“Thank you. I did my best under extremely difficult circumstances.”
“Difficult circumstances bring out the worst or best in people. In you, it brought out the best.” The look in Alchemy’s aquamarine eyes, saturated with the soft fluid of understanding, dissolved Hannah’s lingering qualms about his sincere goodwill toward Moses. “No question, he was better off with you than with Salome.”
“You think so?”
“Without a doubt.”
She felt a compulsion to reach out and embrace him. She saw now that Alchemy’s gift was the ability to raise either the maternal, sexual, or fraternal instinct so it precisely suited the needs of his audience, be it one fragile woman or one hundred thousand roaring fans.
“Without a doubt,” he repeated.
Never again would they speak of Salome.
After Moses returned home from the hospital, Hannah rented a furnished apartment in Beverlywood on a month-to-month lease. The doctors informed them: Moses must remain at home, and entertain few visitors, for up to six months. None of them were psychically prepared for the lengthy recuperation period. Hannah took quick trips to New York but did most of her work in L.A. This allowed Jay some respite from being the lone caretaker and also allowed her to give Geri Allen relief from carrying so much of their business load.
One morning while Moses dozed in his bed, surrounded by books, Hannah and Jay sat around the white wrought-iron table in the small backyard drinking coffee underneath palm and pomegranate trees. They were looking over an article in the newish issue of People magazine with the ridiculous heading, “The Sexy Savior.” Worried that he’d be outed by any number of doctors, nurses, and orderlies who could connect him to Moses, Alchemy decided to preempt any sneak attack. He made a deal that People would get the first photos of the Insatiables with their new guitarist if they ran this article without any photos of Moses and without mentioning Jay, Hannah, or Malcolm. Alchemy supplied a few quotes about how happy he was to find his brother, who had been given up for adoption at birth, only he wished this wasn’t the reason. All of them, including Moses, were satisfied. It looked like Alchemy’s gamble worked; although the story was picked up by a few places, no more details or slanderous innuendos came out.
A call from Sidonna Cherry interrupted their perusing. “How’s our boy?”
“All in all, he’s doing very well,” Jay answered while holding up her hand, indicating to Hannah she’d explain in a minute.
“Super. It’s taken a while, but Lively got back to me, and he is game to arrange a meeting with Teumer if asked, and if Moses is willing to travel to Brazil. No guarantees, though.”
“I’ll speak to Moses. I’d say any significant travel is months away.”
“You ring me when he’s ready. Later.”
Jay cautiously explained the conversation, as Hannah’s lips curled with indignation. “I’ve never known that man to say ‘good morning’ without an ulterior motive.”
“I suppose you’re right. He probably has an angle.”
More than probable, Hannah thought, although that was a lesser worry. “You think Moses will see him?”
Jay recused herself from the role of judge or accomplice in her husband and mother-in-law’s game of Tag — You’re Guilty. She did her best to alleviate Hannah’s insecurities regarding Salome, but frustration edged into her voice. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Hannah still couldn’t broach that subject. Instead, she delighted in the fantasy of mother and son embarking on a revenge trip. Moses would reject him outright, and Teumer would realize that she hadn’t needed him at all. She’d inform Teumer in no uncertain terms that she preferred living alone, being independent, focusing on her career and her son. It was a damn rewarding life. If, in the Book of Fame, her achievements were negligible when compared to Salome, the big-shot artist, at least Hannah was sane and proud: She’d become a prominent attorney. Her son loved her and was thankful for the love and care she gave him. He was kind. He’d faced his illness with courage. Above all, he was a mensch. What more could she want?
Peace of mind.
28 THE SONGS OF SALOME
There’s No Place Like Home
Ruggles replaced Shockula, and after almost three years of extended vacation, he freed me on the condition I live under Hilda’s supervision. Ruggles believed the healthiest place for my soul was beside Alchemy. I sat uncomfortably buckled into the passenger seat as Hilda drove along Route 25 toward Orient. I felt oneness with the fallow fields streaking by. Before I even entered, I sensated the house vaporized with the same fallow air. Still, I was free to love my son. All summer Alchemy bounded about, almost giddy to have me around, the three of us living a near-ordinary life. I could walk anywhere in Orient whenever and wherever, eat when I got hungry, climb to the roof of the house and commune with the moon. Go to the movies. Have sex! Only, Hilda’s wary gaze seemed to follow me everywhere. I was not going to spend my life decaying in Orient, nor ever again would I part from Alchemy.
Nathaniel, “rehabilitated” and released from prison, remained on probation. In his letters, he’d been pressing me to move in with him to his apartment on 3rd Street between First and Second Avenues. Xtine had a steady girlfriend. Even if she hadn’t, full-time coparenting didn’t suit her, and the Chelsea would not be Ruggles’s idea of an ideal home. Before we could move anywhere, I had to win Ruggles’s approval and find out from Bicks Sr. what legal rights Hilda possessed to keep Alchemy from me.
Another condition of my release ordered therapy with a New York mindsucker chosen by Ruggles, which afforded me an excuse to go into the city every week. I would vamp around for the day and take the last bus back. A few months after my release, I spent four days with Nathaniel. On our second night, he dressed up in his “courtroom suit,” hair patted down, gray-brown goatee trimmed neat. He planned an evening not exactly in keeping with the revolutionary who believed dinner at the Odessa verged on extravagant. We stopped at the Barclay for a drink and imbibed the waterfall-like playing of an underfed harpsichordist. As we strolled up Fifth Avenue to the Top of the Sixes for dinner, at a corner newsstand Nathaniel eyed a Post headline lauding Reagan. I waited for his usual tirade, but instead, he clapped his hands. “No politics tonight. Promise.”
Near the end of the evening, both of us tipsy doodle — he even danced with me during “Night and Day”—he placed his hands flat on the table. “Salome, we should think about getting married.” I gagged on my champagne. He quickly handed me a napkin and added, “for practical reasons.”
“Nathaniel, I’m the paragon of impracticality.”
“That’s why I love you and why I’m prepared to wait. I agree with you that ‘marriage’ is often a codified ritual that keeps a woman subordinate to a man. You don’t need to answer now.” He began twirling his napkin, his legs wriggling like a Saint Vitus’ dance sufferer. Marriage would undermine Hilda’s claims to Alchemy. (Though, he joked, a convicted felon and a “certifiable” might not make the ideal couple in family court.)
I tried not to cry. I couldn’t help myself. I swilled my champagne, thinking, What response would hurt him least?