I’m hurt. Everyone there last night either laughed at me or pitied me. And I can’t stand either.” But that was nothing compared with this. Compared with his pretending it hadn’t happened, and throwing the blame back on her. She felt her eyes fill, her throat close. She wouldn’t allow herself to cry. Not now.
Sam stood in the doorway, looking in at her. “You know your problem? You’re paranoid,” he said, and walked to the bedroom.
She got up and followed him. “Paranoid? What are you saying, Sam? That you weren’t insensitive? That I wasn’t hurt?” Mary Jane was raising her voice, her anger pushing back the lurking tears.
Sam turned to her, standing in the doorway, and looked up at the cracked plaster ceiling. “Okay, Mary Jane. Now you’re not paranoid. Now you’re getting hysterical. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” Calmly he pulled on a pair of socks and struggled into the black sweater that lay on a chair next to the bed. “I’m going out until you’ve cooled down.” He tucked his T-shirt into his jeans, and pushed into his cowboy boots. Grabbing his black leather jacket from the closet, he turned back to her. “And don’t play the misunderstood martyr, Mary Jane. That doesn’t work anymore.”
“Sam, don’t go. Not till we’ve sorted this out,” she said, her voice raised.
Sam strode to the door and put his hand on the knob. “It’s not my issue. You do the sorting. Then stop screaming like a banshee,” he told her.
“You bastard!” Mary Jane cried. “You always do this. How did it start out being a discussion about my feelings , and wind up with me being the shrew who chases you out of the house?”
“Maybe because I have feelings, too,” he said calmly.
“And you’re not understood here, so you’re going to take them to Bethanie, right?”
Sam stopped, stock-still, at the door, his hand still on the knob.
“That does it, Mary Jane. Now you’ve gone too far. You are a fucking paranoid.” He went through the door and slammed it behind him.
Mary Jane stared at the back of the chipped old fire door, the Fox police lock jerked out of its slot on the floor by the violence of Sam’s slam. “Oh, shit,” she wept, her voice too low for anyone else to hear.
9
Lila opened her eyes, straining to see the clock in the gloom of the heavily draped guest room. The small green number said 11:17. She squinted and saw the even smaller “ A . M .” She couldn’t have known that, because the fabric over the windows shut out the light. The entire room was swathed in silk, and looked like some kind of tent from the Arabian Nights, complete with camel saddles and brass lamps.
She lay still, trying to get it together. The dream lurked behind her eyes. She strained for a moment to bring the images back, but could only feel the horror, so she willed the pictures away.
The days and nights had merged into one long searing burn, broken only by the blessed blackness of sleep. It was when she first moved her head that she realized the pillow was damp. She must have been crying in her sleep, she thought. She turned her head to avoid the clammy spot, as she raised her hand to her forehead. What day was it? Tuesday? Wednesday? How long had she been here?
Seven, maybe eight—no, nine days. Nine days ago, she had come running here to Aunt Robbie’s from her mother’s house. The picture of Kevin bent over the potting table snapped into place. The headache sprung full-grown again. The memory of the animal sounds curling from his lips accompanied the picture. The scene brought spasms of nausea to her stomach. She swallowed hard against the urge to retch.
A low whirring sound came from the other end of the one-level contemporary house Aunt Robbie had built in Benedict Canyon. The sound, familiar to her, grew louder as it neared. Then it stopped, and Lila heard Aunt Robbie fiddle with the door handle before swinging it in. It had to be Robbie. José, Aunt Robbie’s
Sam stood in the doorway, looking in at her. “You know your problem? You’re paranoid,” he said, and walked to the bedroom.
She got up and followed him. “Paranoid? What are you saying, Sam? That you weren’t insensitive? That I wasn’t hurt?” Mary Jane was raising her voice, her anger pushing back the lurking tears.
Sam turned to her, standing in the doorway, and looked up at the cracked plaster ceiling. “Okay, Mary Jane. Now you’re not paranoid. Now you’re getting hysterical. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” Calmly he pulled on a pair of socks and struggled into the black sweater that lay on a chair next to the bed. “I’m going out until you’ve cooled down.” He tucked his T-shirt into his jeans, and pushed into his cowboy boots. Grabbing his black leather jacket from the closet, he turned back to her. “And don’t play the misunderstood martyr, Mary Jane. That doesn’t work anymore.”
“Sam, don’t go. Not till we’ve sorted this out,” she said, her voice raised.
Sam strode to the door and put his hand on the knob. “It’s not my issue. You do the sorting. Then stop screaming like a banshee,” he told her.
“You bastard!” Mary Jane cried. “You always do this. How did it start out being a discussion about my feelings , and wind up with me being the shrew who chases you out of the house?”
“Maybe because I have feelings, too,” he said calmly.
“And you’re not understood here, so you’re going to take them to Bethanie, right?”
Sam stopped, stock-still, at the door, his hand still on the knob.
“That does it, Mary Jane. Now you’ve gone too far. You are a fucking paranoid.” He went through the door and slammed it behind him.
Mary Jane stared at the back of the chipped old fire door, the Fox police lock jerked out of its slot on the floor by the violence of Sam’s slam. “Oh, shit,” she wept, her voice too low for anyone else to hear.
9
Lila opened her eyes, straining to see the clock in the gloom of the heavily draped guest room. The small green number said 11:17. She squinted and saw the even smaller “ A . M .” She couldn’t have known that, because the fabric over the windows shut out the light. The entire room was swathed in silk, and looked like some kind of tent from the Arabian Nights, complete with camel saddles and brass lamps.
She lay still, trying to get it together. The dream lurked behind her eyes. She strained for a moment to bring the images back, but could only feel the horror, so she willed the pictures away.
The days and nights had merged into one long searing burn, broken only by the blessed blackness of sleep. It was when she first moved her head that she realized the pillow was damp. She must have been crying in her sleep, she thought. She turned her head to avoid the clammy spot, as she raised her hand to her forehead. What day was it? Tuesday? Wednesday? How long had she been here?
Seven, maybe eight—no, nine days. Nine days ago, she had come running here to Aunt Robbie’s from her mother’s house. The picture of Kevin bent over the potting table snapped into place. The headache sprung full-grown again. The memory of the animal sounds curling from his lips accompanied the picture. The scene brought spasms of nausea to her stomach. She swallowed hard against the urge to retch.
A low whirring sound came from the other end of the one-level contemporary house Aunt Robbie had built in Benedict Canyon. The sound, familiar to her, grew louder as it neared. Then it stopped, and Lila heard Aunt Robbie fiddle with the door handle before swinging it in. It had to be Robbie. José, Aunt Robbie’s
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