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Authors: Joan Didion
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was followed by a report of a small earth trernor centered near Joshua Tree, 4.2
on the Richter Scale, and, of corollary interest, an interview with a Pentecostal minister who had received prophecy that eight million people would perish by earthquake on a Friday afternoon in March.
The notion of general devastation had for Maria a certain sedative effect (the rattlesnake in the playpen, that was different, that was particular, that was punitive), suggested an instant in which all anxieties would be abruptly gratified, and between the earthquake prophecy and the marijuana and the cheerful detachment of the woman whose house was in the Tujunga Wash, she felt a kind of resigned tranquillity. Within these four rented walls she was safe.
She was more than safe, she was all right: she had seen herself on Interstate 80 just before the news and she looked all right. Warm, content, suffused with tentative small resolves, Maria fell asleep before the news was over.
But the next morning when the shower seemed slow to drain she threw up in the toilet, and after she had stopped trembling packed the few things she had brought to Fountain Avenue and, in the driving rain, drove back to the house in Beverly Hills. There would be plumbing anywhere she went.
37
"I'M GOING TO DO IT," she would say on the telephone.
"Then do it," Carter would say. "It's better."
"You think it's better."
"If it's what you want."
"What do you want."
"It's never been right," he would say. "It's been shit."
"I'm sorry."
"I know you're sorry. I'm sorry."
"We could try," one or the other would say after a while.
"We've already tried," the other would say.
By the time Carter came back to town in February the dialogue was drained of energy, the marriage lanced.
"I've got a new lawyer," she told him. "You can use Steiner."
"I'll call him today."
"I'll need a witness."
"Helene," he said. "Helene can do it." He seemed relieved that the dialogue had worn itself down to legal details, satisfied that he could offer Helene. He would be staying in BZ and Helene's guest house while they were looping and scoring the picture. He would speak to Helene immediately. Maria felt herself a sleepwalker to the courthouse.
"Let's see . . . an afternoon hearing." Helene spaced the words as if she were consulting an engagement book. "That means lunch before instead of after."
"We don't have to have lunch."
"Day of days, Maria. Of course lunch."
On the day of the hearing Maria overslept, thick with Seconal.
When she walked into the Bistro half an hour late for lunch she could only think dimly how healthy Helene looked, how suntanned and somehow invincible with her silk shirt and tinted glasses and long streaked hair and a new square emerald that covered one of her fingers to the knuckle.
"Straighten your shoulders," Helene said, ]if ting her drink slightly as Maria sat down. "You look spectral. We should go to the Springs together." Helene's eyes were not on Maria but on two women who sat across the room. "Allene Walsh has a new friend ," she murmured to Maria as she smiled at the older of the two women.
"They've been spooning food into each other's mouths for the past half hour."
“She's an actress named Sharon Carroll, I worked with her once."
Maria tried to summon up some other detail to assuage Helene's avid interest in other people. "She kept a dildo in her dressing room."
"Allene Walsh has more dildoes around her house than anybody I ever knew. Look at my new ring."
"I saw it."
"From Carlotta." Helene studied the emerald. "For staying on the desert. Speaking of new friends . I mean he was shuttling them in and out of that motel like the dailies, I couldn't even get up for a Nembutal without knocking over somebody's bottle of Monsieur Y ."
For an instant Helene's face seemed to lose its animation, and when she spoke again her voice was flat and preoccupied. "You look like hell, Maria, this isn't any excuse for you to f all apart, I mean a divorce. I've
on the Richter Scale, and, of corollary interest, an interview with a Pentecostal minister who had received prophecy that eight million people would perish by earthquake on a Friday afternoon in March.
The notion of general devastation had for Maria a certain sedative effect (the rattlesnake in the playpen, that was different, that was particular, that was punitive), suggested an instant in which all anxieties would be abruptly gratified, and between the earthquake prophecy and the marijuana and the cheerful detachment of the woman whose house was in the Tujunga Wash, she felt a kind of resigned tranquillity. Within these four rented walls she was safe.
She was more than safe, she was all right: she had seen herself on Interstate 80 just before the news and she looked all right. Warm, content, suffused with tentative small resolves, Maria fell asleep before the news was over.
But the next morning when the shower seemed slow to drain she threw up in the toilet, and after she had stopped trembling packed the few things she had brought to Fountain Avenue and, in the driving rain, drove back to the house in Beverly Hills. There would be plumbing anywhere she went.
37
"I'M GOING TO DO IT," she would say on the telephone.
"Then do it," Carter would say. "It's better."
"You think it's better."
"If it's what you want."
"What do you want."
"It's never been right," he would say. "It's been shit."
"I'm sorry."
"I know you're sorry. I'm sorry."
"We could try," one or the other would say after a while.
"We've already tried," the other would say.
By the time Carter came back to town in February the dialogue was drained of energy, the marriage lanced.
"I've got a new lawyer," she told him. "You can use Steiner."
"I'll call him today."
"I'll need a witness."
"Helene," he said. "Helene can do it." He seemed relieved that the dialogue had worn itself down to legal details, satisfied that he could offer Helene. He would be staying in BZ and Helene's guest house while they were looping and scoring the picture. He would speak to Helene immediately. Maria felt herself a sleepwalker to the courthouse.
"Let's see . . . an afternoon hearing." Helene spaced the words as if she were consulting an engagement book. "That means lunch before instead of after."
"We don't have to have lunch."
"Day of days, Maria. Of course lunch."
On the day of the hearing Maria overslept, thick with Seconal.
When she walked into the Bistro half an hour late for lunch she could only think dimly how healthy Helene looked, how suntanned and somehow invincible with her silk shirt and tinted glasses and long streaked hair and a new square emerald that covered one of her fingers to the knuckle.
"Straighten your shoulders," Helene said, ]if ting her drink slightly as Maria sat down. "You look spectral. We should go to the Springs together." Helene's eyes were not on Maria but on two women who sat across the room. "Allene Walsh has a new friend ," she murmured to Maria as she smiled at the older of the two women.
"They've been spooning food into each other's mouths for the past half hour."
“She's an actress named Sharon Carroll, I worked with her once."
Maria tried to summon up some other detail to assuage Helene's avid interest in other people. "She kept a dildo in her dressing room."
"Allene Walsh has more dildoes around her house than anybody I ever knew. Look at my new ring."
"I saw it."
"From Carlotta." Helene studied the emerald. "For staying on the desert. Speaking of new friends . I mean he was shuttling them in and out of that motel like the dailies, I couldn't even get up for a Nembutal without knocking over somebody's bottle of Monsieur Y ."
For an instant Helene's face seemed to lose its animation, and when she spoke again her voice was flat and preoccupied. "You look like hell, Maria, this isn't any excuse for you to f all apart, I mean a divorce. I've
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