Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📕

“I’m out,” said Terry. ”This is for the girls.”

“You’re coming,” said Maggie. “You’re the only one Howard likes.”

♦ ♦ ♦

He’d put it off but could not put her out of his mind. She had asked him to drop over some time, but did she mean it? He decided to write rather than call, and he put it in a short note. After a few days the answer came: Come for a drink at seven the following Tuesday. Tuesdays were a slow day for preachers. It had been the same for Willie. He caught the Big Red Car direction Burbank and got off at Los Feliz. He walked across the Los Angeles River to Lambeth Street and up the hill. The house, a villa really, was set back from the street and hidden by palms, deodars and junipers running up toward Griffith Park in the San Gabriel foothills. Built with small windows in the Spanish style, the house was meant to be cool in summer and warm in winter. He stood a moment in the front courtyard under a tall rubber tree wondering what he was doing. He felt tense.

Dressed in flared pants and a loose cotton sweater, with a dangling pendant that looked to be a tiny elephant with ruby eyes, she answered the door herself. They embraced, and she led him by the hand into the cool salon overlooking a rear patio. The house was not small, surely she had servants, but none were visible. In the rear, behind another patio, a cottage in the same Spanish style was partly hidden by cedars and ficus trees, possibly a servants’ quarters. He saw a fountain burbling. The living room had tall ceilings supported by heavy oak beams. A gallery walkway ran around the second floor. The staircase was at the front of the living room, just off the hallway.

She had chardonnay cooling on the bar and poured two glasses. She pulled her legs up as they sat together on the couch, exactly as she’d done the first time on Willie’s couch on Sunset. He still remembered what she was wearing that night: the red and blue checkered cotton blouse and swishy skirt. Her legs were bare. He’d been overpowered by her, by the pull of her sensuality. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but was hardly more than a decade. She’d kept her youthful figure. He remembered that she’d worn no make-up that night. She wore more now but not a lot more, and it was not to hide the scars. The scars were to remind people of the wars she’d been through. Been through and won. Her hair was exactly the same: fluffed, tossed over an eye. A little lighter, maybe some gray in there somewhere, he wasn’t sure about that.

“Silent Cal,” she said, smiling.

“You can’t imagine what I’m thinking.”

She laughed. “I’m thinking the same thing.”

He joined her. “You two chased me out.”

“Better that way, don’t you think?”

They sipped their wine and talked, never about Willie and never about Jesus. He’d always liked that about her. When she was with him she was a different person, not a famous preacher, but an interesting, alluring woman. She could be funny, something she never was on stage. After another glass they walked down the hill to Los Feliz and ate steaks and salad in a local restaurant. She was incognito in her own neighborhood. Walking back up she asked if he had a car, and he said he had one but mostly took the trolley. She offered to drive him back home. When he didn’t answer, she slipped her hand into his. He knew.

Hungry, insatiable, relentless, these words would come to him later. A caged animal who had been let out. The other Angie had been repressed for so long that when it was freed it could not hide its joy and exultation. They said very little, but he understood. She was trapped, as Willie had been trapped, into a personage that only represented half of what she was. The other half had to be suppressed, buried, there was no other way. He understood what she meant without being told. She was not safe, could not trust any man but him. It was that simple. It had been the same for Willie. She wrapped her naked brown body around his and would not let go. He refused to let his mind wander, would not let it go where it might have gone. That was then. This was now.

In the morning he slipped out as he had come, took the trolley home. She was awake when he left. Neither said a word. Time would do its work.

Chapter 31

Joe Morton worked in the study of his Brentwood house, a room that gave onto the backyard where Lizzie had planted flowers and vegetables. He liked looking into the garden as he wrote, taking inspiration from plants that grew a little each day, just like his scripts, even if they didn’t sell anymore. Even in winter he kept his eye on the ground, knowing the roots were down there gathering strength, waiting for spring to struggle up again, just like his scripts would one day see daylight again. Among the flowers, he liked lilacs best, seeing them shoot forth each spring in colors unlike any others, watching them reign over everything before their brief moment was gone. Writing was like that: short fertile days, long fallow ones.

During the day he took care of Robby. The boy’s full name was Robinson Adams Morton, the first two names taken from Joe’s mother’s side. Lizzie was up each morning to dress Robby and give him his breakfast, make coffee and leave for downtown. When she’d left, Joe read the paper until Robby was finished eating and shitting. Afterward they headed into the study. Robby had no trouble amusing himself while his father tapped out strange rhythms on the black machine. He liked the racket, and Joe didn’t mind