Myra handed it back to Herb, frowning. It was beginning to seem downright lethargic not to tackle the true story of the Country Daze staff. Whatever it was.
Herb fell over in the chair, laughing.
“Uh-oh,” Nate said. “We’ve offended her feminist sensibilities.”
“This is the wife of the editor of Country Daze,” Myra said, pointing to the piece of paper that Herb was now weeping into, like a handkerchief.
“You’re kidding? His wife belongs to this thing?”
“What do you think I ought to do?” Myra said.
“Infiltrate,” Herb said. “Oh God, look at this thing.”
“Run a side-bar,” Nate said. “Spill the facts and get some shrink to comment.”
“How about Joan Rivers?” Herb said.
“I’m serious,” Myra said. “These people are a lot stranger than they seem.”
“The poor guy,” Nate said. “What can he do about his wife being a lunatic?”
Myra looked at him. He meant it; he felt sorry for Hildon. And if she told him that Hildon was having an affair with Lucy Spenser/Cindi Coeur, he would shrug and say that was nothing. Men really did stick together. That was true.
It suddenly occurred to her that she hesitated to analyze people’s messy lives because that would be hypocritical. When had she analyzed her own? Nothing much was happening in her own life right now. She was waiting for more: a bigger city, a more prestigious job, some romantic involvement. That old, familiar complex that seemed overwhelming — the last thing she’d want to admit to people. It was as though it was a personal failure, a sign of weakness, not strength, to have effectively kept the world at bay. Going to New York would be a way to try to change that.
Herb called her a sissy and said he was going to infiltrate.
She left her piece on the editor’s desk, with a note asking him to call her in the morning to let her know if she could take off at the end of the week.
16
WHEN she heard the back door close, Nicole turned off the television and sat in the silence of her room. Though she would never let on to Lucy, she thought that she was beginning to figure out what quality Lucy had that she herself lacked. It was difficult to put into words. It was partly what Jane always said: that Lucy was solid. Lucy would make a good actress, because she really had a foundation; she didn’t have to invent one. Piggy always said that Marilyn Monroe was a great actress because people could tell that she was someone underneath, and the more she giggled and pursed her lips, the more real the hidden someone became.
Nicole envied her. She kept her own hours, didn’t have to dress any particular way, didn’t seem to care what people thought about her. Dropouts were interesting to Nicole (that was what her grandmother called Lucy and Jane): they didn’t have a lot of hype surrounding them; they were just out there, like nudists.
She remembered sitting in a screening room with Piggy, watching Marilyn Monroe movies. When Marilyn smiled, Piggy would point out how much sadder that made her look. When Marilyn cried, you knew she was going to pull through. Piggy also had photographs of Marilyn Monroe in an album: when she was half naked she looked ladylike; when she was dressed in a suit she looked like a sex object. Piggy was hoping that Nicole could grow up to be more like Marilyn Monroe. If she didn’t, he wanted her to try to fake it. As far as Nicole was concerned, that was impossible. Even Marilyn Monroe would have found faking it too much of a chore. She thought that a lot of it had to do with how close the camera came in. That made people’s eyes look large, and when people saw big eyes, they assumed that there was depth. It was a trick. It was probably a more interesting world for people who were myopic.
Nicole was feeling sorry for herself. Her mother hadn’t called for days. Edward was back in California. He had been a friend, and look what happened: people butted in. He probably wouldn’t have been around much longer anyway. It wasn’t like she was going to New York with him. He wasn’t Jerry Lee Lewis.
She went downstairs. Lucy’s new column was finished, so she read that:
Dear Cindi Coeur,
My husband has pet names for everything in our trailer, but he often has trouble remembering our son’s name. This has so disturbed Elbert Jr. that he has repeatedly questioned me about whether Elbert Sr. is really his father. What can I do to make Elbert Sr. take the time to care?
Honeybuns
Dear Honey,
There may be a psychological (psy.cho.log.i.caclass="underline" having to do with the mind) reason for what Elbert Sr. is doing. Think about what a terrible name Elbert is. Hardly anyone would name their child Elbert if they wished him success. Elbert Sr. is probably maladjusted because of his name, and he may be displacing his resentment or anger onto your son. You do not say what your own name is, but I notice that “honeybuns” refers to a part of the female anatomy that has obviously caught your husband’s attention. Perhaps he is so taken with your derrière that he is unable to concentrate on his son. Try sitting down when your husband comes home from work, and then see if he has his wits about him to greet your son by name. Also, you do not give your husband’s age. It is possible that he is suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. Often, when people’s faculties start to go, they have an awareness that this is happening, and they become afraid. Probably your husband would not admit that this was the case, even if you confronted him with the evidence. It might be a good idea to suggest to him that you move to the South, where it is still very much the style for everyone to greet each other as “honey.”
Nicole got her Walkman, found the Madonna tape, and put it on and went out into the yard. Lucy’s house was on top of a hill, but everywhere Nicole looked, it was flat. It wasn’t late enough in the afternoon for the cows to have been herded into the pasture, so Nicole could see in all directions, and there was nothing in sight. It was windy and overcast. Lucy and Hildon were going to be cold at the waterfall.
Nicole tapped one foot on the chaise, keeping time with the music and keeping a fly away at the same time. She began to tap both feet. The sky brightened a little. This early in the day, the moon was already visible. The moon had been full, huge and orange over the weekend; it looked like a special effect, something seen through the window of a spacecraft, instead of the real moon seen through the windshield of Lucy’s car. Nicole missed driving. That was the one thing Bobby Blue had taught her to do: he had taught her to drive. His chauffeur, really. Out at the beach. Not on the freeways or anything. She tried to think of Bobby as a friend. She actually liked the chauffeur better. He was going to be an actor. When he got off work he hung out, waiting to be discovered. He had turned her on to Madonna long before Madonna had a hit song; he was a friend of hers, and he’d recorded her. Now, he said, she wouldn’t even speak to him.
A butterfly flew past. It was a Monarch butterfly. Nicole knew that because she had read for a part in a TV movie called Monarch. She lost out to some kid who wasn’t even around Hollywood six months later. Somebody said she cracked up, but Piggy’s wife said she’d heard she went back to Montana. Maybe it was the same story, but Piggy’s wife just filled in the detail.