Private Eyes

letter wit they couldn’t get away with on TV. Rage-laced relationship humor. Ugly-spirited ethnic jokes. Screaming scatology.

Had the city gotten meaner, or had I just lost my edge?

I looked over at Robin. She shook her head. We left. This time she allowed me to open her door. Pressed herself against it the moment she was inside and stayed that way.

I began driving. Reached for her hand. She squeezed mine a couple of times and let go.

“Sleepy?” I said.

“No, not at all.”

“Everything okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So… Where to?”

“Do you mind just driving for a while?”

“Not at all.”

I was on Fountain going west. Turning right on La Cienega, I crossed Sunset up into the Hollywood Hills, climbing slowly and steadily until I found myself on a series of narrow, hairpin residential streets named after birds.

Robin remained tight against the door, like a nervous hitchhiker. Eyes shut, not talking, her face directed away from me. She crossed her legs and placed one hand on her belly, as if it ached.

A few moments later she put her head back and straightened her legs. Despite her denial of fatigue, I wondered if she’d fallen asleep. But when I switched on the radio and found a late night jazz show, she said, “That’s nice.”

I kept driving, with no idea where I was going, ended up somehow on Coldwater Canyon, took it all the way to Mulholland Drive, and turned left.

A bit of forest, then clearings that revealed sheer cliff above the incandescent grid of the San Fernando Valley. Fifty square miles of lights and motion, leering through night-haze and treetops.

Bright lights, pseudo city.

Being up here felt strangely adolescent. Mulholland was the quintessential parking spot, as consecrated by Hollywood. How many make-out scenes had been filmed here? How many splatter flicks?

I lowered my speed, enjoying the view, keeping my eyes out for drag-racers and other nuisances. Robin opened her eyes. “Why don’t you pull over somewhere?”

The first few turnoffs were occupied by other vehicles. I found a eucalyptus-shaded spot several miles from the Coldwater junction, parked, and killed my lights. Not far from Beverly Glen; just a quick southward dip and we’d be home- at least I would.

She was still up against the door, looking out at the Valley.

“Nice,” I said, setting the emergency brake and stretching.

She smiled. “The stuff of picture postcards.”

“It’s good being with you.” I made another reach for her hand. No return squeeze this time. Her skin was warm but inert.

“So,” she said, “how’s your friend in Texas?”

“Her dad took a turn for the worse. He’s in the hospital.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She cranked open her window. Stuck her head out.

“Are you okay?”

“Guess so,” she said, pulling her head back in. “Why’d you call me, Alex?”

“I was lonely,” I said, without thinking. Not liking the pitiful sound of it. But it seemed to cheer her. She took my hand and played with my fingers.

“I could use a friend, too,” she said.

“You’ve got one.”

“Things have been rough. I don’t want to whine- I know I have a tendency to do that and I’m fighting it.”

“I never thought of you as a whiner.”

She smiled.

“What is it?” I said.

“Dennis. He used to complain that I whined.”

“Well, fuck him, the churl.”

“He didn’t just leave. I kicked him out.”

I said nothing.

“I got pregnant and had an abortion. It took me a week to decide that was what I was going to do. When I told him, he agreed right away. Offered to pay for it. That made me angry- that he had no conflict about it. That it was so simple for him. So I kicked him out.”

Suddenly she was out of the car, walking around to the front and standing by the grille. I got out and stood next to her. The ground was thick with dead eucalyptus leaves. The air smelled like cough drops. A couple of cars drove by, then silence, then another headlight parade.

Finally, a stillness that endured.

“When I found out,” she said, “I felt so strange. Disgusted at myself for being so careless. Happy that I was able to- biologically. And scared.”

I remained silent, dealing with my own feelings. Anger: all the years we’d been together. The care we’d taken. Sadness…

“You hate me,” she said.

“Of course I don’t.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Robin, it happens.”

“To other people,” she said.

She stepped toward the cliff. I put both arms around her waist. Felt resistance and let go.

“The procedure itself was nothing. My OB-GYN did it, right in the office. She said we’d caught it real early- as if it were a disease. Vacuum pump and a receipt for insurance as a routine D and C. Later, I had cramps, but nothing terrible. The old Castagna pain threshold. Couple of days of Tylenol, then cold turkey.”

She’d slipped into a flat voice that unnerved me.

I said, “The main thing is you’re okay,” and felt as if I were reading from a script. Melodrama at Make-out Mountain. Check your theater listings…

“Afterward,” she said, “I got paranoid. What if the pump had done damage and I could never conceive again? What if God punished me for killing what was inside me?”

She took several steps to the side. “Everyone talks about it so abstractly,” she said. “The paranoia lasted for a month. I developed a rash, convinced myself I was going to get cancer. The doctor said I was fine and I believed her, was okay for a few days. Then the feelings came back. I fought them and won. Convinced myself I was going to live. Then I cried nonstop for another month. Wondering what might have been… Eventually, that stopped, too. But some of that sadness stuck around- in the background. It’s still there. Sometimes, when I smile, I feel as if I’m really crying. It’s like a hole, in here.” Prodding her abdomen. “Right here.”

I took hold of her shoulders and managed to turn her around. Pressed her face into my jacket.

“With him, dammit,” she said, muffled by fabric. Then she drew away and forced herself to look at me. “He was fast-food- something to fill space. Kind of obscene that it would happen with him, huh? Like one of those horrible jokes they were telling tonight.”

She was dry-eyed. My eyes began to hurt.

“Sometimes, Alex, I still lie awake at night. Wondering. It’s as if I’ve been sentenced to wondering.”

We stood staring at each other. Another caravan of cars zoomed by.

“Some date, huh?” she said. “Whine, whine, whine.”

“Stop,” I said. “I’m glad you told me.”

“Are you?”

“Yes- I- Yes, I am.”