“Because it’s easier to do,” Llewellyn said.
Richard blinked at Maddy, who decided to intervene. “Richard’s afraid he may be evicted. I thought we might give him the back room for a while.”
Richard hastened to explain. “Something in June at the hotel. Some anniversary or other.”
Llewellyn nodded. “Twenty years,” he said.
“Twenty years?”
Twenty years ago they shot a man who quoted poetry. “Back room’s occupied,” Llewellyn said.
“Surely,” Richard answered acidly, as much to Maddy as to Lew, “a friend takes priority over a housekeeper.”
Llewellyn sat in a chair in the living room corner, not far from the remaining spots of blood on the carpet. He rubbed his eyes with his hand. “Why don’t we,” he said in a monotone, “wait and see. You haven’t been evicted yet have you? Maybe something will turn up at Eileen’s party. We can ask around.” He waved his hand in the air absently. He seemed to Maddy very distracted.
“Is Eileen giving a party?” she asked. She didn’t understand how he knew such a thing, since he hadn’t talked to Eileen in a long time, judging from the persistent phone calls.
“Some Academy Award nonsense,” he waved his hand again.
“Am I going?” she said.
“Of course,” Llewellyn answered. “You and Catherine and I.”
She looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses; she was barely able to repeat what she’d heard. “You and I… and the housekeeper?”
“I’m sure I must have told you,” he said, rubbing his eyes again. Richard appeared absolutely befuddled. Maddy stared at her husband, head pounding with such incredulous fury that she was speechless. Slowly she turned to the stairs and then back to the two men, and then to the kitchen. She couldn’t think what to say or do or where to go.
Richard watched her walk into the kitchen. He was still befuddled. “Don’t want to go to a party,” he mumbled after her, almost to no one. “I’m tired of the parties in this town. Don’t want to see people I have to explain things to.” He said, “It’s a bloody fucked place with bloody fucked people. Eileen Rader and all the rest of them. My agent. Your producer. That awful Crow fellow. I like New York people better.”
Llewellyn looked at Richard. For a moment he seemed out of his trance. “Your agent is from New York,” he said through his teeth. “My producer is from New York. Larry Crow is from New Jersey. This whole city is full of people who came from somewhere else, and when they got here they looked at everyone around them and said, Isn’t this a terrible place. Four months later they’re still here and someone else has just gotten into town and is looking at them, saying, Isn’t this a terrible place.” He sighed. “Why are you here, Richard?” Richard stared back at Llewellyn glumly. He didn’t know if Lew meant why he was here in Los Angeles or why was he here in this house; either way it didn’t seem a promising question. He was trying to think of a promising answer when there was the sudden outburst in the kitchen, the sound of Maddy’s voice, and the heightened incomprehensible language of the housekeeper.
When Maddy came into the room, her speechless fury of moments before had found expression. In her hands she held a small white kitten. Catherine was behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching at her shoulder. Maddy turned and, efficiently and stealthfully, reached back and landed a blow across the girl’s face. Catherine fell back against the wall and then came at the woman. Llewellyn jumped up from the chair and took her by the wrists.
“She’s had this animal the whole time,” Maddy said. “Since the first day she’s been asking for milk and it’s been for this animal and she’s kept it in the room.”
“Maddy,” Llewellyn said.
“She must have had it when you brought her here to us,” Maddy said to Richard accusingly.
“It’s only a cat,” said Llewellyn. Catherine was struggling in his grip. Llewellyn pushed Catherine through the kitchen door, back through the kitchen and into the service porch where her own room was; Catherine was screaming something he didn’t understand. He pushed her into her room. He never looked at her face but stared into the background beyond her black hair. He pushed her onto her bed and closed the door of her room and locked it. She pounded on it from the other side.
By now Maddy, in the living room, understood she was directing her sense of violation at a simple cat. But she had no interest in stemming the tide of it. She gave the kitten to Richard. “You brought it,” she told him, seething. He took it in his hands as though it were an infant. “What am I supposed to do with it?” he groaned.
“Richard,” she said, trying to explain before her husband returned, “if I can get the damn cat out, maybe I can get her out too.” This didn’t impress him as much as she’d expected; he no longer seemed to care about the question of his residency. She went to the phone and called a cab and went to her purse and gave Richard some money. Take the cat, she said. Richard looked over his shoulder once to see Lew, his hands in his pockets, standing in the kitchen doorway, staring at the spots of blood on the floor of the living room.
Catherine flung herself at the door of her room, pounded on it and clawed at it till it stood pitted and punctured, small flakes of paint like eggshells on the floor.
