Love Always (29 page)

T
HE
morning after the funeral in Los Angeles, Lucy went downstairs to Piggy Proctor’s living room. She was the first one awake. She had forced herself to get up even though it was very early, because being awake and tired was better than being asleep and enduring the nightmares. Ever since she got the news about Jane, she had been dreaming her own death: death by drowning, boats sunk, planes exploding, cars crashing—your basic suburban five-year-old’s typical fantasy day.

There had been so many people in the room the night before that it seemed, now that it was empty, that it was an entirely different room. Glass shelves that separated one part of the room from the other held Piggy’s wife’s shell collection. The furniture was lavender and blue. Enormous, hazy paintings of the sky hung on opposite walls. The richer people became the more they felt comfortable with abstraction. Nowhere in Piggy’s house was there a picture of the sky with the sun, or of a vase with flowers, or a scene out of real life; it was all art that relied on blotters instead of brushes. Some paintings that seemed pointillist grew clearer as you came closer. Lucy wandered around Piggy’s big house like a person with glaucoma wandering through a gallery.

Letters and telegrams had overflowed the big white wicker basket on the table. A couple had fallen on the rug. Lucy picked those up and carefully put them back in the basket as if they were alive—like birds that had fallen out of a nest, that must be frightened to be alone. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to look at any of them, and this morning she was still unable to do it. She stood there awhile, and finally reached into
the basket like someone in a contest, drawing a card. Mixed in with all the messages of condolence was a telegram to Piggy’s wife saying that
Your lucky day may come soon, Mrs. Proctor. You are now one of ten finalists in Sacramento Bread’s fly away to France deluxe vacation
. There were instructions about what Mrs. Proctor should do next. Well, Lucy thought, what would important days be without irony: the blizzard on election eve, enemy troops storming the village as a woman was giving birth, the child hiccuping during its confirmation, the new car stalling as it was driven from the showroom.

Lucy’s mother hadn’t been able to make the trip. Every time she got out of bed she fainted. The family doctor was visiting her every afternoon. She had picked up her mother’s diction; he was only her mother’s doctor. They hadn’t been a family for almost twenty years. Piggy’s wife had asked her if someone shouldn’t try to locate their father, to send word of Jane’s death. Lucy had told her the truth: she wouldn’t know where to begin looking. She really doubted if her mother knew where he was, and didn’t think she was in any shape to be asked. “Oh dear,” Piggy’s wife said. She had been saying it for days.

Nicole alternated between stony silence, not even speaking when spoken to, and weeping and clinging to Lucy. Lucy had gotten used to Nicole’s slim body and pretty face—she had taken her for granted—so that now it was quite shocking to have a scrawny little girl with a puffy, tear-streaked face curled against her, with her face buried against her body. Of course she was going to raise Nicole. The thought of giving her to her mother or to Piggy’s wife, who thought she should hire a governess and have her move into their house, was unthinkable. Nicole seemed relieved to know that she wouldn’t have to do that. But now there was the question of where to live. Nicole had said that she wanted to live in Los Angeles because of her career, but Lucy wasn’t entirely convinced that that wasn’t just bravado. She had even told Nicole that just because she had a career she was not required to continue doing what she had done—or that she might still have a career, but a different one. Nicole cried and said that she wanted to go back to
Passionate Intensity
. Piggy seconded this notion, emphatically, but Piggy
was hardly objective. When Nicole said things like, “I’m a professional,” it sounded more programmed than sincere. No; Lucy wasn’t sure of that. She was so tired herself that she couldn’t think straight. Maybe she was just projecting.

The day before, walking to the parking lot after the funeral, the P.R. man had said to Piggy that he was disturbed because the Nicole Nelson doll was flat-chested: it was going to make the doll look too young, and they would be losing part of their market. Piggy had called the lawyer when he got home, raving about “getting some chest action.” Lucy had not known most of the people at the funeral. She had met Pauline once before, and although she did not know Bobby Blue or his mother, she felt as if she did because he had so often been talked about this summer. She had stood across from him as the casket was lowered, thinking how inappropriate it was that she could not get men’s testicles out of her mind as her sister’s coffin was lowered into the ground.

After the funeral the minister, whom only Piggy’s wife had met before (she did not attend church: she had met him playing golf), had come back to the house for lunch. A caterer had set up bowls of fruit salad, bread, and cold seafood while they were gone. Piggy’s secretary was there in person to explain that an extremely unfortunate, entirely regrettable accident had happened. She had explained to the caterer, she would stake her life on this, that the cake was to be a dessert for a luncheon after a funeral, and that the baker might do “something meaningful.” She had meant, perhaps, a cross or a bunch of icing forget-me-nots or whatever to decorate the cake, but when she came to inspect things in the kitchen, she found that he had baked a large cake in the shape of a submarine. The caterer apologized, saying that his assistant had misread his handwriting, and seen
something meaningful
as
submarine
. Piggy stalked out to the kitchen, took a look, ordered the blue excelsior pulled away from around the submarine, took a knife and cut off the tail, cursed, and told them to bring the cake out when it was time for dessert. The secretary dispensed Valium in the kitchen. Piggy’s wife took so many that she fell asleep as the minister was talking to her about the condition of the grass
on the back nine. When she woke up ten hours later, only Lucy was still awake, in the living room. She had had too many drinks to try to sleep, and not enough to have the nerve to awaken Piggy to talk to him. After a couple of drinks she had called her mother. Her mother had decided to wallow in her misery, and had taken down the baby album—they had been photographed so much as children that the album contained almost as many pictures as the
O.E.D
. had words—and she wanted to talk to Lucy about the past, rather than hear about the funeral. Lucy was trying to decide whether she should go through with her plans to return to Vermont with Nicole, or whether they should fly to Philadelphia to see her mother. There was no way to tell if seeing them would make things better or worse for her mother. She had asked Piggy’s wife, the night before, what she should do, but Piggy’s wife was as passive as he was aggressive. When she got nervous, she blew dust off her shells—imaginary dust, because the maid dusted them every day. Lucy had made her puff until she almost passed out. Jane had always been very amused by Piggy’s wife. It was part of the reason why she was so fond of her. Jane would have liked it that in her rush to get ready for the funeral, Piggy’s wife had not noticed that there was a nametag still stuck to her Chanel jacket. In script, at the top of the piece of paper, it said:
HI
,
I’M
, and below that was printed
MRS. “PIG” PROCTOR
.

Caterers and Chanel suits and swimming pools and Mercedes were all things Jane made fun of, but for years Lucy had noticed that she found it necessary to be around them—they weren’t something she could dismiss or just laugh at from afar. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” which her mother had so often said about Jane, might have been true: that she was more attracted to such things than she let on. It was easier for girls than boys to pretend, Lucy thought: from childhood, the girls were the ones who wore costumes and who acted out their dreams; when they got older they could move more gracefully into what they imagined than men. If people were going to be judged quickly all their lives—judged, even, the minute they walked into a room—it would be more helpful to have thought of yourself as a dancer than a firefighter.

She wondered how happy Jane had been. In spite of her fierce independence, it could be argued that she just turned her back on one world whose stereotypes she disliked for another, whose stereotypes she embraced. Jane had lived close to the limelight most of her life, but she had never been a star. If there was life in the galaxy, it was probably true that Pluto loathed the sun. This life must have made her feel unimportant a lot of the time. Nicole’s mother. The daughter Piggy never had. She wondered if Jane might have gotten married as a deliberate act of self-destruction. She had said to Lucy the last time she saw her that she was amazed by all the Hollywood people who were their own best groupies. She saw it as a sign of old age—of being from a different generation—that she was comfortable with being adored, or with adoring someone, but that she couldn’t just stand there and adore herself.

Lucy couldn’t stand the thought of going to Jane’s house and disposing of her things. Jane’s husband’s relatives had called and expressed their sympathy. He was in a coma and not expected to come out of it. They had said to Piggy that they didn’t want anything in the house touched. Lawyers had been called in on both sides. Lucy had overheard one phone call, during which Piggy had shouted, “Do you realize that there’s not one possession of your son’s in the house, unless he’s a drag queen? There’s a Harley in the garage. Period.”

Piggy came downstairs, in his satin robe. “How’s everybody doing?” he said. And just as quickly, “Spare me.” He went into the kitchen, yawning. He did not look any more rested than he had been before he went to bed.

“Piggy hates the morning so,” his wife said.