YOU DON’T OWN ME
by Vickie Lester
10. It’s a Marshmallow World
Feast or fiasco – Christmas Eve in the Taylor household tended toward the latter. Billie’s parents flew in for the week. Dave Taylor’s first family showed for the appointed dinner. And Billie, who didn’t like to witness people out of control or to or be out of control, remembered that night as a meal of loaves and fishes on some kind of otherworldly plane. She remembered a long conversation with the Virgin Mary, robed in celestial blue and sparkling white, in her kitchen. They chatted about childcare. She remembered Three Kings and piles of gold and incense and a pounding at the front door. She even remembered the knee dropping awesome presence of the Archangel Gabriel, but she couldn’t quite figure out what he/she/it, otherwise known as the Great Winged One, was doing at her house for dinner. All in all she found the experience… transcendent and more than a bit mystifying. All would be explained to her in time.
Let’s back up a little and talk about Ketamine. It’s a horse tranquilizer. In humans it can be used as an analgesic, or to relieve asthma or migraine. In emergency situations, like when surgery is required on a person who is trapped under a heavy object and can’t be moved, say as the result of an explosion, a battle surgeon will often use Ketamine instead of other anesthetics because it doesn’t inhibit breathing. The only problem is the dose. It’s tricky. It often causes hallucinations, usually of the godly visitation variety. That’s not to say some people don’t use it recreationally, but…
One would think that at a fine expensive equestrian girl’s boarding school this kind of substance would be under lock and key. Perhaps it was. Perhaps the Ketamine was locked in the Vet’s cupboard in the old stone stable along with a lot of other drugs, and perhaps Isabel had heretofore unknown lock-picking skills. Perhaps. What a crying Isabel later confessed to in the presence of the Beverly Hills police (called to the scene by her furious mother and dismissed with a movie star’s plea not to press charges by her guilt ridden father) was that she had dropped the crushed powder of a horse tablet she had found lying around at school in her stepmother’s champagne. Merry Christmas!
After the three officers had left Gabrielle Klein rounded on her ex. “Best thing in the world for that girl to spend a night in jail! I try to teach her a lesson and… David! Your juvie daughter just slipped Billie a Mickey! Like some wannabe Borgia! Like some other mobster members of your f’ing family that shall remain nameless! How could you?! How could you stand there and defend her?!”
By this time Isabel was howling, it was her turn next. “And you! You! That’s it! You’re crying?! Look at your stepmother!”
Billie was canted over on a couch watching the Archangel beat it’s wings in the air like an angry swan. How those wings swept through the air! Billie could feel the wind against her face.
Isabel zipped it and shuddered.
“That’s it! No more boarding school! Never again! You’ll be lucky if I let you leave home at forty!”
“M-om!” Isabel whined. Gabrielle was implacable.
Billie then saw the Virgin Mary put her robed arm on the haunch of a donkey and lead her away. Later the Virgin, who was wearing a dress remarkably similar to one of Billie’s mother’s returned to make Billie drink six glasses of glacially cool water and tuck her into a cloud-like bed.
From Billie’s perspective it was the next day, Christmas, that all hell broke loose. She woke in the master bedroom, in the king sized bed, but it was apparent she had slept alone. Jake was sitting on the edge of the bed with a package he had wrapped in his lap. She could hear her mother’s voice and Dave’s in the hallway, subdued in a way meant not to frighten the children. They wanted to kill each other but they were keeping it tight, well below a roar. Jake clambered into Billie’s outstretched arms and laid his head against her breastbone and she hugged him tight. “Merry Christmas, pumpkin! Should we go see what Santa left under the tree?” She was implying motion would be immediate, but damn, she felt like lead.
“I did already. This is for you. I made it.” He presented Billie with his gift. Billie untied a green bow and slipped her finger under the Scotch tape and found a clay hand painted object that could either have been an ashtray or a Christmas ornament. Billie gave Jake a squeeze.
“This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, little bug!” Exclaimed Billie. “What time is it?”
Cuddling time, had it ever been in effect, was now over. Jake extricated himself from Billie’s arms and hopped down from the bed. “Grandma says it’s brunch time. But, it’s really lunch time. I gotta go,” and he made for the door. He turned briefly with his hand on the doorknob. “Are you feeling better, Mama?”
“I’m fine, honey. Just fine.” After Jake was out of the room Billie hoisted herself out of bed. She went into the bathroom and peered at herself in the mirror. She looked like a scarecrow and her head actually felt like it was stuffed with straw. She remembered the visions of the previous night and tried to put them in perspective, then gave up, as it was an impossible task. It was implausible (completely implausible), keeping company with celestial creatures and feeling part of a greater whole. Whatever. She thought of an oft-repeated phrase she heard when questioning the faith she was brought up in, “accept the mystery”, and found it just as tedious now as she had then. She thought she wasn’t hardwired for religion, but if last night was any indication maybe she was. What the hell had happened, anyway?
Brunch was a largely silent affair. Billie’s mother, Lydia, had covered the table with food. Ed, Billie’s father, ate purposefully and well. Jake ate like a six year-old, a little bite of everything he liked and things he didn’t like he tried to camouflage on his plate. Dave just drank coffee after coffee. He looked pale and bloated under his tan.
Mr. Booker was spending Christmas with relations in Manhattan. In the early afternoon Billie’s father and Dave took Jake to a multiplex in Sherman Oaks to see “Hook”. Lydia Price, wearing a beige turtleneck and gabardine slacks put on a hat and sunglasses and instructed her daughter to join her by the pool. Billie did.
Lying side by side on a pair of chaise lounges, Lydia addressed her daughter with disapproval. “So. No more divorce and then this? This is the life you want to lead?”
Billie, still a little strung out, wasn’t taking the long look on her existence. She was just enjoying the feeling of the gentle winter sun on her face.
Lydia continued. “What you call a life, dear one, others would call a charade. A loveless marriage, stepchildren who despise you…”
“Andrew and I get along okay.”
“Don’t interrupt. And, your own child being raised by a, a, butler.”
“I thought you liked Mr. Booker.”
“Mr. Booker is one of the most competent people I know. That’s not the point. The point is personal engagement. The point is priorities.” Mrs. Price was exasperated. “And you, a two time college dropout, spend your days promoting make believe, other peoples fantasies. What kind of life is that?”
Billie thought it was the kind of life she liked. She said, however, “The film industry is a driving force in LA’s economy. Movies keep people working.”
“And your job, you schmooze and people pay you. You think that’s a worthy career?”
Billie didn’t feel like explaining her mother’s error. “I do.” She just wanted Lydia to be quiet.
“And what about the example you’re setting?” Inquired Mrs. Price.
“I’m not following you, Ma. Family, engagement, priorities, you said so yourself. Jake is not growing up in a broken home.”
“No, Jake isn’t. But Isabel and Andrew have. And Isabel is clearly broken.” Lydia asserted.
“Isabel is a teenager. She’ll get over it. We all do.”
“We all do what? Drug our stepparents? Act out in ways that can cause irrevocable harm? I have spent a lifetime observing children and this is not normal.”
“She’s just a rebellious teenager. I pissed her off. We’ll work it out.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Billie’s mother shook her head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
Billie inhaled deeply and closed her eyes and announced she was going to take a nap.
“Go inside then. You’ll get a sunburn if you stay out.” Said Mrs. Price. Billie went inside and straight back to bed. It was no longer cloud-like; it felt like she was trying to doze on a monolith.
Gabrielle and Andrew and Isabel returned at dinnertime with an elaborate hamper stuffed with the makings of a French ham dinner. Gabrielle and Lydia and Billie arranged a buffet in the kitchen while Mr. Price sat contentedly and watched. Andrew carried Jake around the house on his shoulders and Isabel watched a video, “Tootsie”, with her father in the library. Billie, when she ventured into the paneled room to tell them dinner was ready, was heartened to overhear laughter interspersed with their conversation. Maybe Isabel wasn’t as thoughtless as Billie had assumed.
“See that,” said Dave. “Dustin Hoffman. He’s still working. Ten years ago that, and this year ‘Hook’.”
“He’s a character actor, Daddy. You’re a leading man!”
Dave ruffled Isabel’s hair. Her statement had made him happy. It showed a certain level of empathy, at least for her father. What she hadn’t said, and what was perfectly true, was that Dave had been a leading man until he started developing a spare tire around his middle.
They ate their Christmas dinner informally at a table in the kitchen. The kids pulled sodas from the refrigerator and the adults stuck to bottled water or beer. They talked. Everyone was on his or her best behavior. They avoided the topic of the previous evening and when Isabel looked as if she were about to ask her father a question, probably about going back to boarding school, Gabrielle stared her down. At that Dave coughed until he turned red in the face, but he wasn’t choking, and he excused it with, “I just had a little pepper at the back of my throat. Now this is what I call a nice quiet evening at home. Thank you. Thank you everybody.”
Afterwards, as they were saying their goodnights Gabrielle kissed Billie’s cheek and said almost as if an afterthought. “Keep your eye on Dave. He looks a little under the weather to me.” Billie smiled and nodded and gave Gabrielle a warm hug and promptly forgot precisely what Gabrielle had said, lost in a newfound feeling of sisterhood with her previous boss. It had taken something major, some might call it a criminal offense, but for once in her life Billie felt like she had Gabrielle’s approval and or absolution – having the family reunited for Christmas turned out to be a good idea after all.
Andrew too was demonstrative in parting. He gave Billie a huge hug and said to all listening, “Sweet!” Which translated to: thank you for the lovely evening I had a delightful time.
Billie clung to Andrew and said emotionally, “Thank you, Andy. Thank you for being such a good big brother.”
Dave had his arm around Isabel’s shoulders. He gave her a gentle shove in Billie’s direction. Isabel stumbled forward looking sheepish. She gave her stepmother and anemic peck on the cheek and mid-gesture seemed to change her mind and then she clamped her arms a little too tight around Billie and whispered in her ear, “Next time I won’t screw up.”
Billie’s immediate thought while she patted Isabel’s back was, does she mean she won’t screw up DOSING me again, or does she mean she won’t DO it again? With Isabel it was hard to say. Isabel had not inherited her father’s expressive eyes.
Billie’s parents departed on the morning of December 31st. Mrs. Price feeling vaguely dissatisfied and Mr. Price as silent and oblivious to his family’s inner working as ever. Mr. Booker returned at four p.m. and insisted on immediately reinstituting Jake’s eight o’clock curfew. He could see that they had been lax in his absence. Billie was glad to see him back. Later that night she observed Mr. Booker murmuring quietly to himself while he cleaned out the refrigerator of several offending items; sweetened fruit juices, Coca-Cola, Pepsi, boxes of fudge and a half eaten Baba au Rhum and felt some measure of sanity had returned to her life. She had been trying to avoid thinking of Christmas Eve for a week, it was too troubling to consider, not the drug experience itself, but Isabel’s motive behind it. She just didn’t want to go there.
The current Mrs. and Mr. Taylor had been invited to a few New Year’s Eve parties but they decided they’d rather relax and stay in. They watched the ball drop in Times Square, switched off the TV, and Dave kissed Billie on the forehead and they went to bed. Separate beds. They had been sleeping separately since Christmas Eve, and while neither of them mentioned it, the fact was they slept much more soundly apart.
On New Year’s Day Dave said to Billie, “Hey honey. Do you mind if I go watch the Huskies over at Jeff’s?” Jeff was Dave’s long time agent. “Today’s the Rose Bowl.”
“Sure,” said Billie. “Have a goodtime, sweetheart.”
“I shouldn’t be home too late unless they go into overtime.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Replied Billie.
At eight thirty p.m. on New Year’s Day Billie asked Mr. Booker how long a football game usually lasted. She wasn’t a fan.
“In general, Mrs. Taylor, I believe that would be around three hours.”
“Hm.” Billie said.
By nine o’clock Billie had called Jeff’s house and Jeff had said, “Well, he left a while ago Billie. He should be home by now. Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll call you back.”
Exactly seventeen minutes later Jeff called back. As the phone rang, before she picked up, Billie looked over her shoulder. For a moment she felt as if someone was in the room behind her. “Ah, Billie. There’s no good way of saying this. Is there someone at home with you?”
“I’m here with Mr. Booker and Jake.”
“Okay, Billie. Dave has had a heart attack.” Jeff’s voice cracked.
“Is he okay?”
“Billie. Dave is dead.”
Dave Taylor had arrived DOA at Cedars after paramedics had been dispatched to the Four Season’s Hotel. Dave was found naked on his back in bed with no pulse, his skin already turning blue. Efforts to revive him were unsuccessful. In the room when the paramedics arrived were two hotel security officers and a weepy, and now fully clothed, call girl. His agent had procured the call girl for Dave. Dave had expressed an interest in blowing off steam after a stressful holiday.
Later when the agent met Billie at the hospital she couldn’t tell if Jeff was more mortified that he had been caught pimping, or that he had lost a client. She remembered invoking a curse, a malediction, on Dave and his whores and while the rational part of her brain rejected the hint of causality, the not so rational part of her brain thought; be careful what you wish for. Besides she was over all that, but Billie had even more convoluted worries…
After pressure had been brought to bear Dave’s obituary noted he had died suddenly at the home of his friend and agent doing what he loved… watching football and sharing the camaraderie of old friends. Billie and Gabrielle thought it best for their children if the family fiction they created to protect Dave Taylor’s reputation was backed up by the Los Angeles Times, The New York Times, and the Boston Globe. At the time the Internet (as we know it) only existed as a database to share library catalogues between universities.
Billie, who had recently discovered her facility for organizing things while working for Cooper Daniels, arranged the funeral. It was enormous and well attended, an SRO crowd. Andrew, who always had seemed slightly embarrassed by his parents, delivered a solemn and uplifting eulogy. Isabel couldn’t stop crying – twice abandoned by her father. Jake, ever positive, didn’t really understand the ramifications of death, but figured if Daddy did it, it must be okay.
In the days following the funeral what Billie felt most was absence, as she felt when viewing Dave’s body. A body was a peculiar thing drained of life. Whatever Dave had been to Billie he had been a defining structure and now that structure was gone, absolutely and profoundly gone.
Some people embrace change, others fight against it – still whatever change came Billie’s way it was buffered by boatloads of money. Dave, to Billie’s surprise (let’s be fair here, it was mostly to Polly’s surprise) had been an astute investor. He had a balanced portfolio. He had planned for the future. Trust funds had been established for all the children to be held until they reached the age of twenty-five. In his will cash gifts were specified for his closest friends and associates and his ex-wife. Billie inherited the bulk of the estate – another little shift on the axis – another little rumble under the social surface of Los Angeles. Billie at the age of thirty was a very rich widow.
At the outset of her period of mourning what concerned Billie the most was continuity and an unexpected wave of loneliness. Rationally, she should have felt, considering the circumstances maybe just a little bit liberated. But, what she really felt was extremely lonely and kind of disassociated from her previous sense of self. And, that sense of self was of slowly evolving arm candy, but she knew she was evolving. She had been working very hard to evolve. Billie didn’t want to plateau out on widowhood.
She gave Mr. Booker a raise. She hinted around to her friends and family that she had plenty of room in the house if… Nobody took her up on her offer. Her parents had lived their whole lives in Massachusetts and her friends all had their own fish to fry. Even Shep, in his last year at USC and on a scholarship, laughed at the thought. “Honey, I love you to pieces but there is no way in the world you’d be happy cohabiting with Captain Whoopee here.”
Billie was a little bit dulled on the uptake. “Who?”
“Honey, that’s me. I’m twenty-one! Did you even know condoms come packaged by the hundreds?”
Billie smiled, she was too depressed to laugh, and demurred, “I did not know that.” And then quite suddenly she thought of Cooper Daniels.
He had been at the funeral, oddly enough accompanied by Patience, the talking sister in the drug-dealing duo. Peace was uncharacteristically absent. Billie actually hadn’t had a conversation with Cooper since before Christmas. She had the vague impression he had spent New Year’s in Las Vegas, but in the weeks after Dave’s death she felt like she was operating in an oppressive fog, the kind from home, it had to do with sea ice and cold ocean currents and she was waiting for the Southern California sun to burn it away.
*
© Vickie Lester and Beguiling Hollywood, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material (text) without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vickie Lester and Beguiling Hollywood with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
