Mariella who was proud that she didn’t need to have roommates, and that she could afford to live in a beautiful place. By American standards, it would have been called a townhouse, everything in twos: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, two stories. Bought and paid for by her British boyfriend, as he had promised her on his last visit to the Angeles City.
Isabel’s room was upstairs, so Mariella was able to easily keep tabs on her. At first Isabel didn’t realize what was happening. Whenever she came downstairs, Mariella would always put on her beauty-queen smile and ask, “Going out?” or say something like, “You’re running late tonight,” or even, “You look nice, you expecting someone special?”
Mariella’s schedule had her working only when she wanted. It began to look like anytime Isabel was home, so was Mariella. It was nice at first to have a friend to come home to, someone Isabel looked up to and with whom she could share all her thoughts. Someone who knew about Rudy.
But in those early weeks and months, it was Larry they talked about. Isabel told her cousin all about him. She told her about the trips out of Angeles, sparing no details, intimate or otherwise. When he called, and he called her almost every day by then, she’d tell Mariella everything he said.
Isabel was in love, and in many ways Mariella became Isabel’s surrogate for Larry. Not in any physical way, but when Isabel felt the urge to tell Larry she loved him, she would tell Mariella, “I love him so much.” And when she felt the urge to hold him, she’d say, “I wish he was here right now.” And at those times she thought about how long it would be until his next visit, she’d say, “I miss him,” and cry into Mariella’s shoulder.
The whole time Mariella offered hugs that were just a moment too short, or knowing smiles that were just a bit too knowing, or words of encouragement which, without Isabel even realizing it, weren’t really encouraging at all.
Mariella was patient, I have to give her that. Every day Isabel fell more and more under Mariella’s influence. She began to crave Mariella’s approval, asking for her cousin’s opinion before she made any important decisions. And all the while Mariella lay in wait, not yet ready to exert the control she knew she had. Even when Isabel told her about the money Larry sent, and how she had not touched any of it, Mariella said, “That’s good, that’s good. Pretty soon you’ll be a rich woman.”
I can only imagine what was really going through her mind.
At the same time, the great Angeles cycle had turned on me, too. For so long things had been good; life had been rolling along. Even my bouts of Angeles overload had been more manageable.
But the incident with Rudy seemed to signal a change not only for Isabel and Mariella, but for me, too. And Cathy. And Manfred. And Robbie Bainbridge, though we didn’t know it at the time. It was a demarcation point when the cycle turned the corner and began moving in the opposite direction.
As our relationship progressed, Cathy and I fell into a pattern. A comfortable pattern, at least for me, because it had been a long time since I’d felt so content. Manny would give us a ride home in his trike every night after work. Sometimes we would make love before we went to sleep, sometimes after we woke the next afternoon. Sometimes both, and often it was neither. We’d lounge around the house for several hours, watching the satellite TV or going for a swim, then we’d head for Fields, stopping for dinner first, more times than not at The Pit Stop, before arriving at The Lounge just before six p.m. On our days off, we’d just stay home and do nothing. We were both just too wiped out.
I’m not quite sure exactly when Cathy started acting differently, only that it wasn’t long after the encounter with Rudy. She began to get annoyed over stupid things, and she would become quieter than usual, over long periods of time, days even. And while we’d always argued, there had once been a playfulness to our banter. There was no playfulness now. She almost sounded bitter on occasion, and sometimes resentful.
It had a familiar feel to me. I feared things were falling apart like they had with Maureen, and with every relationship I’d ever been in. I wanted to ask her what was wrong. I wanted to fix whatever it was and return to that state of contentment. I wanted us to be us again, not caring about anything and just enjoying the ride.
But while I was good at helping others, I sucked at helping myself. I was afraid if I said anything, she would tell me there was no way to make things right. I was afraid that by trying to fix our relationship, I might inadvertently end it. So I said nothing and hoped for the best, because, more than anything, I was afraid that if she asked me, “Do you love me? Really love me?” I would have to tell her the truth.
It was Manfred, though, who had the most immediate, profound change. It was a Sunday, and I’d invited him out to my place for an early barbecue. Cathy had decided she had something she needed to do that afternoon, so it was just the two of us, a pair of sirloin steaks and enough ice-cold San Miguels to keep us happy. We were out by the pool, each of us having taken a preliminary dip, but planning on more. I put the food on a couple of plastic plates and we sat around stuffing the tender meat into our mouths and washing it down with the beer.
“I think it’s time,” Manfred said when he was halfway done with his steak.
“For what?” I asked, thinking he meant another swim and knowing I wasn’t even close to ready for that yet.
He set his fork down, and took a long pull from his bottle before answering. “I told you my mother isn’t doing too well, right?”
“I think you mentioned it,” I said. “Did something happen?”
“No. She’s the same. But I’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking I should spend some time with her,” he said.
“You gonna go back for a visit, then?” I asked.
He was silent for several moments, so I looked up from my steak. He had a wistful smile on his face. “No,” he said. “Not a visit. I’m going back to stay.”
I set my own fork down. “You mean, move home?”
He nodded. “It’s time.”
“Was it that thing with Rudy?” The incident was over two months in our past, but not yet a distant memory.
“Partly,” he said. “But it’s everything, really. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this. All this isn’t real. I guess I was going to have to face it at some point.”
I stared at him. It wasn’t that I thought he should stay, it was just I hadn’t expected any of my friends to leave. I don’t mean I was selfish or anything, only that it hadn’t dawned on me that it might happen.
“You know what this place is,” he said. “I think you, more than anyone, keep a pretty good grip on reality. But I don’t have your strength.” He paused for a moment, breathing in deeply. “If I don’t leave now, this place will kill me.”
As soon as he spoke the words, I knew he was telling the truth. If he didn’t leave, he’d be a destroyed man, maybe not dead, but near enough that it wouldn’t matter. He would become a drunk and a serial womanizer. And more than anything, he’d get to the point where he could never break his addiction to the scene.
“You’re right,” I said. “I think you should leave.”
I think he was expecting more of a fight. But I couldn’t argue with the truth.
Two weeks later I threw Manfred a going-away party at The Lounge. All the regulars were there: Dieter, Nicky, Tommy, Dandy Doug, Josh. Even Tom Hill and Carter stopped by for a drink. Most of the girls knew Manfred, and those who didn’t knew he was a good friend of mine, so everyone was in a party mood.
It wasn’t planned, but at some point someone found the fluorescent body paints in the back office and brought them out. Immediately the guys began picking models, and the girls began pulling off their tops, because you couldn’t have a cloth-covered canvas. I saw Cathy flip on the switch to the four tubular black lights that hung strategically from the ceiling. We hadn’t turned them on in a long time, so for a second I wasn’t even sure they would work. But they all came on and soon the girls were glowing in their new fluorescent finery.
One guy painted an Australian flag draped over Rina’s shoulders and flowing down to her waist. Another guy-Nicky, I think-worked only in red and white and created two side-by-side targets with Tessa’s nipples as the bull’s-eyes. Some of the girls turned out great, while others looked like bad imitations of modern art.
Rochelle was the best. She’d been lucky enough to have been picked by Dieter. He was probably the best artist we had in the district. He turned her into a provocatively dressed cop, complete with a side-holstered pistol and handcuffs.
