Keeper of the Keys (30 page)

Her closet door stood open, and up on a top shelf, six large decoupaged boxes sat in a row. They could hold shoes or—anything. He pulled them down, placing them on her bed. He opened the first one. Scarves and belts, neatly rolled. The second held tax records neatly labeled and bundled in rubber bands. With the third he hit pay dirt. Old photographs, an accumulation of memories, private ones. He had never seen these before.

“What the hell is going on here?” His mother stood in the door to her bedroom, hands on her hips.

Ray, saying nothing, plucked the pictures from Esmé’s bed, replacing them in the box neatly. He didn’t know what order the pictures originally took, so he made up an organization on the spot based on whether the pictures were black and white or faded color or brilliant color. That should constitute a kind of rough chronology.

His mother watched, saying nothing.

He placed the box neatly between two other boxes on the shelf in her bedroom, then closed the closet doors.

“All done?” she asked.

He straightened the bed, then straightened himself. “Yeah.”

“Follow me.”

He followed her into the living room where she opened a case that held many bottles of wine and poured herself a plastic tumbler. She didn’t offer him any. He didn’t sit down, though she arranged herself in her favorite chair. He had never before noticed this look she had now, a glower, like hot ash.

“You’re okay?” he said, folding his arms.

“Dandy.”

“You came to my house, and you were sick.”

She stared him down. “I’m fine now.”

“I can’t figure it out,” he said. “Just to start with: you’re drinking?”

“I drink.”

“Huh. You never have, in my experience.”

He watched in amazement and disapproval as she drank the wine down like water. It seemed to make her angrier.

“You’re here to collect the Holy Grail, aren’t you, son?”

“The Holy Grail?” he asked.

“Christ drank from it at the Last Supper. I’m guessing the imagery had to do with a holy vessel that held important information, or at the very least, holy water.” To his surprise, she went on to quote Tennyson. “‘Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white on sleeping wings they sail.’” She poured herself more wine and glared at him.

“Mom, nobody cares about that old stuff. I want to know why you came to my house drunk, spent the night on my couch, and are here at your house now, nose red, eyes bloodshot, wrecked, not yourself. Mom?”

“I don’t know where Leigh is. Do you believe that?”

He didn’t disbelieve her. Why should she know? He couldn’t imagine how she might. “What about the rest of what’s going on? The recordings? Our very screwy past? I really thought—well, Mom, you came to my house. I presume you have things to tell me.”

“I have only one thing to tell you.”

“Shoot.”

“I want my keys back, Ray. Give them to me. I want you out of my home right now. I don’t want you coming here without my permission ever again.”

He took the keys to her house and handed them to her. She set them somberly on a side table in a small Italian plate she had bought at a flea market, blue and orange, flowery.

“I think you ought to see a doctor,” Ray said. “Let me take you.”

“I’m fine. Go home.”

“You’re not yourself.”

He didn’t like the way she laughed. “Oh, but I am,” she said. “Go on, now. The moment has passed.”

24

O
utside, climbing into his car, Ray felt his mother’s eyes on him from behind her curtains. Even though she had demanded it, he imagined she must have hated his relinquishing the keys. This left her alone. Accelerating, backing out, heading in to work, Ray thought, you couldn’t feel good about that, being entirely alone. She was definitely ill—he should march in there and have it out and make her go with him—but there was Antoniou.

He decided to check on her by phone right after the meeting. He would pretend nothing had happened. She’d like that. She’d be feeling sorry by then.

“Did you call?” Kat’s voice on the cell phone. He was approaching the big cloverleaf that led toward the beach communities. “I want to know how it went with Rappaport.”

Kat must have heard his groan over the phone. “What’s happened?”

“I haven’t seen Rappaport yet. A couple more hours. I talked to him on the phone—”

“This can’t wait! It’s been more than twenty-four hours since we turned up that shirt! I’m going to call the police myself.”

“I’m on my way. No need.” That calmed her.

“Did something else happen?”

“I drove to Whittier to check on my mother. She poured herself two glasses of wine at eleven in the morning, and she kicked me out. Not to mention what she did last night at my house.”

“Tell me,” Kat said.

He told her.

“We’re all disintegrating.”

“Ah yes, Inspector Clouseau. That’s it, undoubtedly.”

Kat seemed to ponder on the other end of the line, unfazed by his sarcasm. “Does she like Leigh?”

“I think so. What has that got to do with anything?”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“I thought she did.”

“Did she love her, though? Maybe she’s suffering, too, because she’s worried.”

“I can’t understand this thing with the liquor. It’s not like her.”

“Leave her alone today,” Kat advised.

“But what if she falls? She’s all alone.”

“Jesus, Ray. Maybe you’re suffocating her with your dependency.”

“She’s the one who depends on me.”

“Really?”

“I have to go.”

“Wait. Listen, I got an idea. I want to go and talk to Mr. Hubbel again. Leigh’s father. But not with Mrs. Hubbel around. It’s all I know to do, Ray. I’m going to Whittier right after work.”

“What’s he going to tell you?”

“I don’t know. But he’s her father. Maybe he’ll remember something. Wanna come with me?”

“I can’t think about it right now.”

“Okay. Do what you have to do.”

Achilles Antoniou arrived promptly at one p.m., bursting through the conference room door without introduction. He looked hungover but his tan had deepened and the jeans and deck shoes were so new and so covered with fancy logos, he was still an ad for the good life after fifty.

“Where’s Martin?” was his question.

Martin had left the office at noon after another argument, so Ray just said, “Martin’s late. Let’s get started.”

Antoniou reared back as if attacked. “I need to see Martin.”

Ray tried hard not to react to the contempt in his voice. “Come on over and sit down, my friend. Have some coffee. You came to me originally because you thought I had something. You thought I understood what you wanted.”

Antoniou shuffled from foot to foot. He allowed himself to be led to the couch and took the excellent coffee.

“Let’s chat a little,” Ray said. “Drink some coffee. I’m sure Martin will be here any minute. I’ve been looking forward to showing you the playroom. The plans are right here on the table and we can look at them in a minute. I added some great new touches last night. I’m working hard for your approval, Achilles. That’s some boat you have, by the way. It’s got those clean modern lines, you know?”

“It’s a nice boat.”

“I admit I was surprised when you came back with Martin and asked for a specific design, nothing like what we discussed. I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of Martin, Achilles, but the whole Greek Mediterranean thing—save it for Greece, you know? The style is so out of it here in L.A. Spielberg’s doing modern. Weinstein’s doing modern. You know what Niarchos’s son is doing with his new place in Bel Air, Achilles?”

“Modern?”

“That’s it. You’re smart to know that. I’m here to save you from a serious mistake. Big money down the tubes. I’ve got a set of plans here that are gonna knock the socks off the Spielbergs and Niarchoses. Make them raze their own places and start over. They’re gonna be shit-jealous, Achilles.

“You have the opportunity on that site to make something beautiful for you and your family, something that’s going to be famous for its beauty. Why not open yourself up to the potential of the site? You’ll need a bigger gathering space. Welcome the ocean spray and a lot of movers and shakers onto your new, expansive, gorgeous deck. Hey, come on over here.” He gestured toward the rosewood conference table. “I know you’re gonna be pleased once you really look at these plans. I don’t know anybody more open-minded than you are. Even Spielberg, he’s gonna be a step behind you now.”

Checking his watch one more time, Antoniou stepped in closer, intrigued. He studied the plans.

“I know you were impressed by what you’ve read about me, Achilles, but I’m going to tell you something. I had a revelation recently about what a home is, and we have a chance here to make it happen in a way that’s going to explode people’s ideas, not just about architecture, but about life.”

“That’s a big promise, Ray,” Antoniou said.

“Something entirely new. Your dream house, a template for the next movement in architecture. The whole world’s gonna want to see it. Movie stars, the works.”

That got him. He leaned down, studying the plans beside Ray.

“But where are the walls?” he said urgently. “Where is the line between the kitchen and the entertainment area?”

“Fluidity, you see? Walls that move wherever you need them to move, not just the inside ones, but many of the outside ones. They raise, they lower. They cuddle up to make a big space cozy for a few people. They expand space infinitely. Slate decks off each floor. Imagine waves crashing below, that salty air. This place will flow out of the landscape and the landscape will flow into it. This home will change and grow along with you and your family in the most unimaginably creative ways.”

Ray went into a place he loved, an imaginary place. Antoniou followed along.

Ray had Antoniou’s signature on the new drawings by one-fifty-five, and ushered the client out the door.

At two sharp, Martin was back from lunch.

“You got Suzanne to lie.” Martin was furious. “You said the meeting was at two, you bastard. You spent the time selling him on your insane notions.”

“No, Martin. I spent the time explaining insanely beautiful possibilities to him. Believe me, he left happy.”

“Garbage. You finessed him.”

“Like you finessed him? In my opinion, I straightened him out.”

“He’s our biggest client!” Martin, by now bursting blood vessels in his face, shouted. “I didn’t finesse him, I tried to do what he wanted. Why, oh, why can’t you give him what he wants?”

“He wants special. He wants unique. I’ll give him that and I will make this firm famous beyond anything you ever dreamed.”

“You’re an egomaniac, Ray! You want to ruin us?”

“All you care about is the money. Art doesn’t enter into it. You think so small, Martin. So puny. You cheat on your wife and family. You’ve forgotten what it means to be honest and true. You’ve forgotten what it means to be a man, or a creative professional.”

“It’s about Leigh!” Martin shouted.

“Don’t even speak her name! You want to take this outside?”

“And have you pound on me again?”

“Then let’s discuss this.”

Martin tried to fight him with words, but Ray, sure of himself for the first time in a long time, refused to engage. Martin hated him and his ideas; he hated Martin and his ideas.

The clarity of this notion burst on them both at the same time.

“I guess we’ve come to a parting of the ways, Martin,” Ray said, after more futile discussion.

“What? Is that what you’re leading up to? You’re leaving? You’re nothing without me. You need me to sell your so-called visionary bullcrap to an unsuspecting public!”

“Actually, I explained to Antoniou that this might be in the works, but he was so excited about my ideas by then, well, he didn’t care, Martin. He really wants me to design this house, and I regret that you didn’t have enough faith in me to back me when I most needed backing.”

Maybe Martin would have a regret or two himself, Ray thought after Martin had banged the door shut on his way out, and Ray began packing boxes, pinging and panging here and there about the things he had to leave behind. He took three trips out of his office, all the while stalking past Martin, who stood, frowning, hands in his pockets. Suzanne had already spread the news; staffers came and went, some just checking it out, some wishing him well. But Martin stayed the whole time.

“You make quite the statement, Ray,” was all he said.

Ray lugged boxes out, understanding that Martin felt nervous about the contents of the boxes, but also understanding he could not figure out how to interrupt this process without risking another pop on that cleft chin of his.

The final box stuffed into the trunk of his car, the bagged shirt and peanut shells now sitting on the passenger seat beside him like an accusation, he twisted the key. The car roared to life.

Pounding at the window.

What the hell?

He let the window down.

“Oh, honey. Don’t think you’re leaving without me.” Denise was smiling like the brave little creative professional she was. “Give me a second to go steal some pertinent drawings and files. I’m going where you’re going.”