This One Is Mine: A Novel Read online

  Floating past the gatehouse guarding the swollen mansions of Beverly Park, Violet remembered words spoken by her father at this same spot, decades before the mansions. “When you get older,” he had said, “you will learn there are two kinds of people. Those who grew up listening to Sondheim on Mulholland, and those who didn’t.” Years later, he’d lose control of the convertible Jaguar on another part of Mulholland and sail to his death. A drunk-driving accident? A final attempt to make a splash — any splash would do — after never fulfilling the promise of his youth? It was unclear. Violet had hardly spoken to him toward the end.

  She flowed with traffic down Coldwater Canyon. A cement truck was backing out of a driveway up ahead. Violet stopped for it, making the driver tailgating her slam on his brakes and hit his horn for a good ten seconds. But he didn’t know Violet had nowhere to go. A little shopping. Sally’s present. A movie by herself, perhaps. The New York Times at a sushi bar. Dot needed socks.

  At the weird, long park along Santa Monica Boulevard, some workers had just raised a banner that read BEVERLY HILLS HEALTH FAIR. A dozen card tables anchored bunches of colorful balloons. But there were no people! How sad for the organizers, who had no doubt spent months planning this event. Violet wanted to reassure them that the crowds would come, just wait until lunchtime. A band was setting up on the grass. A brown-skinned man wearing a black suit sound-checked his upright bass. Poor dear. He probably had no idea how hot it was expected to be when he got dressed this February morning.

  David had always accused Violet of feeling sorry for the wrong people. She could cry at the mere thought of Buzz Aldrin’s having to endure a lifetime of being known as merely the second man on the moon. “Ultra,” David would say — it was the nickname he gave her on their first date, as in Ultra Violet — “you really don’t need to feel sorry for Buzz Aldrin.” But once Violet saw the inherent sadness in one thing, she couldn’t stop.

  That is why, when she walked into the French chocolate shop on Little Santa Monica, the tiny one that was always empty, the one that sold the gorgeous, bitter truffles, she couldn’t help it. She felt unbearably sad. The heaviness filled Violet’s stomach, then her chest. She grabbed a small wooden crate of truffles and placed it on the counter. At thirty-five dollars, no wonder there were no customers! The saleslady, her hair pulled severely back and tied with a silk scarf, looked up from her Sudoku book. Her sevens and ones were unmistakably French. This made Violet even sadder. She grabbed two giant crates and placed them on the counter. Perhaps this act of charity would stanch the sadness rising in her chest and prevent it from spilling out her eyes.

  “Bonjour, madame,” Violet managed to say.

  “Bonjour, madame,” answered the woman in that curt way of the French.

  A pregnant woman announced her entrance with a singsong “Hi!”

  Violet could tell she was eager to talk about her pregnancy, and obliged. “Is it your first?” she asked.

  “Yes.” The woman touched her stomach. “Cody. A boy.”

  This poor woman. She had no idea how hard it was going to be, even if she loved her baby as much as Violet did Dot. And how Violet did love Dot, was possessed by her. Not a night went by without Violet uttering her name, Dot, just before slipping off. Even if Cody was this woman’s blood and heart and every thought, did she know that love wouldn’t be enough? Love wouldn’t make being a mother any less boring or draining or bewildering. Love wouldn’t prevent her from, some mornings, standing at the bottom of the driveway, like Popeye, a wailing Swee’Pea dangling from stiff arms, waiting for the arrival of the nanny.

  For too many years, Violet had identified with the comic-book lady on that eighties T-shirt — the one everyone thought was a Lichtenstein but wasn’t — who realizes, to her horror, OH NO, I FORGOT TO HAVE CHILDREN! But these first years of motherhood made Violet think there should be a follow-up T-shirt. On it, the same woman is finally cradling her prized baby. But she’s still stricken, and her thought bubble now reads IT’S ALL ADDING UP TO NOTHING! There was no reward, no thank-you, no sense of accomplishment, no sustaining happiness. Often, Violet would find herself standing in a room, having no idea what she had gone in to do. It reminded her of the great Stephen Sondheim line . . .

  Sometimes I stand in the middle of the floor

  Not going left. Not going right.

  Then she’d realize that Dot was back in the other room. And Violet’s only purpose in leaving had been to get out of the same room as her baby. It was truly astonishing that something as unremarkable as having a kid would be the thing that had finally felled Violet Grace Parry.

  “Congratulations,” Violet told the expectant mother.

  “Et voilà.” The saleswoman handed Violet a sales slip.

  “Merci, madame.”

  There was a sticker on the French lady’s black cardigan. It was of a bear with a Band-Aid on its arm. I GAVE BLOOD, it read. That did it. Violet was about to start crying. She signed the sales slip without really looking at the amount. It began with a three.

  SALLY was sitting on the edge of the tub inspecting her feet when the phone rang. It was her best friend. “Hi, Maryam, I don’t have much time.” Her toes looked good, no cuts, no blisters.

  “I just want to give you directions to the party,” said her friend.

  “I thought you were going to pick me up.” Sally admired her naked body in the mirror. How many thirty-six-year-olds could say there was nothing they’d want to change about their body? Heart-shaped ass, delts to die for, not a whisper of ab flab.

  “But the party’s in Marina del Rey,” Maryam started in. “And I am, too, so it doesn’t make sense for me to drive all the way to West Hollywood at rush hour to pick you up, then have to drive you back after the party.”

  Sally knew all this. But she needed Maryam to drive. That way, after Sally captivated Jeremy White at the party, she could tell him that Maryam had left without her, then innocently ask him for a ride home. She’d invite him up, tease him with the best kiss of his life, and abruptly send him on his way. Always leave them wanting more.

  “Then I just won’t go,” Sally said.

  “You can’t not go!” Maryam cried. “Jeremy never goes to parties. The only reason he’s coming tonight is to meet you. And my boss invited a bunch of people to impress them. If Jeremy shows up and you’re not there, he’ll turn around and go home, then I’ll look like an idiot.”

  “You know I hate going to parties alone —” Sally practically dropped the phone: there was a red bump on her bikini line. Please, she prayed, not an ingrown hair. She took a closer look. It was. Fudge. If she didn’t get the hair out, it would get all gross and infected.

  “I would pick you up,” Maryam said, “but I’m on location in the desert and I need to shower and change when I get home.”

  “Unlike you, I’d never make my best friend do something she’s not comfortable with, so I just won’t go.” Sally squeezed the bump. Nothing came out. She pinched it between her fingernails. Blood collected under the purplish crescent indentations. What a freaking disaster! “Have a nice day,” she said. “Good-bye.”

  “No, Sally —”

  Sally hung up. Ice might keep it from getting infected. She went to the kitchen and popped an ice cube out of the tray, then placed it on the splotch.

  When Sally moved into this delightful one-bedroom on Crescent Heights Boulevard, she had discovered a bunch of baskets that the previous tenant had left behind in a closet. Full of confidence and whimsy, she hung the baskets from her new kitchen ceiling. But the whole Shabby Chic craze came and went; still, there were the baskets. Except for the two or three she had to throw away because they got infested with those horrible moths that got into her cereal, too. She’d arrived in LA feeling so full of promise. Her career as a dancer hadn’t worked out, but that was okay. She invented a ballet-inspired workout, named it Core-de-Ballet, and within a month was teaching classes. All without any help from David.

  David. She couldn’t
believe he forgot her birthday yesterday. She had called to remind him, for his sake. Three times. A snooty secretary answered. “May I tell Mr. Parry your last name?” she asked. “It’s the same as his,” Sally said. “I’m his sister.” David still didn’t take her call! When she had returned home from her birthday dinner, there was a message on her machine. “I have David Parry returning,” said the witch. David always used to remember Sally’s birthday. But now he was too busy up there in his zillion-dollar house with that baby of his, who’d won the lottery of the universe just by being born. And Violet, always throwing dinner parties for rock stars, most of them single, and not inviting Sally. Sally knew David way before Violet did, and now Violet acted like she owned him.

  Sally’s phone rang. “Hello?” It would have been cruel to answer, Hello, Maryam.

  “I’ll pick you up at six,” said her defeated friend.

  “Oh, Maryam!” Sally gushed. “You’re the best!”

  “But I’m going to be wearing hiking boots, and my hair will be caked with dust. Just so you know, my cat will probably pee on my pillow again to punish me for not coming home to feed her —”

  Sally jumped in before the subject of the cat could take hold. “Thanks sooo much,” she said. Sally loved Maryam but wished she’d change her name to something less Persian. Maryam practically begged to be Marianne. She was, after all, born in LA and completely American. Sally had brought it up several times, but Maryam got all touchy because her name meant “sweet-smelling flower” or something. Sally wouldn’t have been so hung up on it if it weren’t for Maryam’s surliness and disregard for her personal appearance. She had a nice face and a good body. A little makeup and better clothes could kick her up to a whole other level. Sally herself didn’t care one way or the other. She was only thinking of Maryam. As the pretty friend, Sally felt it her obligation.

  She checked the ingrown hair. The ice seemed to be working.

  VIOLET walked as fast as she could down Little Santa Monica. If she ran, she’d feel her ass jiggle, and that in itself might let loose the tears. She turned down Beverly Drive, then stopped. She was parked back on Camden. But she couldn’t just turn around. Someone she knew might see her flailing. Her heart was full-blown in her chest, fluttering, double and triple beating. The tingling bled down her inner arms to her hands, then got trapped in her fingertips, which felt as if they might burst. The heat prickled in her jaw and rose up her cheeks. Oh God, she had to get off the street.

  The Museum of Television and Radio was right there. Violet flung open the heavy glass door and entered the hushed travertine lobby. An elderly docent didn’t look up from her knitting. Violet remembered her from a few years back.

  It was when Mann About Town was being inducted. During the screening of an episode — it was one Violet had written — she had stepped out to read the paper but ended up stuck in a conversation with the excitable docent, who recounted all the famous TV people she’d met. Violet acted impressed, but TV never really interested her. She had always considered her destiny to be more noble, like writing plays or teaching English. But a one-act she had written in college had gotten noticed by a TV writer who quickly hired her. She and David hadn’t even been dating a year, but he could manage bands from LA just the same as from New York, so he was happy to relocate. One thing led to another, and there she had found herself, almost twenty years later, being honored at a museum for crap.

  But today, even the most innocuous conversation with this docent might cause Violet to collapse, or scream, or die, even. She nestled her face in her shoulder and made a break for the bathroom.

  The antechamber was softly lit, with beige walls and comfy carpet. Violet crumpled onto a tufted Knoll bench and allowed the tears to flow. Why don’t you get the baby — you’re already awake! I was up all night because of your snoring. If you’re so upset about the gopher, get it out of the Jacuzzi yourself! I’m making breakfast for you and Dot. Why don’t you figure out what the sticky stuff is in the ceiling? The gophers and rats already ate the damn vegetables — bitching about it isn’t going to bring them back. You’re not the only one living in this house. Have some consideration before you ruin everybody’s morning. See! It’s not just me. Dot and LadyGo are scared of you, too! These were all things Violet would never actually say to David. It was easier to nod.

  Violet wiped her nose on her sleeve. There was some pink Play-Doh on the lapel of her corduroy jacket. She scraped it off with her front teeth; the salt tasted good. A crack of light on the carpet widened into a wedge. A silhouette stepped into it. Violet raised her eyes. A man stood in the door that led to the bathroom proper. Behind him were urinals.

  “Oh God,” she said. “I’m in the men’s room.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No, it’s my fault. I didn’t look.”

  The man wore black, had brown skin and moppish black hair. “Hey,” she said. “You’re the one playing bass at the health fair.”

  “Are they looking for me?” Fear danced in his eyes. “They said we were on a fifteen-minute break.”

  “No, I noticed you when I drove by, that’s all.” It was rather dear, how worried he was. Violet figured he didn’t frequent Beverly Hills and might be intimidated. She felt an odd responsibility to put him at ease. “Are you having fun?” she asked.

  “What are you, the ambassador of Beverly Hills?”

  “No,” she said with a laugh, startled by his acuity, or her transparency, she didn’t know which.

  “Since you asked,” he said, “my answer is no. The Jew bandleader won’t give me gas money. It’s my fault because I wrote it down wrong. And I show up and see it’s a fucking blood drive so there’s no tip jar. Not to mention the shit going on with my car, which probably won’t start. So here I am, a one-man charity event for a bunch of Beverly Hills receptionists raking in sixty G’s a year.”

  “Jew bandleader, huh?” Violet couldn’t tell if he was Jewish himself or some other kind of ethnicity.

  “What,” he said. “Are you Jewish?”

  “No, but I could be.”

  “Come on, I was just saying that. You seemed cool.”

  “I am cool.”

  “Anyway, he’s a nigger. I just called him a Jew because he’s so cheap.”

  “My God,” she said. “Did you miss the memo? These aren’t words people use anymore. Who raised you?”

  “Wolves.” He sat down beside her. He had bloodshot eyes and lint in his hair. It was hard to tell if it was full of gel or in need of a shampoo. His clothes smelled like a Goodwill. “Really, though,” he said. “Are you okay? I’m a good listener.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Nigger, please. What kind of future can we expect when you lie to me like that?”

  “Future?” She felt mortified by how besotted she sounded and lowered her voice a register. “I mean it. I have a car that starts. That’s something to be grateful for, right?”

  “Amen to that.” His pants were shiny and polyester. Neat rows of staples held up the hems. On his feet were stiff black-and-white shoes. He must have bought golf shoes without knowing it, probably at a thrift store. “My tires are the thickness of rolling paper, and when I turn on the engine, there’s a weird chugging. I think the axle is bent, because it pulls to the left. The whole thing’s about to die, I can feel it.”

  Violet’s tunic was twisted so it exposed the elastic panel of her pants. She quickly yanked down her shirt. Jesus, Dot was almost two and Violet was still wearing maternity jeans. Last night, during the Clippers-Nuggets game, a horrifying fact had flashed on the screen: Allen Iverson weighed 165 pounds. In other words, Violet was one pound heavier than the NBA’s star point guard. She was completely disgusting.

  “And if my car dies,” he continued, “I’m dead. I have no cash to fix it. I’d have to leave it on the street. No more gigs, because I can’t haul my upright around on a fucking bus. Then I’d lose my apartment, so I might as well be back in Palm Springs.” He ran his finger
s forcefully through his hair. “Okay,” he said, talking himself down, “I have to stop thinking like that. I’ve got to have faith that God will take care of me.”

  “Aren’t we full of contradictions?” Violet said. “Talking about God now.”

  He gnawed at a cuticle.

  “Stop biting your nails.”

  “I know, thanks.” He leaned back and turned so he could get a square look at her. “So. Are your problems worse than mine?”

  “My problems.” Violet stared at the three hundred dollars’ worth of chocolate nestled between her four-hundred-dollar loafers. “My problems are all problems I’m lucky to have. And I know it, so therein lies the rub.”

  “You know what we say. If you’re alive, all problems are quality problems.”

  “We say that, do we?”

  “How about you and me trade? Your problems for my problems.”

  “No, thanks,” she said.

  “You didn’t even think about it!” he said. “You bitch!”

  Violet laughed loudly.

  “Wow, there’s a laugh,” he said. “Am I good or am I good?”

  “You’re good.” Violet handed him the bag. “I can pay you for your services in chocolate.”

  “I don’t eat chocolate.”

  “It cost three hundred dollars.”

  “Are you fucking high?” He rifled through the bag. “How do you blow three Benjamins on chocolate?”

  “I got it for this salesman at Hermès. Ten years ago, I bought a hat at Hermès in Paris, which I absolutely cherished. But it blew off when I was flying in a small plane over the Pantanal. We were looking for tapirs. Anyway, I went to the Hermès here in Beverly Hills to replace it, but it had been discontinued. So ever since, the salesman, Daniel, calls me any time a similar hat comes in. Resulting in me not only buying hats that I never wear, but also feeling an insane obligation to get him this ridiculously overpriced chocolate that ironically only a salesman at Hermès would appreciate. And he’s not even French, but Australian, if you can believe it.”