Part 10 (1/2)
”You're just jealous,” he tells me.
”Oh, really? What am I jealous of? Her hair? I know how to dye my hair red. I know how to wear a tank top. I know how to sing the way she sings. It's a trick. She's a trick. She's a siren, Franklin. She's leading you out onto the rocks. You can go there if you want to.”
He squints his eyes at me. ”And where are you leading me?”
”To the truth,” I say.
”Your truth,” he says, sitting up straighter in his chair.
”There is nothing relative about truth,” I say.
”Okay, then,” he counters. ”Where's your manager?”
”I don't have one.”
”Exactly.”
”I'm just good at what I do.”
”And Jenny isn't?”
”No, she's excellent at what she does. She steals talent.”
Franklin looks at me for a long time. Confident that nothing unwanted is on his chin, he sits back in his chair and takes long, slow sips of his cheap red wine.
”You hate women, don't you?” he finally asks.
”I'm not sure. I don't think I know any.”
”Why?”
”Because there aren't any women in Los Angeles. There are only little girls.”
”What makes you say that?”
”Women have b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips. Have you met anyone like that in L.A.?”
Smirking, he says, ”I've met plenty of women with b.r.e.a.s.t.s.”
”I mean real ones. You know how to tell the difference? Your b.r.e.a.s.t.s lie down when you do.”
Franklin, who is smart, mulls this over, then says, ”Do you know any men in Los Angeles?”
”There aren't many,” I admit. ”They're mostly girls in disguise.”
”What am I, then?”
I think about that for a moment before I decide to answer honestly.
”You're a confused man.”
”Oh, really?” he says, leaning away from me. ”And what am I confused about?”
”Whether or not you are a man.”
”And what's your definition of a man?”
I think about that for a moment. ”Men fight,” I say.
”Oh, you want me to join the army?”
”I don't want you to do anything. But that is my definition of men. They are willing to fight.”
”What is it you want me to fight?” he asks.
”Jenny,” I say.
We don't speak again until the check comes. When it does, we decide to divide it.
He's not a man, I realize to my dismay.
Men pay.
WE ARE STANDING in front of the restaurant, waiting for the parking valets to bring our car around, when I catch a glimpse of her. It's not a mistake. I'd know her anywhere. Our eyes connect, on this crowded street. She is in her late teens now. Either she's pursuing her path to greatness or she has given up. Her clothes tell me she's chosen the latter. She's dirty and distracted. She's not carrying a violin.
Franklin is yammering about how he could have played the last solo better. It was good, but it could have been better. I feel trapped by his narcissism, and I'm not listening anymore because I have seen her and I want to follow her. She is walking away from me, walking alone, moving rather blindly down the empty sidewalk.
I say, ”Hallie!”
The body freezes, then, without looking back, starts to move faster.
”Hallie, is that you?” I call out.
She walks even faster.
Then I abandon Franklin and start to run down the sidewalk. I am gaining on her when she spins around and looks at me. It's her and it isn't her. Her hair is red now. Her skin is the same amount of pale. Her eyes connect with mine, and they say, Don't come any closer.
”It's me,” I say. ”Your music teacher.”
This person, who looks so much like Hallie but might not be, says, ”I don't have a music teacher.”
Our eyes connect.
She says, ”Look, just leave me alone.”
I move closer to her. It's as if she's a ghost and I'm afraid she'll go back to some other dimension.
I say, ”Hallie, I know I screwed everything up. I didn't want to hurt you. I just wanted to save you.”
”Save me?” Her expression is one of genuine bewilderment. ”Who are you, thinking you can save people?”