Less Than Zero (Page 16)
She stalls, names a club.
“I left my wallet at home,” I lie.
“I have a pass there,” she says, knowing I lied.
“I really don’t want to.”
She turns the volume on the radio up and hums along with the song for a minute and I’m thinking that I should just drive to her house. I keep driving, not sure where to go. We stop at a coffee shop in Beverly Hills and afterwards, when we get back in the car, I ask, “Where do you want to go, Blair?”
“I want to go …” she stops. “To my house.”
“Will you call me before Christmas?” she asks.
“Maybe.” I pull on my vest, wondering why I even came here in the first place.
“You’ve still got my number, don’t you?” She reaches for a pad and begins to write it down.
“Yeah, Blair. I’ve got your number. I’ll get in touch.”
I button up my jeans and turn to leave.
“Clay?”
“Yeah, Blair.”
“If I don’t see you before Christmas,” she stops. “Have a good one.”
I look at her a moment. “Hey, you too.”
She picks up the stuffed black cat and strokes its head.
I step out the door and start to close it.
“Clay?” she whispers loudly.
“Nothing.”
It hadn’t rained in the city for too long and Blair would keep calling me up and tell me that the two of us should get together and go to the beach club. I’d be too tired or stoned or wasted to get up in the afternoon to even go out and sit beneath the umbrellas in the hot sun at the beach club with Blair. So the two of us decided to go to Pajaro Dunes in Monterey where it was cool and where the sea was shimmering and green and my parents had a house on the beach. We drove up in my car and we slept in the master bedroom, and we drove into town and bought food and cigarettes and candles. There was nothing much to do in town; an old movie theater in need of paint and seagulls and crumbling docks and Mexican fishermen who whistled at Blair and an old church Blair took pictures of but didn’t go in. We found a case of champagne in the garage and drank the whole case that week. We’d open a bottle usually in the late morning after we went walking along the beach. In the early morning we’d make love, either in the living room, or, if not in the living room, then on the floor in the master bedroom, and we’d close the blinds and light the candles we’d bought in town and we’d watch our shadows, illuminated against the white walls, move, shift.
The house was old and faded and bad a courtyard and a tennis court, but we didn’t play tennis. Instead, I’d wander around the house at night and listen to old records I used to like and sit in the courtyard and drink what was left of the champagne. I didn’t like the house that much, and sometimes I’d have to go out onto the deck at night because I couldn’t stand the white walls and the thin Venetian blinds and the black tile in the kitchen. I’d walk along the beach at night and sometimes sit down in the damp sand and smoke a cigarette and stare up at the lighted house and see Blair’s silhouette in the living room, talking on the phone to someone who was in Palm Springs. When I came back in we’d both be drunk and she would suggest that we go swimming, but it was too cold and dark, and so we’d sit in the small jacuzzi in the middle of the courtyard and make love.
During the day I’d sit in the living room and try to read the San Francisco Chronicle and she’d walk along the beach and collect seashells, and before too long we started going to bed sometime before dawn and then waking up in the midafternoon, and then we’d open another bottle. One day we took the convertible and drove to a secluded part of the beach. We ate caviar and Blair had chopped up some onions and eggs and cheese, and we brought fruit and these cinnamon cookies Blair was really into, and a six-pack of Tab, because that and the champagne were all Blair would drink, and we’d either jog on the empty shore or try to swim in the rough surf.
But I soon became disoriented and I knew I’d drunk too much, and whenever Blair would say something, I found myself closing my eyes and sighing. The water turned colder, raging, and the sand became wet, and Blair would sit by herself on the deck overlooking the sea and spot boats in the afternoon fog. I’d watch her play Solitaire through the glass window in the living room, and I’d hear the boats moan and creak, and Blair would pour herself another glass of champagne and it would all unsettle me.