Shamus In The Green Room (14 page)

“That’s letting her off pretty easy, don’t you think?”

“I know.”

My voice softened. “Try warm milk with cinnamon and

nutmeg.”

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“Okay. What’s new with you?”

I didn’t want to involve Annie in this. “The usual.”

“How’s Rafe?” she asked.

“More complicated than I would’ve guessed.”

“Who isn’t? I can’t even begin to understand Roxana. I

knew she was a flake, but this is insane. The ex-wife from hell.

And they were never even married. Can you believe I have to

deal with this, Mom?”

The front door opened and Rafe emerged. Lisa was right

behind him, wearing very short shorts. Her legs were good. He

pulled his lucky hat low over his eyes.

“Annie,” I said quickly, “I’ve got to go.”

“Maybe all ex-wives are crazy,” Annie mused.

“I’m an ex-wife and I’m not crazy.”

She didn’t touch that, which goes to show how well I raised

her. “Rafe’s ex-wife was crazy. She spent time at Silver Hill, in

Connecticut. It’s where famous people go.”

“Rafe was married?” I asked incredulously.

Lisa walked Rafe to his car and hugged him good-bye. He

stroked her short blond hair, then put both hands on the sides

of her face and kissed the top of her head. Weren’t they wor-

ried about the neighbors? This is suburbia, folks. Everybody

peeps through the curtains. Still, that kiss was hard to read. It

didn’t have the feel of romance. It had the feel of good-bye.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know that, Mom. There’s a pic-

ture of her in the scrapbook.”

“Who is she?”

Rafe pulled out, and Lisa hopped into the minivan and

pulled out right behind him. He went left, toward the freeway;

she went right. Shit. Which one of them was I supposed to

follow?

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“Her name is Myrrh,” Annie said. “They were young and it

was brief. She’s some kind of artist.”

Left or right? Left or right? I whacked the wheel in frustra-

tion. Oh, what was the point? I was no Declan Chan. I’d

barely even heard of The Art of War. And they were both gone,

anyway. I’d blown it.

“Myrrh recently opened a shop right near you, in fact,” An-

nie continued. “Handmade, unique gifts, that sort of thing.”

She had my full attention now. “Right near me?”

“On Third, by Crescent Heights.”

I turned the key in the ignition.

t

S t u c k i n t r a f f i c , I g o t t o t h i n k i n g a b o u t the ex–Mrs. Flitcraft. She probably could’ve used a Silver Hill

break, too. Her husband has a near-death experience and gets

to go on an existential quest, while she’s left behind to deal

with the kids and a mortgage. It just didn’t seem fair.

Dashiell Hammett’s relationship with his ex-wife, Josephine

Dolan (known as Jose), the mother of his two daughters, struck

me as more of the same. The rationale for his living apart from

his family, at least in the beginning, was his illness. The little

girls needed to be protected from infection. But the truth of the

matter was that on top of his physical frailty, the drinking,

womanizing, writing, and, later, the political activism depleted

him. Sucked him dry. There was nothing left over for his fam-

ily. I guess it’s not all that remarkable. Just sad.

Myrrh Simic. What a name.

Her shop was located on a stretch of Third Street where

the mom-and-pop merchants were battling it out with the

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newcomers, hustling curried chickpeas for $18 a pound, Day

of the Dead figurines for hipsters too busy to make the trek

downtown to Olvera Street, and imported tuberose candles. I

saw a For Rent sign up in front of a watch-repair shop I’d gone

into once, years before. The locksmith was still next door,

holding on for dear life.

Madame Irina, the tarot-card reader, another old-timer,

was open for consultations at 1168. Barbara, of Barbara’s

BodyWorks—an arriviste, clearly—was offering shiatsu mas-

sages at 1172. But the glossy red door at 1170, ornamented by

a half-moon of iridescent blue tiles, was closed, the stoop lit-

tered with half a dozen delivery menus.

I knocked anyway.

The door was opened by a trim, middle-aged man with a

shaved head. He hit the lights and beckoned me inside.

My initial response: beguiling, if schizophrenic.

The back wall was covered by a black-and-white mural of

an Egyptian pharaoh in a horse-drawn chariot. The opposite

wall was painted fuchsia, and plastered with little gold-star

stickers. There was a streamlined, velvet Deco sofa, with a

hand-painted Moroccan tea table on either side. Only the

Sparklett’s water dispenser broke the mood.

“I love that you can walk in those,” the man said, apprais-

ing my four-inch, canary-yellow, ankle-strap sandals.

“What makes you think that?” I only wore them because

they looked so nice with my blue cotton circle skirt, flowered

georgette top, and fraying wicker handbag, which I’d bought

on consignment when I was twenty-one. “I would show you

my blisters, but we’ve only just met.”

He reached behind the sofa and pulled out an old record

album. “Edith Piaf?”

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I visualized a dark-haired woman with a beret. “Great.”

He took the record out of its sleeve and put it on.

“Ah,” he murmured. “ ‘La Vie en Rose.’ ”

I had a good time browsing. The merchandise tended toward

the eccentric: tiny, papier-mâché animals; baskets woven out of

gum wrappers; rugs made out of tire tread; chocolates shaped

like babies’ heads. One corner of the room was given over to pe-

riod costumes. Idly, I picked up a Marie Antoinette wig.

“Try it on,” he said.

“That’s okay,” I said, laughing. “I have enough trouble with

the crazy hair I was born with.” I stopped short.

“It’s okay.” He stroked his head. “You can talk about hair

around me. This was a choice.”

“Is Myrrh here today?” I asked before I could embarrass

myself further.

“Are you a friend?”

“I’d like to be.”

“That is so sweet. Let me get her.”

He flipped the record over, then went into the back. I put

the wig back where it belonged and sat down on an easy chair

made of corrugated cardboard. Immediately, I felt something

give. I sprang to my feet guiltily. No more eggplant parmigiana

for me. I made my way over to the chocolates—only to sniff.

Rosemary. Maybe they were soaps.

A compact woman chattering into a cell phone walked into

the room. She was swathed in a pleated bronze caftan, her hair

piled high on her head. She reminded me somehow of a

peanut, like she’d been pulled from the earth.

“Big kiss,” she said, smacking the phone. Then, to me: “So

it is you! Byron’s never wrong.”

Byron, the bald man, looked pleased.

129

“I don’t think we’ve actually met,” I said.

“Oh, we know who you are, mystery woman,” she said,

winking conspiratorially. “The buxom brunette beauty! Rafe’s

new girlfriend! Now don’t look so glum. It isn’t all bad, take it

from me.”

I started to protest but couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

“If I’d known then half of what I know now, I’d have en-

joyed it a lot more. But no,” she said. “I was so nervous about

everything. Didn’t like people going through our trash, trying

to figure out what brand of toothpaste we used. Didn’t like the

pretty girls in my face all the time. Didn’t like the whole en-

tourage thing. I wound up taking it out on Rafe. You’re here

for advice, right?”

This time I got as far as opening my mouth.

“He’s a sweet guy,” she said. “The sex is good.”

Byron tittered.

“Great, actually. So go for it! Just don’t expect it to last for -

ever.” She appraised my wicker bag with a shopkeeper’s prac-

ticed eye. “You’re going to blow it eventually.”

Well. Even Bridget approved of that bag. “Are you speak-

ing from experience?”

“Honey, listen. I mean no disrespect. A guy like Rafe can

have anything he wants. Nothing personal—I really mean it—

but are you so perfect that you can be anything he wants all the

time, forever and always?”

“I suppose not,” I conceded.

“I, for example, got fat.”

“You’re not fat,” said the loyal Byron.

She walked over to the cardboard chairs and with a deter -

mined thrust fixed the one I’d thought I’d broken. “So. Does

Rafe still keep Will around?”

130

She made him sound like a lapdog. “Will’s still around. But

I’ve only met him once in the flesh. His sister died recently.”

I suppose I expected a reaction, but not the one I got.

Myrrh started to cry—first quietly, then in heaving sobs.

Even Byron was at a loss.

“Sweetie, oh, god. Please. Let me get you something. Oh,

dear.” Byron led her over to the sofa and started plumping pil-

lows. I’d never seen such frantic plumping. By now Myrrh was

crying so hard she couldn’t see straight. Her hands were flying

in all directions.

“What is it?” Byron asked, looking like he might faint him-

self. “Iced tea, something stronger, bourbon, maybe? Sweet-

heart, just tell me what you need.”

She shook her head. “Get me a Kleenex, would you?”

He ran to the back and came back with a box.

“Here, doll.” He sat down right next to her, so close I

thought he was going to blow her nose for her. “They’re

moisturized.”

“Maren must have meant a lot to you,” I said.

Myrrh wiped her eyes and smoothed down her caftan.

Then she took a deep breath. “Forgive me. I get really emo-

tional.” She shook her head. “Poor Will. He adored her.”

“And Rafe. They were so close.”

“Oh, Rafe.” Myrrh waved her hand dismissively. “Will was

the one she was close to. Rafe was always jealous of what they

had. He could never compete with that kind of love. It was a

little weird, actually.” She blew her nose and Byron put out his

hand for the tissue.

“What do you mean, ‘weird’?” I asked.

“Will would do anything for Maren.”

“He was her brother.”

131

Myrrh was unconvinced. “I’m talking if she had a parking

ticket on her windshield, he’d snatch it off and pay it before

she even saw it. If she got a bad fortune in her fortune cookie,

he’d immediately give her his.”

“I guess Will has always been service oriented.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Oh, Will. What will he do

now? Poor soul. Can you imagine giving up your own life so

you can focus on cleaning up other people’s shit?”

“Not easy,” I said.

“Not with Maren around, it wasn’t. I admired the girl,

don’t get me wrong, she was a firecracker, but she took advan-

tage of her brother.”

“Like Rafe does?”

“No comment,” Myrrh said quietly.

“Do you talk to Rafe much?” I asked.

Byron looked at her expectantly.

“Here’s another Maren and Will story for you,” she said,

avoiding the question. “Maren was a big doper when they were

kids. But Will wouldn’t let her keep her pot anywhere near her

room. He hid it for her in his surfing bag, so if anybody got

caught, it’d be him. He took all her lickings for her. I’m not

kidding. And she let him.”

“Don’t say you wouldn’t if you could.” That’s what Rafe

had said to me the day we’d met.

Myrrh’s voice was steady. “I wouldn’t even if I could.”

“Come on. It’s hard to say no to that kind of devotion.

What I’m wondering is how you earn it.”

Myrrh tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s

the thing, honey. You don’t earn it. You assume it as your

birthright.”

“Do you have kids’ costumes?” I asked suddenly.

132

Byron looked up from the wigs and responded with a nod.

“Firemen?”

He walked over to a French provincial armoire and threw it

open. “Peter Pan. Go-go dancer. Luke Skywalker. Pumpkin,

isn’t that cute, for a baby? Fairy princess. Renaissance princess.

Fireman.” He handed me a tiny red suit, with a plastic helmet,

hose, and badge.

“Do you have a little boy?” Myrrh asked with a smile.

“A grandson.”

“You’re so young,” said Byron admiringly.

“Rafe never wanted kids,” Myrrh said. Her eyes looked sad.

“Is your grandson getting ready for Halloween already?”

I shook my head. “He’s been having nightmares. I thought

he could keep this stuff by the side of his bed. He needs to put

out some fires.”

Myrrh put her head on Byron’s shoulder. “Oh, honey,

don’t we all?”

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

Ispent the evening at Annie’s.

The distance between our houses was insignificant by

L.A. standards (twenty miles), but after work on Fridays, when

westbound traffic was particularly heavy, instances of road rage

were not uncommon.

I cursed through the entirety of the evening news on NPR,

for example, plus a special report on the dangers of eating

farmed salmon. But once I turned off Pacific Coast Highway

and headed into Topanga Canyon, I started to feel better. It