Belinda Chapter 10 - 11

She was ready to go riding when I woke up, looking absolutely adorable in the

red coat and breeches. Said she'd found a stable in Marin that would rent her

a jumper.

Sure, take the car. Be back for dinner.

I watched her drive away. Positively dashing as she nestled down in the old

black leather seat of the dark-green MG-TD. The gears were screaming for

mercy by the time she shifted into third. Kids, I thought. The kitchen was

totally fogged in with cigarette smoke. And the clutch would fall out in a

week.

And I had five paintings upstairs. I felt absolutely marvelous.

I drove downtown in the van, taking one of her shoes with me.

I had this plan in mind, which had to do with the white cloth and pearl

buttons. But I wasn't sure I could carry it off. Didn't know where to find

everything.

But as soon as I wandered into the bridal department of one of the downtown

stores, I saw some of what I needed. Not only sheer white bridal veils on

sale, but delicate white floral wreaths. Too perfect. I stood looking at

these things in one of those dimly lit utterly private corners that exist all

over big stores-all the noise was swallowed up by the carpets. The atmosphere

of the church came back with bittersweet power. Things utterly lost, gone

forever.

I bought a veil and wreath immediately, but the dresses were all wrong for my

purposes. And the ones in the little girls' department would never fit her.

In the lingerie department, quite by surprise, I spotted exactly what I

wanted: lovely European nightgowns of white linen, all done up with white

lace and ribbons. There were many different lengths, styles. And all achieved

the same general effect. Very fancy, pure, old-fashioned.

I chose a short full gown with no waistband or gathering. It had an

exquisitely stitched yoke and, yes, the pearl buttons, the very thing I

wanted, pearl buttons. And the sleeves, the sleeves were too good to be true.

They were short puffed sleeves, trimmed with tiny ruffles of satin ribbon.

Ribbon on the hem. It was the thing all right. A little dress.

I bought the two smaller sizes to be safe. And I bought a number of other

gowns, too. Gowns would never go to waste in my house.

For the shoes I did have to go to the little girls' department. And

apparently there are little girls with very long feet. Size 7 triple A. I got

what I wanted. A plain white leather shoe with an instep strap. Rather wide I

thought, but she really didn't have to walk in it.

The white stockings were no problem. I bought some lace ones, but that was

not right. Plain white was what I remembered.

Then I called up the florist on Eighteenth Street around the corner from my

house and ordered the flowers. I'd be there in my van to pick them up myself.

Just have them ready. I wanted lilies, gladiolas, roses, and everything

white. Carnations OK too, but principally the church flowers.

I had a light lunch in the upstairs restaurant at Saks, bought the wax

candles I needed, and was about to catch a taxi when I thought perhaps I

should call Dan.

I didn't really want to do it, but I thought that I should.

Luckily, Dan was in court. Wouldn't be back till tomorrow. But his secretary

said that he'd been eager to reach me. My message machine hadn't been on. Did

I realize that?

Yeah, I guess I did. I was sorry. Did she know what Dan had to say? "Just

something about remember his warning."

Which meant what? I had half a mind to tell her to tell him to drop

everything. But I didn't.

I hung up. And on a hunch I tried to reach Alex Clementine.

He had checked out of the Stanford Court and gone on with his book tour to

San Diego.

I called Jody, the publicist, in New York. She said Alex had a packed

schedule. She'll tell him I wanted to get in touch with him. "It's not

important, don't bother him."

"You know his book's number eight this week on the list," she said. "We can't

keep it in the stores-"

"Marvelous."

"They want him on every talk show in the country. I tell you, it's all that

awful 'Champagne Flight.' I mean, these nighttime soaps have hooked

everybody. They're selling dolls of that actress Bonnie here, can you believe

it? Twenty-five dollars in plastic, one hundred twenty-five in porcelain."

"So sign up Bonnie for a book," I said. "Make sure it has plenty of pictures

from her old movies."

"Sure, sure. Why don't you and Alex have a drink with her and you guys talk

her into writing her life story."

"That's over my head. Alex will have to deliver that one."

"Looking for Bettina's still rolling at a solid five thousand copies a week,"

she said.

"I know, I know."

"So how about loosening up and doing some more bookstores? Remember you

promised me you'd think about it?"

"Yeah... Look, give Alex my love in case I don't catch up with him."

"They're begging for you in Berkeley and Marin. Just an hour away, Jeremy."

"Not right now, Jody."

"We'll send you a big stretch limousine and two of our sweetest little elves

to take care of everything."

"Maybe soon."

"That woman at the Chronicle's furious that you canceled her interview."

"What woman? Oh, that. Yeah. Can't talk to people right now."

"OK, you're the boss."

She was still out when I got home. The house was quiet and very warm from the

afternoon sun, about the warmest it would ever get regardless of the weather.

There was a different smell to it, and I don't mean the cigarettes only. Her

perfume, soap. Something. Something rather lingering and sweet and different.

All the toys in the living room were lying under a veil of dust and sun, and

there were changes there, too. Sometime or other she had arranged the dolls

neatly in the wicker carriage, spread them out on the sofa. She had opened

the glass doors to the big three-story dollhouse and straightened all the

little furniture inside. Polished the glass. Dusted all the little bits and

pieces in there-the tiny hardwood tables and chairs, the little patches of

hand-woven oriental carpet. She'd even put the little china dollhouse people

in different positions. Now the little man stood by the little grandfather

clock. And his corseted wife sat primly at the dining table. In the attic the

dollhouse child played with the tiny train that really ran on its thread of

electric track if you touched the little wall switch. Before, it had looked

like World War II in there.

I wish I had caught her in the act with the camera. Gotten her when she was

deep into it, with all her hair tangled with the afternoon sun the way it was

now, maybe in sock feet in that plaid skirt. Well, there was time now for

everything.

I hung up my coat, then brought in everything from the porch-the flowers, the

packages-and took them upstairs and started to arrange things.

I put an old white chenille bedspread on the four-poster. I stood the white

floral wreaths around it. And I brought the silver candelabra up from the

dining room and put the candles in them and set them on the night tables. The

wreaths pretty much concealed the night tables. With the shades drawn and the

candles lighted, the effect was as I had imagined it: the church at mass.

There was even the delicious floral scent, though it could never be as sweet

or as strong as it had been in New Orleans. That could never be duplicated.

I set the camera on the tripod at the foot of the bed, laid out the new

things and the white prayer book and the pearl rosary. I stood inspecting

everything. In afterthought I went downstairs, got a bottle of good Burgundy

out of the cupboard, opened it, and brought it up with two glasses. Set it

aside on one of the hidden night tables.

Yes, it was lush, gorgeous. But I was impressed very suddenly with the utter

madness of it.

The other pictures I'd done of her had formed themselves rather

spontaneously. The props had been here. And the riding portrait had been her

idea.

This was contrived in an almost insane fashion.

And as I stood there looking at the flowers and the flicker of the candles on

the white satin canopy above-the tester, as we called it-I wondered if it

wouldn't frighten her. If I wasn't wrong about that. It was sick, wasn't it,

to go this far? It had to be. And these wreaths of flowers on their spidery

black wire stands, they were funeral wreaths. No one else ever used such

flowers, did they? But that wasn't what they meant here.

Yet a person who could go to these lengths to see her this way, maybe such a

person could hurt her.

Imagine her telling me that she had done this with a man. "And then he bought

a white veil and white shoes and..."

I would have said, he's crazy, stay away from him. You cannot trust someone

who does something like this.

But it wasn't merely the degree of contrivance. There was the obvious

blasphemy. The prayer book, the rosary.

My heart was beating too fast. I sank back against the wall for a moment,

folded my arms. I loved it!

I went downstairs, poured a cup of coffee, and took it out on the back deck

with me. One thing is for certain, I thought. I would never hurt her. It's

madness to think I would. I'm not hurting her, asking her to put on these

clothes, am I? It's merely a tableau. And it fits perfectly, doesn't it?

The pictures could be a book so far-the carousel horse trio, the riding

portrait, now the Holy Communion.

When I heard the front door shut, I didn't move. In a few moments she'd see

these things. She'd come down and tell me what she thought. I just waited.

The water went on upstairs. The pipes along the side of the narrow house were

singing with it. She was taking a shower. Think of her in the hot steam,

deliciously pink-

Finally the water went off. I could hear even the faint vibration of her

moving in the house.

I walked inside very slowly, put down the cup. No sound. "Belinda?"

She didn't answer.

I went upstairs. There was no light from anywhere but the bedroom, and that

was the candlelight, throwing its flicker on the old wallpaper and the white

ceiling.

I went into the room.

She was standing at the foot of the bed, dressed in the full costume, with

the white wreath around her head and the veil down over her face. She was

holding the prayer book and the rosary. Her feet were right together, heels

of the white shoes touching. And the short gown just reached her knees like a

little girl's First Communion dress a long time ago. She was smiling through

the veil. Her naked arms coming out of the puffed sleeves were very round,

yet her fingers threaded through the pearl rosary beads were thin and fine

and tapered.

It knocked the breath out of me utterly. Her grave blue eyes shining through

the veil, her bud of a mouth set just on the edge of a smile. Only the hands

were a woman's hands. That is, until I noticed the thrust of her breasts

under the yoke, the pink nipples showing through the sheer linen.

I felt the passion come up between my legs. I felt it go to my brain

instantly.

I came towards her. I lifted up the veil and threw it back over her hair,

over the white wreath. That was the right way. The little girls had never

worn the veils down. Always back. Her blue eyes were flowing with the

candlelight.

I took her in my arms, clasping her bottom through the thin linen. I lifted

her up and back on the bed. I pushed her back, until she was seated against

the pillows. Her legs were out straight and she held the prayer book and the

rosary in her lap. I kissed her knees, ran my hands down her calves.

"Come here," she said gently. She beckoned with both hands for me to come up

on the bed. I climbed up and she went back into the pillows. "Come on," she

said again. She opened her mouth and started kissing me very fast, very

impatiently. I could see the movement of her eyes under her closed eyelids. I

ran my thumbs across her eyebrows-silk. And her body pumping slightly beneath

me.

I was going to come before I was into her. I got off my pants and shirt, and

then I pulled off her white stockings in one rough quick gesture.

There was her sex under the heap of crumpled linen, all but hidden, the shy

little lips under the ashen shadow of hair. A seam of frightening dark peach

pink flesh. A core I wanted to touch-

Her face was flushed. She pulled me close to her, and then she lay back,

drawing the dress up so that I could see her breasts. I pressed my face to

her stomach, then I went up on my arms and I gathered up her breasts and

started kissing them, sucking them. Her nipples were tiny, stone-hard. She

was moaning softly. Her legs lay open.

I reached for the crystal glass of wine I had set beside the bed. I poured

just a few droplets onto her sex, saw it flow down into the moist secret

little creases. I smoothed it with my fingers, feeling her open more, feeling

her invite, feeling her hips rise slightly. I poured the wine in her. Saw it

stain the white coverlet, saw her quivering under it.

And lying there with my hands curled around her thighs, I drank the wine out

of her. I pushed my tongue deep into her and drank the wine, and felt the

taut muscles there contracting. Her thighs closed against the side of my

face, hot, clamping onto me. She seemed to be throbbing, shivering.

"Come on," she said.

Her face was very red, her head turning back and forth against her tangled

hair. The veil was all over under her.

"Come on, Jeremy," she said again in a whisper. I went into her, and felt her

legs really lock around me this time. But I had to be free to thrust into her

hard and she let me go and lay back, sprawled out, her head crushing the nest

of white veil, white silk flowers.

When I knew she was coming, absolutely could feel it as her body clamped down

on me, I let go inside her.

One two three four five six seven. All good children go to heaven.
[11]

We slept a long time. I noticed later the candles had burnt down quite far.

It was dark outside. When I opened my eyes, she was sitting beside me,

looking down at me. She'd taken off the dress and the stockings, but she had

the wreath and veil properly in place and the veil fell down to the bed

forming a triangle of white light covering her. Her breast in profile and her

bent leg were divinely lovely. I ran my hand down her leg. The pink of her

nipples was exactly the pink of her mouth.

To look at her eyes frightened me a little. She was peering out from this

body and I don't think she knew what a miracle it was. How could she? How

could any child know?

"Let's take the pictures," she said gently.

"Doesn't anything scare you?" I asked softly.

"Of course not, why should it?"

Priceless, the expression on her face, better than I'd ever be able to paint

it.

And there was the camera staring from the foot of the bed.

I was so sleepy, positively drugged. The fragrance of the flowers was all

around us. On the ceiling above I saw the shadows dancing, delicate shadows,

like those of the frilled petals of the carnations, everything shivering as

the candle flames were shivering.

"Get the wine, would you?" I said. "Over here." That will wake me up, won't

it?

I watched her fill the glass with Burgundy. When she looked down, she looked

younger than at any other time, because you saw her blond eyebrows brushed

and soft and her lower lip jutting just a little. As soon as she looked

straight ahead again and her face relaxed, she was ageless: the nymph who'd

had this same body for a hundred years.

She sat beside me with one knee up, her hair tumbled down over her shoulders,

over her breasts. She seemed to glow in the light of the candles. "Holy

Communion," I said.

She smiled. She bent down with the red wine on her lips and kissed me and she

whispered:

"This is my body. This is my blood."

Dan called while we were still shooting. When I heard that voice coming

through the bedside phone right next to her, I felt the blood rushing to my

head.

"Look, I can't talk now," I said.

"Well, you listen to me stupid. Somebody's looking for your little girl. And

the whole thing looks weird to me."

She was looking through the prayer book. Her shoulder was touching my arm.

"Not now. Call you later," I said.

"You go out and call me back now."

"Impossible."

I glanced at her, and she looked up at me. Something stirred in her face. I

couldn't hear what he was saying. I felt as if I didn't know what to do with

my mouth to look natural.

"-photograph of her I want you to see!"

"What? Look. I have to go now. Right now."

"-my office, eight o'clock, before I go to court. You listening to me?"

"Twelve," I said. "I work late."

"Jeremy, this is weird, I'm telling you-"

"In the morning, OK?"

I hung up. My face was burning all right. I knew that she was looking at me.

It was the hardest thing just to turn and look back at her. And I knew she

was sensing something, and that I wasn't pulling this off.

And then I saw the suspicion plainly there, her little mouth set, her skin

slightly flushed too.

"What's the matter?" she asked. Right to it, of course.

"Nothing. My lawyer, that's all. Book business." Yeah, hit close to the truth

and you might be able to make it convincing.

I was fumbling with the camera. What had I been doing? Changing the ASA for

the new roll of film, what?

She studied me for a long moment.

"Let's break," I said. "Can't work after an interruption like that." I went

right downstairs and threw on the answering machine with the sound down. That

wasn't going to happen again.

She'd been drinking for a while before we left for dinner. Maybe the first

time I'd seen her just a little drunk. Her hair was pinned up and she had on

a velvet suit, white blouse. Very grown-up. The ashtray was full of butts.

She didn't say anything when I suggested a little place around the corner.

She tossed down the last of her Scotch and got up languidly.

White wicker tables, overhead fans, good food. I kept trying to make

conversation. She was stony.

And Dan, what the fuck had he been saying about a photograph of her? Another

photograph of her?

"Who was that who called?" she asked suddenly. She had just lighted another

cigarette. She hadn't touched the scampi.

"My lawyer, I told you. Taxes or something." I could feel the heat again in

my face. I knew I sounded like a liar. I put down the fork suddenly. This was

just too ugly.

She was eyeing me downright coldly.

"I have to go down, see him at noon, I hate it."

She didn't respond.

"All these things in the works, Disney thinking about buying the Angelica

books. Rainbow Productions wanting them. It's a tough decision to make." OK,

good, latch onto that little misplaced speck of truth. "Don't much want to

bother with it right now. My mind's on you, it's a million miles from those

things."

"Big bucks," she said with a slight lift of her eyebrows. "Rainbow's a new

company. They do exquisite animation."

Now how would she know that? And the tone, all the California girl had

dropped away. There was that crisp articulation I'd noticed the first time I

met her.

Her eyes were strange. The wall had come down again.

And what did I look like to her?

"Yeah, Rainbow... they did a-" I couldn't think.

"Knights of the Round Table. I saw it."

"Yeah, exactly. So they want to do two films of Angelica."

But this wasn't working. She knew something was out of whack.

"But then Disney is Disney," I said. "And whoever does it has to make sure

the animation is true to the drawings. You know, if they want to add

characters, they have to fit."

"Don't you have agents and lawyers that handle all that?"

"Sure. That's who called me. The lawyer. I have to sign on the dotted line

finally. Nobody can do that but me."

Her eyes were frightening me. She was drunk. She really was.

"Are you really happy with me?" she asked. Small voice. No drama. She crushed

out her cigarette in the uneaten food on her plate. She never did things like

that.

"Are you happy?" she asked again.

"Yes, happy," I said. I looked up at her slowly. "I'm happy, probably happier

than I've ever been in my life. I think I could write a new definition of

happy. I want to go home and develop the pictures. I want to stay up all

night and paint. I feel like I'm twenty-one again, if you want to know. Do

you think I'm a fool for that?"

Long pause. Then the smile, tentative, then growing brighter, like a light

coming down a dark passage.

"I'm happy, too," she said. "It's all happened just like I dreamed it could."

To hell with Dan. To hell with all of it, I thought.

I did the whole roll of Communion shots before I went to bed. For a little

while she came into the basement darkroom with me, a cup of coffee in her

hand.

I explained everything I was doing and she watched carefully. Asked if she

could help next time. She seemed tired from all that Scotch earlier, but

otherwise OK. Almost OK.

She was fascinated by the process, the pictures coming clear magically in the

developing tray. I told her how a real photographer might do it, take more

time with every step. For me it was like squeezing out oil onto the plate,

cleaning brushes, it was mere preparation.

I made three enlargements, and we took these up to the attic.

I knew this was going to be the best picture of all. Holy Communion or

Belinda with Communion Things. Just the veil and the wreath, no other

clothing, of course. And the prayer book and rosary in her hands. Formal as

the riding picture, as the little black-and-white photographs that the

mothers would take of the little girls on that day outside the church before

the procession. The trick was the background.

At first glance you had to think you saw cloisters or Gothic arches. Maybe

the flowers of an altar with candles. Then you would realize you were seeing

a bedroom, a four-poster bed, wallpaper. Had to make this illusion seamless:

it was a matter of texture as well as lighting. And I was going beyond the

practiced applications of my craft here into a new depth of illusion.

I wanted to start then; keep the pace going. But she said she wanted me to

come to bed with her, really snuggle with her. Desperate, her eyes. Her

voice. "OK, darling baby," I said.

She was stiff when I put my arm around her.

"You know there's a place we could go," I said suddenly. "I mean, we could

get away from San Francisco for a little while. House in Carmel I have,

rarely use it. We'd have to clean it up, but it's small, wouldn't be hard.

Just a block from the ocean."

"But we are away, aren't we?" she asked me in a strange cold voice. "I mean,

who would we be running from?" she asked.

About four in the morning I woke up and realized that she was crying. She had

been shaking me, trying to wake me up. She was standing by the bed and she

was sobbing, wiping at her eyes with a Kleenex. "Wake up," she was saying.

"What's the matter?" I said.

I switched on the small light by the bed. She was wearing only a cotton slip.

She was really drunk now. I could see it, smell the Scotch on her. She had a

glass in her hand, full of ice and Scotch, and her hand holding it was a

woman's hand.

"I want you to pay attention to me," she said. She was gritting her teeth,

and her eyes were all red. She was really frantic. The thin little triangles

of white cotton barely covered her breasts, and they were heaving.

"What is it?" I said. I took her in my arms. She was actually choking, she

was so upset.

"I want you to understand this," she said.

"What?"

"If you call the police on me, if you try to find out who I am, if you find

my family and you tell them where I am, I want you to know, I want you to

know, I'll tell them what we've been doing. I don't want to do it, I could

die first, to do something like that. But I mean it, if you ever betray me,

goddamn it, if you ever do that to me, if you ever betray me like that, if

you ever ever do that to me, I will, I swear I will I will tell them-"

"But I wouldn't, I wouldn't ever-"

"Don't you ever betray me, don't you ever do it, Jeremy."

She was sobbing in spasms. I was holding her tight and she was just writhing

against my chest.

"Belinda, how could you think I'd do that?" That wasn't it at all, not at

all.

"I don't want to say horrible things, it kills me to say I'd hurt you. It

kills me to say I'd use these things to hurt you, twist it all around for

them and their filthy morality, their stupid idiotic morality. But I would, I

would, I would, if you betrayed me-"

"You don't have to say it, I understand." I stroked her hair, held her

tighter. I was kissing the top of her head.

"But, so help me God, if you betrayed me-"

Never, never, never.

When she was finally calmed down, we lay there curled in each other's arms.

It was still dark outside. I couldn't sleep anymore. It was going round and

round in my head that what I was actually doing was not betraying her. Lying,

yes, betraying, no.

She whispered, "I don't ever want to talk about it. I don't ever ever want to

think about it. I was born the day you saw me. I was born then, and you and

me were born then." Yes, yes, yes.

But I only wanted to know what happened, so that we could both put it behind

us, both know it was OK, OK, OK...

"Jeremy, hold on me. Hold on to me."

"Come on," I said finally. "Let's get up, get dressed, get out of here." She

seemed numb. I pulled the little wool skirt and blazer out, dressed her.

Buttoned the white blouse myself up to her neck, kissed her. Got the cashmere

scarf and put it around her neck. Put the little leather gloves on her.

She was a doll all dressed up, a little English girl. I brushed her hair

even, put it back in the barrette so I could see the flawless plane of her

forehead. I loved to kiss her bare forehead.

She watched silently as I gathered up the photographs of Holy Communion,

carried the canvases down to the basement, opened up the back of the van,

slid the canvases into the rack. I helped her up into the high front seat.

I drove south out of San Francisco in the early morning darkness, down the

clean silent stretch of highway towards the Monterey Peninsula, the morning

coming slowly through the gray clouds.

She was sitting beside me looking very stately with her hair blown back from

her face and her arms folded. The lapel of her jacket flapped silently in the

wind, just touching the hollow beneath her cheekbone.

An hour, an hour and a half, and the sky was brightening behind the clouds.

The sun coming suddenly through the high windshield. Blessed warmth on my

hands.

I made that turn into the wind, towards the ocean, into Monterey, then south

through the piney woods to Carmel.

She didn't know where we were, I don't think. She'd never seen this strange

still little beach town, like a stage set before the day's tourists, never

seen the little thatched cottages behind their white picket fences beneath

the towering gray Monterey cypresses with their gnarled limbs.

I lead her along the gravel path to the rounded door of the cottage. The

earth was sandy, the brilliant yellow and red primroses scattered in the

clumps of green grass.

In the little house of raw redwood beams and stone floors the sun spilled

through the little windows. Green leaves high against the leaded glass.

I climbed the ladder to the loft bed with her, and we sank down together in

the musty down covers.

The sun was breaking in shafts through the webbing of branches above the

skylight.

"Dear God," she said. She was shuddering suddenly and the tears came back and

she looked past me into the light overhead. "If I can't trust you, there is

no one."

"I love you," I said. "I don't care about any of it, I swear. I love you."

"Holy Communion," she said squeezing her eyes so the tears came out.

"Yes, Holy Communion, my darling," I said.