darting strides that brushed past drooping onrushing flanks of human animals. Make the agent think you’re valuable. By the time she finds out you’re probably not going to get the part, maybe she’ll get you another part. A soap or a commercial or a Broadway play. Chandal could not contain her joy, her optimism.
With a sharp gesture, she threw up her arms and yelled, “Yay!” Her voice resounded up, down and across Broadway, rose in full-bodied vigor over the roar of traffic. The only person who turned to look at her was a young man who carried a trombone case in one hand and a lighted joint in the other.
