Self-Defence

'There's no easy way to tell him,' I said. 'Just find the right time and do it.'

'What's the right time?' she said, almost timidly.

'When he's not drunk or highly medicated or upset about something else.'

'That doesn't leave much… but you're right, I'll just have to bite the bullet.'

Sounding miserable.

'What's the matter?' I said.

'What if I tell him and he has a fit and- he's in such bad shape. What if he has another stroke? What do I do, all alone with him?'

'He obviously needs a doctor.'

'I know, I know, but he hates them.'

'Then I don't know what to tell you.'

'He likes you. Would you come up and be there when I tell him- maybe coach me?'

I laughed. 'I think you've got the wrong guy.'

'No, no, he does. Said he'd given you both barrels and you'd shot right back. He respects you. It's the first time I've heard him say anything respectful about anyone. I know it's an imposition, but I'll pay you for your time. Please, this freaks me out; I don't do death well. Too much weirdness in this family, this wasn't what I expected when I took the job. But I can't abandon him- too many people have.'

'It seems to me he's the one doing the abandoning.'

'You're right,' she said. 'But he doesn't see it that way. He can't help himself- he's too old to change. I'm really worried I'm going to mess this up. Please help me. I'll make it worth your while.'

'I won't take your money,' I said. 'Conflict of interest. But I'll come up. And it has to be now.'

The kindly therapist, even as I mapped out a walk through the grounds. Looking for lacy trees.

'You will?' she said. 'That's so incredible. If there's anything I can do in return…'

Sexy voice.

'Let's just get through this,' I said. 'I feel sorry for the whole family.'

'Yes,' she said. 'They're a pitiful bunch, aren't they?'

34

She was sitting on the porch and got up to meet me as I pulled up to the hitching posts. She had on a soft black minidress and black sandals. A bra this time, the cups patterned in relief under the cotton. She jogged down the big wooden steps, smiling, and I felt about to be tackled as she came straight at me. Stopping inches away, she took my hand.

Her body was sleek, but this close, with the sunlight bathing her face, I noticed tiny tuck scars where her ears met her jawline.

Face lift. Older than I'd thought?

Her hand held on to mine and I looked down and saw other scars, on her arms. Small, barely discernible, with the exception of one long white line running parallel to the knuckles of her right hand.

'Thank you.' She pecked my cheek. 'He's still sleeping.'

Letting go, she directed me onto the porch with just a touch at the small of my back.

'How long does he usually sleep?' I said.

'He can go anywhere from two to five hours. I try to ease up on the morphine before lunch, so he'll have an appetite, but he generally reacts strongly to it.'

'Who prescribes the morphine?'

'A doctor in Pacific Palisades.'

'Does this doctor ever actually see him?'

She rubbed her index finger with her thumb, sighed, and smiled. 'What can I say?'

I thought of how Lowell had despised Puck for his addiction.

'Come on in.' She opened the front door.

'How about a walk?' I said. 'I've been cooped up all day.'

'Sure,' she said, smiling and smoothing back her hair. 'Let me get something, first.'

She ran up the stairs and came back with a white plastic hand radio with a rubber antenna. The brand sticker said KidStuff.

'It's for babies,' she said, clipping it onto her waistband. 'But that's what old people are, right? Big babies.'

She rotated a dial on the radio and static came on.

'It's got a range of about five hundred feet, so we can't go too far. Sometimes he wakes up like a baby- crying out. He wears diapers, too.'

***

She stayed very close to me as we strolled around the house. Directly behind the building was a dry unplanted parcel broken only by an empty laundry line on metal posts.

Beyond that, the beginnings of forest, the brush growing so thick it looked impenetrable. Nova and I crossed the dirt, and I studied the house. No porches or balconies, just rough logs and windows and a single door. Drapes covered three of the windows on the ground floor.

'Is that his bedroom?' I said.

'Uh-huh. It used to be the library but he can't get upstairs anymore.'

She started to walk. I kept looking at the house and she stopped.

'Ugly, isn't it?' she said.

'Like a big log cabin.'

She nodded and pressed her arm against mine. 'Yeah, that old rustic feeling.'

'In his shape,' I said, 'I don't imagine decor means much.'

'I doubt it ever did. Money doesn't mean much to him either. Probably 'cause he's always had it. He's cued in to one thing only: himself.' Cool appraisal, no malice. Everything about her seemed cool.

'Have you worked for him a long time?'

'Six months.'

'What's your background?'

She laughed. 'I'm a writer.'

'What kind of things do you write?'

'Poetry, mostly. I'm thinking of doing a screenplay. About California- the strange things you see here.'

'Are you from the East?'

'No, up north.'

'How'd you hook up with him?'

'I wrote him a fan letter and he answered. I wrote back and he sent an even longer letter. We began a correspondence. About writing: style and story structure, things like that. A few months later he offered me a job as a personal assistant. He made it sound as if he was fundamentally healthy and just needed light care. Then I arrived and found out I was going to have to change diapers.'

'But you stayed anyway.'

'Sure,' she said, swinging her arms and picking up her pace. 'He's an institution. How could I turn him down?'

Not to mention material for a screenplay.

I said, 'My impression was that he's a faded institution.'

Her jaw tightened, deepening the tuck scars. 'Maybe to fools who follow the best-seller list.'

Stopping, she raised the volume on the radio. Nothing but the static. She lowered it again but didn't move.

I said, 'I heard this place was once a retreat for artists and writers.'