Part 8 (2/2)
”It's a pencil, I swear,” Danny said. ”Anyway, I'm doing it for the dogs, not myself.” He listened for a moment. ”Tell Stan that we appreciate his enthusiasm, actually no, that's patronizing-tell him we appreciate the relations.h.i.+p we have with him, but can't move forward for less than what they paid before-but then they already know this; it's just what they do, you know that.”
He listened again. ”All right, do that then-as long as it's in the contract, it will cost them more in the long run, but if it makes him look good, it's fine-if you think it's a good move. I trust your judgment.”
He nodded, and wrote a few things down.
”Before you go, Jack,” Danny said, ”I was planning to stop by and see Raquel this afternoon. Let her know for me, would you?”
It was very hot outside and there were no clouds.
The sign in the distance once read HOLLYWOODLAND. Mules hauled thick poles up the steep ravine for mounting the letters. In 1932, an actress jumped to her death from the letter H. There were old-style cars parked along the boulevards. Men wore hats and beige suits. Everybody smoked and rode horses. The writer F. Scott Fitzgerald ate at lunch counters, and sat in a park near the tar pits, writing letters to his daughter, telling her not to spend so much money and to look after her mother.
Danny's secretary, Preston, knocked and came in. He was from Youngstown, Ohio. His first job was at a popular brunch place in Echo Park. He wore bow ties. He went to a lot of parties. He called his parents every Sunday when they got home from church. They were encouraging but wanted him back in Ohio. His mother wore slippers with fluff inside. She liked to put her feet up when she watched television. Preston's father colored her hair once a month. He wore plastic gloves and the kitchen smelled of chemicals. They were both forty years old when he was born. It was their wedding anniversary last week. They had a cookout with ribs, fried chicken, okra, corn bread, collard greens, and homemade pork and beans. Preston's father e-mailed pictures. People ate off paper plates and held up Dixie cups to the camera.
n.o.body cared when they found out Preston was gay. He told his parents one Sunday night with the television on. He told them it was as natural as breathing.
How's the Paramount thing, Preston?” Danny asked without looking up.
”Great, that new producer is like a Christmas miracle, I should have something for you by tomorrow.”
”And are you going home for Christmas, Preston?”
”Yes, if you don't mind. Are you going to Scotland?”
”Actually Mum's coming here-though I think she's more excited about seeing the dogs.”
”It's much warmer here than Scotland, right?”
”It's warmer everywhere, Preston. Do you need anything else from me?”
”No, I should have something for you to look at tomorrow.”
”Okay. I'm going to see Jack's wife this afternoon-would you call the hospital and make sure everything is fine, ask the nurse if she needs anything?”
”How is she?”
”Probably bored more than anything.”
”I've got some magazines on my desk if you want to take them?”
”I'm glad you have time to read magazines, Preston.”
The parking garage was bright and always busy. An automatic chime sounded until Danny attached his seat belt. ”Thanks, Grandma,” he said.
There was a rubber bone on the pa.s.senger seat, and a dent in the driver's-side door that the Soho House parking attendants were always offering to have repaired while Danny was upstairs in his office.
Occasionally he would insist on parking the car himself and then recline the front seat all the way back for a nap.
He often daydreamed of childhood and the rain-swept terrace-house in Manchester where he grew up with his mother. He thought of her often, because he was old enough to understand things, old enough to remember when she was the age he is now. She had loved him but withheld herself from others. The mark of her life was not only what she had done, but what she had denied herself.
Danny felt they were similar. He preferred to be at home with his beagles and a cup of tea. There were so many parties and dinners that they didn't mean anything anymore. He no longer felt the need to convince anyone of anything. Everything he found interesting went into his films and he had nothing else to say. He had enjoyed a few light relations.h.i.+ps over the years, but the men he was attracted to always wanted more than he was willing to give.
He would not have described himself as lonely, but would have admitted that something was missing. He often sat at his kitchen counter wondering what it could be, watching his dogs sleep, watching them breathe, their small hearts turning and opening like locks.
II.
BEFORE JOINING THE freeway that would take him to the hospital, Danny stopped at Lucques on Melrose to buy a package of homemade cookies for Raquel. It was early, and the owner, Jane, was doing paperwork at the end of the bar.
”Not staying for lunch, Dan?”
”No, I'm going to visit a friend in hospital-Jack Miller's wife.”
”Oh, I know who you're talking about-Jack and Raquel. I can picture her. I hope it's nothing serious.”
”She'll be in very soon for lunch, by which time, Jane-you'll have forgotten this conversation.”
”She doesn't want anyone to know she's in the hospital?”
”Who knows,” Danny said.
”Jesus, you're discreet,” Jane said. ”Remind me to tell you my secrets sometime.”
”Preston doesn't call me the Vault for nothing, you know.”
When Danny got back to his car, the meter had expired, but there was no ticket on the winds.h.i.+eld. In the bag, he found a few extra cookies packed separately from the box. He put three in his pocket for when he got home, then ate the fourth standing up. Opposite the restaurant was a shop that sold vintage watches. Danny looked at them in the window. Such tiny lines and numbers, such delicate springs, all hard at work on something they would never understand.
Raquel had been sick for months. Her hair fell out during the treatments, but the worst was over, she said.
When Danny arrived at the hospital, he asked the valet if he could park the car himself. It was a peculiar habit of his that people in Los Angeles didn't understand. One valet accused him of not trusting Spanish people. Danny was so offended that he got out of the car and kicked a small dent in the door with the heel of his shoe, but they just thought he was crazy.
When he got to the main desk, there were five women pointing people in various directions and placing others on hold with their long nails.
”h.e.l.lo, sir, how can I help you?”
”I'm not sure I'm in the right part-”
”Give me the name of the patient, sir, and I'll look them up in the system.”
”Crane with a C, and Raquel is her first name.”
The woman made a few strokes on her keyboard.
”Mrs. Crane, Raquel Crane. Are you Mr. Crane?”
”No, I'm Uncle Crane.”
”I beg your pardon?”
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