Page 85 of Nothing Less than Magic
It’s clear she knows who I am. What I represent. And yet, she is warm and welcoming without being ingratiating. And perhaps slightly distrustful.Why has this young woman shown up after all these years? What does she want?
I would be the same if I were in her place.
I follow Al through a hall of beige walls. There’s a curio cabinet with carefully arranged ceramic figurines, like the kind you buy at Gump’s or jewelry stores, and a console with a big pale pink vase of silk flowers. On the right is a sunken living room with more beige walls and matching carpet. But we keep going, winding up in a cramped den with too much furniture and dark paneled wood walls. It smells of cigar smoke, which surprisingly feels familiar. Al’s man cave.
“You have a lovely home,” I say to Barbara, who has been trailing behind us at a respectable distance. And it is.
“Thank you. We like it.” She smiles at Al, proudly. “Coffee?”
“Coffee would be wonderful if it’s not too much trouble.”
She is gone, and it’s just Al and me. He directs me to take one of the recliners, an oversized black padded chair with cup holders.
Al joins me in the chair’s twin and a long, awkward silence stretches between us until finally he says, “I hear you’re a psychologist now. A big deal with a talk show and books.”
“Books, yes. But not a talk show, though I do a fair amount of lecturing. So, you’re retired, huh?”
“It’ll be six years in June.” He repositions himself in the chair. “How is Lolly?”
“Divorced with two kids. She lives in Malibu now.”
He nods, looking even more uncomfortable than when we first started.
“How did you meet Barbara?” I ask him, hoping it’ll break the ice, hoping that the question won’t somehow steer us to Gloria.
He brightens. “She was a court reporter in Van Nuys. I had a case before her judge, a burglary that went south when the perp interrupted a DV. The homeowner was beating the crap out of his wife. The burglar called nine-one-one. Craziest damn thing. Me and my partner caught the case. The jury convicted the husband, and I took Barbara out for sushi. The rest is history.”
Al grins, and I get the sense that it’s as much for his story as it is for the affection he feels for his wife. And yet I know. I know that Al will never love Barbara as much as he loved
Gloria. When he used to talk about Gloria, his whole body vibrated. And his eyes lit up like the sun. He used to watch her walk across a room, never taking his eyes off her.
Barbara brings our coffees and shuts the door on her way out. Al doesn’t watch her go.
“You must think it’s weird that I just showed up here today. No announcement. No nothing,” I say.
He hitches his shoulders. “I’m glad you did.”
I wonder.
“I was in a pretty significant accident not too long ago.” I don’t mention the cable car, because it’s one of those things that people have trouble believing. Sort of like saying I was crushed by one of the toy boats in the “It’s a Small World” ride in Disneyland. “It made me realize that I had unfinished business.”
The expression on his face crumples. “Chelsea, you were twelve years old. If anyone has unfinished business, it’s me. And I’m ashamed that it took you coming here for me to face it.”
I surreptitiously wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.
“What happened?” he asks.
“A traffic accident. I was in the hospital for a month. But I’m good now.”
“I’m sorry, honey. I’m sorry about everything.”
“Me, too.” It comes out hoarsely, and I have to wait to compose myself before I speak again. “I’m sorry about what my father did to you.”
“Oh, sweet girl, now stop it. You didn’t have a damned thing to do with that. None of you did. It was just one of those things.”
I see the moment when he realizes what he’s said, the way he’s trivialized it.
“The affair was,” he corrects himself. “The rest of it . . . Jesus.” He scrubs his hand through his hair.
