And lost chances.
Chapter 16
Maybe it was hormones.
But it just bugs me that whenever a woman gets truly emotional about something, men ascribe it to hormones. Like they’re something we made up.
Hormones are real.
So is wanting a baby and wanting it now. I mean, I was no Suzy Creamcheese sorority chick when I met Neal. My biological clock was already ticking and if Neal wanted to wait two more years I just didn’t think I could stand it. My biological clock was becoming a time bomb.
So if it was hormones, so what?
These hips were made for babies.
And the dumbshit would make a great father if he’d just get over his own screwed-up childhood, and he knows it. But I guess I was a little rough on him. Anyway, after I talked to him on the phone I went upstairs and checked the calendar, did the temperature thing, and discovered that the old ovaries were in overdrive.
We’re talking prime time.
And I thought, hell, if I can get my butt down to Palm Desert maybe I could surprise Neal and we could do it before he had a chance to start whining about how screwed-up he is.
So I phoned up Peggy Milkovsky and she phoned up one of the crop-spraying outfits and sure enough there was a pilot heading down to Indio, which isn’t too far from Palm Desert, and he said he’d be happy for the company.
I put a few things in a bag, met the pilot at the airstrip and got to Indio just as the sun was going down. I found Nathan Silverstein’s address in the Greater Coachella Valley phone book, got myself a cab over there and rang the bell.
To tell the truth, I felt kind of pathetic standing there on the front step, with my bag, my bubbling ovaries, and my round heels. Talk about easy.
Chalk it up to temporary insanity, please.
A woman answered the door. I think she was expecting somebody else because she was wearing a white see-through full-length negligee, high heels, and red lipstick.
“You must be Hope White,” I said.
“That’s right, honey,” she said. She gave me a woman’s once-over and added, “And Nathan must be doing better than I thought.”
“Is Neal Carey here, by any chance?”
“No, he’s not.”
Then I did the weirdest thing.
I started to cry. I don’t mean sniffle, either. I started to bawl.
I’m no wussy. I’m a rootin’, tootin’ cowgirl mountain woman. I’ve birthed calves, gelded horses, and stitched up drunken cowboys. I’ve comforted abused kids, stuck shotgun barrels into the crotches of their no-good daddies, even listened to Neal Carey try to sing and never cried. I don’t cry easily.
But there I was, standing in front of a nearly naked woman bawling my eyes out and I don’t know why.
It’s just that at that moment I really needed to see him and he wasn’t there.
So I was weeping and Hope White pulled me inside and sat me on on the couch and actually said, “There, there, dear…”
I was just blubbering.
“You’re looking for Neal?” she said gently.
I blubbered and nodded.
“You really need to find him, don’t you?”
Blubber and nod.
“Honey,” Hope said as she put her arm around me, “are you crying because this Neal got you into trouble?”
“No,” I blurted, “I’m crying because he didn’t!”
Next thing I knew my head was resting in her ample bosom and she was stroking my hair and saying, “There, there… There, there… You just cry and tell Hope all about it.”
And I did.
Chapter 17
Dear Diary,
What a night!
After the German fellow left I took a long bubble bath, made myself some dinner out of Natty’s refrigerator, then got all dressed up the way Natty likes. (Blush, blush.)
Sure enough, about an hour later the doorbell rang and I thought it was Natty and he had forgot his key. So I went to the door, flung it open, flung my arms open to show him (blush, blush) the goods, and Surprise! It was a young woman!
At first I was a little upset, Diary, because I thought Natty had himself some young honey and let me tell you, this one is a looker! Thick black hair, gorgeous eyes, and the hips…
Well, it turns out that she’s not looking for Natty after all (A good thing for her. A good thing for Natty!), but for this Neal Carey I met in Vegas. The one who was supposed to be bringing Natty home.
I told the poor dear-Karen is her name-that Neal wasn’t there and the sweet thing starts to cry like her heart is going to break. What else could I do? I brought her in and sat her down and listened to her story.
Diary, the trouble is that this Neal will marry her but not give her a baby. Just the reverse of the usual story. Go figure.
I told her, “Sweetie, you’re going about this all the wrong way!”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
I told her, “Just get him in the sack but don’t tell him that you ‘forgot’ your birth control.”
“I couldn’t do that,” she said. “It wouldn’t be honest. It wouldn’t be healthy for the relationship.”
Honesty, relationship… Young people these days. In our day we didn’t worry so much about honesty and relationships. Girls got pregnant, guys married them, we had families, we made out all right.
Anyway she had a good cry and told me all about her and Neal. Imagine that boy not wanting to have a baby with a beautiful girl like this!
But then we got to wondering, Where were Natty and Neal, anyway? When Karen told me about Natty taking Neal’s car and Neal setting off to find him, I started to get real worried. Then I told Karen about Mr. Schaeffer and Miss Done, and the German fellow, and she started to get concerned.
Then Karen called Mr. Graham, and I got on the extension, and the three of started to get worried together.
What could Natty have seen? we all wondered.
“Unless it had something to do with the fire,” I said.
“What fire?” Mr. Graham asked.
“The one next door,” I said.
“Do you happen to know the address?” Mr. Graham asked.
“I can go look,” I said, and I did. The street numbers are painted on the sidewalks. It was 1385 Hopalong Way, and I told Mr. Graham so.
He said he’d call back. In the meantime Karen tried to call Mr. Schaeffer, but he wasn’t in. She found his home phone number but he wasn’t there, either. I’ll just bet he’s out with Miss Done. There’s a spark there, I think.
Mr. Graham called back half an hour later.
“The condo belongs to a Heinz Muller,” he said.
Diary, that’s the German fellow who said he was Natty’s friend! I should have known that Natty wouldn’t be friends with a German. He won’t even ride in a German-made car! What was I thinking about?!
Suddenly, Diary, I knew what had happened! Natty had seen something in connection with the fire! After all, Natty had spent years playing the Catskill hotels-he’d know arson when he saw it.
I think-Oh, excuse me, Diary! There’s the door! It must be Natty! Thank God! I’ll be right back!
Chapter 18
From the tape of an illegal microphone planted at the Silverstein residence by Craig Schaeffer. The voices have since been identified as those of Heinz Muller (HM), Hope White (HW) and Karen Hawley (KH).
HW: Just what do you mean, coming in like that?
How did you get in?
HM: What did the old Jew tell you?
HW: I beg your pardon? “Old Jew”? You get out right now before I telephone the police.
HM: What did he tell you?!
HW: Let go of me!
HM: What did he tell you?!
HW: Nothing.
(Sound of a slap.)
(Sound of footsteps.)
KH: Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?! Let her go! Then get your sorry butt out of here before I kick it out.
HM: You terrify me.
KH: Mister, I’ll put this boot so far up your ass you’ll need a pair of vise-grips and a bottle of good whiskey to get it out. HM (Laughing): I would like to see you try.