In a second, his face would be flush with it, surprise replaced by something else. She arched her neck back, and her face came up, eyes closed, then opening, then locked on his.
For a second there seemed to be no sound at all, no gasp, not even crickets. They looked at each other, too shaken to react. Then her eyes moved, one thought chasing another, and she reached for her robe, her breasts showing. She said something to the man in the chaise as she put it on, presumably an excuse, improvised, keeping him there as she got up to go into the house, any excuse, moving steadily, not alarmed, not seeing anybody standing by the house. An arm dropped over the side of the chaise and picked up cigarettes. Then a head leaned down, lighting one. Dick Marshall. Liesl stood between him and Ben, but Dick wasn’t looking. He lay back on the chaise, a bare arm flung out. The rest of him would be naked too, waiting for her. Liesl started across the patio, belting the robe, her eyes on Ben again, a flicker of panic. He turned away, heading back to the driveway.
“Wait,” she said, a whisper, no louder than a hiss. Then she was past the patio, following him down the flagstone steps, out of earshot. “Wait,” she said again.
Ben turned, his body still tingling, everything mixed up.
“I guess I should have called,” he said, his voice neutral.
“It’s not what you think,” she said, no longer whispering, but soft, conspiratorial.
“What is it, then?”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
He looked at her for a second. “Does he know that? I didn’t.”
She stared back, biting her lip. “Don’t.”
Silence again, the air churning, any words likely to wound.
“Talk to me,” she said finally.
He kept looking at her, not speaking, things still shifting inside, falling. “You’d better get back,” he said, turning to the car.
She reached out and they both looked down at her hand on his arm, something out of place. She pulled it back, the movement opening the top of her robe, so that she had to clutch the lapel, covering herself.
“Did you swim first?” he said, nodding to the robe.
Her eyes flashed, then looked away. “You’ve no right.”
“I guess not. What was it? Just one of those things.”
“No,” she said quietly. “You know that.”
“Getting back at him? Something like that?”
“Don’t be-”
“Not that I didn’t enjoy it. Just next time, let me in on it.”
“We can’t talk now. You’re so-”
He waited. “So what?”
“I don’t know. Angry.”
“Ah,” he said, exhaling it.
She looked down. “How could we go on like that? Him always there.”
“Instead of like this?” he said, motioning toward the pool.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said again.
“It does to me.”
“We have to talk later. Now it’s-”
He shook his head. “You don’t owe me an explanation. Let’s justnot.” He turned to go.
“It’s nothing,” she said, her head down.
“You must have had a good laugh. Me being so-”
She leaned forward, her head close to his chest.
“No. I wasn’t laughing.”
He could feel the robe near him, aware of her. He stepped back.
“You better go finish him off. Before he starts playing with himself. You should have him about halfway there by now. If I remember it right.”
She looked up, her eyes suddenly filling, stung. “Go to hell.”
He took out his car keys, flipping them, about to say something more, but instead just nodded and held one up, a kind of wave, and got into the car. He turned his head backing out, not wanting to see her standing there in her robe, a good-bye glimpse.
In a few minutes, twisting down, he was out of the hills. He stopped for a red light and sat staring out, jumpy, afraid for a second he might be sick. The light changed, then went red again, unnoticed, no one behind him to make him move. Staring, no longer queasy, his mind blank. When he finally turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, the Rexall, the theaters, all of it was still lit up, as if nothing had happened. But he felt that if he got out and walked by the plate glass windows again his reflection wouldn’t be there, that his heart was still beating but the rest of him had disappeared.
Sam Pilcer invited most of the studio to his son’s Bar Mitzvah. The list had begun modestly, just the commissary head table, but then he felt he had to include people in his unit and after that it became impossible to draw the line. People would feel slighted, and why leave yourself open to resentment? Besides, it was the kind of occasion that wanted a crowd. He canceled the small ballroom he’d booked at the Ambassador and took over the Grove instead.
By midmorning there was already a line of cars in front of Wilshire Boulevard Temple. The lot behind was full, but Ben circled around and finally found a spot two blocks in on Hobart. The temple was Byzantine inspired, a scaled-down Hagia Sophia, and the crowd gathering outside made it feel a little like one of the big movie theaters downtown. Ben stopped for a minute, watching people being helped out of black Packards and hugging each other on the sidewalk, another premiere. There were photographers and even the usual cluster of fringe people who’d come to see stars, held away from the entrance doors by ushers. Sam and his younger wife stood at the top of the stairs, hemmed in by well-wishers. Women were in dressy day clothes, navy set off with a diamond brooch, peach silk with pearls, everyone in hats and a few in fur stoles, in spite of the bright autumn sun.
Ben thought, looking at the guests, that all weddings and family parties were the same, everyone falling into predictable place. Rosemary stepped out of her car all ready for the camera, but the beefy middle-aged man off to the side, looking slightly lost, was probably Uncle Al, who ran a linen supply business in Inglewood. Sam’s mother- in-law, on a cane, was being escorted by an older grandchild-Jonathan, the Bar Mitzvah boy, would already be inside looking over the Hebrew passage. Al’s daughter, the pretty one, had brought a new man. Aunt Rose, whom nobody ever knew what to do with, was beaming at a photographer. Happy families, all alike.
The front office people were now arriving, the Lasners first, then everyone else in a quick jumble so that they all reached the steps at once, swarming around Sol the way they had at Grand Central. Fay teetered on high heels, holding on to his arm.
“What are you, walking?” Sol said, seeing Ben.
“I parked behind.”
“Yourself? What if people see?”
“What people?” Ben said, laughing.
“People. There’s always people. You should know that.”
“Just saving the studio money,” Ben said, brushing it off.
“You and who else?”
But he dropped it, tugged by Fay to start up the stairs.
“Rabbi Magnin’s doing it himself,” she said to him, leaning in. “Say something to Esther. She’s thrilled.”
Lasner turned slightly to Ben. “Come sit with us,” he said.
But Ben held back, already imagining Bunny’s scowl, Fay’s appraising glances. Liesl was getting out of a car with Dick Marshall, a little excitement running through the spectators.
“Dick! Over here!” Almost a squeal as he waved, flashing the Marshall grin.
Ben kissed Liesl on both cheeks, a European family greeting.
“You look nice.”
She smiled, relieved, but still tentative. “Wardrobe. I think from the Wehrmacht,” she said, touching one of the padded shoulders. “You know Dick?”
