Part 10 (1/2)
”Bertrand didn't have to mortgage his house,” Cheri says quietly. ”We can pay him back.”
”With Sol's money? Don't even go there.”
”It's my money now.”
”So you want to use his money-that you wouldn't take for yourself-as what? Absolution? For Sol or for you? Because I'm now a 'good cause'?”
”That's not fair,” she says, ”that is not fair and you know it.”
Michael turns away. They've danced around the issue of her trust fund so many times it's exhausting and his voice shows it. ”Okay,” he says. ”Let's not get into the money conversation. Bertrand knows what he's doing. We'll have no trouble rounding up investors. It's fine.”
”Here.” Cheri walks over to the fridge, reaches in, and hands him the almond milk. ”Believe it or not, I'm trying to help. You don't make it easy.”
”None of this is easy.” Michael takes his tea and almond milk out to his office.
”For the record, it was duck rillettes,” she calls after him, ”and I loved them.” The open fridge hums. She checks the dates on the milk-only one is expired. Should she offer to go with Michael on the road? She's never done that; she had her work and he had his. That's not an issue at the moment, but this Last Stand casts a long shadow. What would she be? Roadie, groupie, handmaiden, wife? As much as she wants to help, Michael would resist it coming from her. She dumps the spoiled milk down the sink and, in an act of defiance, throws the carton in the garbage instead of the recycle bin.
On the Road Again.
In the next days, Michael is a whirlwind of focused activity, energized by his palm-wearing loyalists. Cheri sits in her den/office and listens to the phone ringing and ringing, all on Michael's lines. She lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag, and doesn't bother to get up and blow the smoke out the window. Almost halfway into the quarter she won't be teaching, she's finally unpacked her boxes and made the den a working office. No photocopies have arrived from London, and she's yet to find a book thesis that's compelling enough to make her want to sit down and write. It's pathetic that all that's on her desk is a growing pile of papers that's exclusively on the Richardses' complaint.
She'd been so consumed with Michael's diagnosis that, for a brief moment, she's almost forgotten her righteous indignation over the review board's questions. They've spoken to her students about the in-cla.s.s discussion the day Richards claimed she tried to kick him out because he was a Catholic. They asked, with what she thought was moral superiority, if it was her practice to query students about their experiences with prost.i.tutes. Did they read her book? Contemporizing ancient subject matter was what she was known for and hers was among the most popular cla.s.ses in the department. And what did any of this have to do with Richards's claim of religious bias? They asked to see her notes from the past five years, presumably to verify she'd covered this subject before. She'd given them everything. Meanwhile they'd given her no information on how quickly they intended to wrap up their investigation or what their verdict was likely to be. She hadn't told anyone at the university about Michael's diagnosis, although she soon learned that ”dealing with family matters” conveniently shut down any well-intentioned, or not-so-well-intentioned, questions from her colleagues about how she'd filled her summer or what was occupying her time now. It was vague enough to suit Cheri, yet it didn't invite further questions. Now that she stops to think about it, what if people think she and Michael are getting a divorce; wouldn't that be ironic?
Cheri tries to rationalize: She's not in exile, she's in research mode. She should get back to the Ugaritic texts instead of staring out the window at the comings and goings of the Palmist base camp. If productivity had a scent, it would be wafting out of there. It pierces her tar haze. d.a.m.n Jane, that organizational freak of nature has given Cheri no opening to do even the smallest task, like ordering lunch. (Twin Anchors, anyone? Best ribs in Chicago.) And now there's also a young intern with the mile-high legs and lush red ponytail ready to meet Michael's every need.
Twenty minutes later, Cheri gets out of her car, bobbling two trays of Starbucks. She opens the door to Michael's office with her foot. ”Jeez, Cheri, think you got enough? Let me help,” Michael says, taking a tray.
”I also got you some matcha tea from the health store, it's this cup.” She points with her chin then realizes Michael is alone. ”Where is everyone?”
”They'll be back in a bit.”
The room has been transformed with a galaxy of signs, photographs, and old posters of turbaned swamis, fortune-tellers, mystics, a map of the United States with various routes red-pegged like a Battles.h.i.+p game, a bulletin board spattered with images of tarot, multicolored symbols, and runes. Michael is the center of his universe, standing in his low-slung jeans, his hands in his pockets. Scrub-bearded, he is a man in charge. This is the man she'd once found irresistible, the man who knew things she didn't, the cynical rascal who charmed her while she was walking out on his film and made her want to f.u.c.k him right then and there. ”I have to kiss you,” she says, taking his face in her hands. If he resists, it's only for a moment. He's aroused by her sudden hunger; she can feel him pressing into her with a small moan.
”What are you doing? They're on their way back.” Michael's got a lopsided smile. They scrabble to find footing, release the appropriate fastenings so that they're both depantsed, his hand under her blouse. ”Watch the map,” he says. f.u.c.k the map. She's pulling him to the floor and maneuvers herself on top of him the way he likes, with his hands on her hips. She curls her chest toward his and he looks her in the eye. ”Oh, baby.”
A few thrusts and it's over.
”It's been a while,” he says. He holds her and she can feel his body vibrating like a was.h.i.+ng machine that's just been turned off. After a minute, he taps her to roll off him. They lie next to each other on the floor and she reaches for his hand, squeezes it. Michael breathes heavily. He's clammy.
”I can't let you go. It's too risky. It just is. Michael, please reconsider.”
Michael pulls himself up and puts on his jeans, hands Cheri hers. ”We've been over this. Please. Respect what I'm doing here.”
Okay. Cheri nods. Okay. ”I'd come with you,” she says. ”If you needed-or wanted-me to, I'd be there.”
”Sorry, am I interrupting?” It's Bertrand, peering in the door. ”I can come back.”
”Come on in. Cheri got coffee, you might want to nuke it.”
”Yours is cappuccino,” Cheri says, discreetly b.u.t.toning her blouse.
”Thanks, Cheri,” he says, holding up his cup to her. ”Are you sure you weren't in the middle of something?”
”No, I'm ready, what have you got?” Michael sits at his desk and starts tapping his computer's keyboard. Bertrand gives Cheri a kindly look and starts unpacking his laptop and thick production notebook. Cheri feels like maybe she should leave. ”Hey, you two didn't happen to talk about the car, did you?” Bertrand asks.
”Car, what car?” Cheri says.
”We need a car for the film, and Michael mentioned your mother has a vintage Caddy from the sixties?”
”I keep forgetting to ask you about it,” Michael says. ”Do you know what year it is?”
”You're talking about Cici's old car in Montclair? She's had it ever since I can remember, I don't know what year.”
”I know it's early sixties and it's a cla.s.sic convertible, at least I remember it that way, with the fins and whitewall tires?” Michael is on his computer, Googling away.
”I bet it's an Eldorado.” Bertrand bends over to look at Michael's screen. ”Is this it?” He beckons Cheri to look.
”Yeah, I think that's it. I'm surprised you remember it, Michael.”
”It's in those photographs she has up on that one wall at Eighty-first Street, you know, of you as a kid? I pay more attention than you think. Knowing your mother, it's barely been driven.”
”It's been covered in the garage for decades. It probably won't even start. If you want a cool old convertible, why not go with a Tiger or a Vette?”
”Too predictable,” Bertrand says, smoothing his beard thoughtfully.
”I like the feel of the Caddy, it's retro and American from when American cars meant something,” Michael adds.
”Out of all the cars you could get, you want my mother's car?”
”It's the right creative choice for the film, Cheri,” Michael says. ”And we don't exactly have unlimited time or money right now.” Cheri looks at Bertrand and remembers he's already taken out a second mortgage to accommodate Michael's dream. He's being diplomatic but she can tell he's in favor as well.
”This is Cici we're talking about; she'll ask a million questions. She doesn't know anything about your diagnosis. Are you sure you want to open that can of worms?”
”She won't even notice it's gone. When was the last time she was in Montclair?”
”That's not the point,” Cheri says.
”You asked what I needed from you,” Michael says.
Cheri was snared. ”Of course,” she says.
The moment Cheri sees the stately Colonial rising up at the end of the long gravel driveway on Upper Mountain Drive she feels like she's ten years old. She hasn't been back here since after Sol's funeral. It's an elegant house, gracious in its ripening age, with its wraparound porch and rows of Italian cypress trees standing sentinel. The earth smells rich with fall rot; the oak trees have mostly flamed but still burst with yellow in places. Only her mother's beloved lilac bushes have missed the party and are faded brown. Birds. Amazing how she can hear the trills and the whistles in suburbia; it all gets lost in the city. Without even stepping inside, Cheri can picture the layers of Cici's decor: the earth tones, the gilt, the overstuffed armchairs, the antiques from various eras that smell of beeswax and lemon. Even before all of the additions, the house felt too big for just three people, maybe more so because they were always teams of two. Okay, Cheri thinks, let's just get this done quickly. Michael's traveling road show waits on the street below; his camera truck and van are parked and ready to roll as soon as they've got the Caddy.
Cheri joins Michael in the garage, watching as a white-coated mechanic who specializes in vintage cars revs up the Caddy's engine. Naturally, Jane managed to find an expert within a thirty-mile radius of their target. Michael walks around, looking it over, and then nods at her and grins. She has to admit it looks cherry.