A Student of History, page 3
At least that’s what I told myself. I could have been full of shit. It could have just been that I was looking for a reason not to do my work, and this line of thought sounded respectably existential. The truth was, I was going slowly nuts by myself in that apartment. And while the fact that I wasn’t teaching did free up more time, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Teaching had given me structure, something to get up and prepare for, and that had made me use my time carefully. But even more, it had given me a reason to interact with people. For all my tendencies toward solitude and self-pity, I loved to be in the classroom. I had the ability to entertain and amuse, as unasked for and inexplicable and unrelated to the rest of me as other people’s talents for juggling or wiggling their ears. The intellectual exchange—but even more than that, the students’ curiosity and hopefulness, their energy—had been stimulating and sweet and exciting enough to make me forget—at least for the hours I was there—about my own problems.
Now, I’d go two or three days at a time without leaving the apartment, living off cold pizza, not shaving, and only showering when it seemed indecent not to. Not that the world outside was so enticing. I lived in Jefferson Park, about two miles from campus, in a neighborhood of blue-collar workers, retirees, USC grad students, and a sprinkling of folks with no discernible profession. Our street was a mix of two- and four-unit apartments, a few Spanish-style homes, and lovingly maintained Craftsman houses. One end was anchored by a noisy twelve-unit building, the other by a moss-green, three-story Victorian beauty. There was no cohesion whatsoever—it was like the overflow buildings from more architecturally unified neighborhoods had been gathered and deposited here. The only common features were the burglar bars that covered every first-floor door and window, a nod to the area’s enduring grittiness. The cars in the driveways were mostly worn sedans, with a couple of Beamers mixed in, and one classic, restored Chevy pickup. The yard of one house, occupied by a teenager taking care of his grandmother, was guarded by an old, tire-less Buick propped up on cinder blocks.
My building represented polyglot LA all by itself. The back unit was occupied by the owner, a black sixty-ish accountant, a widower. Above him was a quiet, middle-aged Mexican couple who always regarded me suspiciously. Directly below me was a white thirty-something USC law student and his Korean American wife; their seven-year-old daughter was the only child on our end of the block. Chloe and I were a mixture of mixes—me Japanese and Polish, her Japanese and black. And directly across from me was my old high school friend Kevin—the grandson of black sharecroppers from Arkansas who had made their way west—and his Dominican girlfriend Rosanna. Kevin, who worked as a paramedic with the Los Angeles Fire Department while he was studying to be a nurse, would try to get me to come over and watch the Lakers with him, but I usually begged off due to work. He was worried about my solitary, decrepit, woman-less state, but I insisted that I wanted to be left alone—and the truth was, his happy coupledom just rubbed salt in my hermitous wound.
Being alone, though, didn’t mean I was productive. I avoided the pile of books on my desk as if they were a lover with whom I’d split but still shared an apartment. I might engage with them half-heartedly for an hour or two, but then I’d give up, choosing instead to thumb through a novel I lacked the attention span to read; or to watch the endless loud cycle of SportsCenter. I canceled my social media accounts when I caught myself checking on Chloe’s pages, torturing myself with images of her looking happy at work, or with her friends, without me. I skipped meetings with my advisor and my dissertation support group. And I avoided seeing my family, even missing—it pains me to write this—my father’s sixty-fifth birthday. There’s not much I can say to account for my time between June of 2010 and January 2011. I watched more reality television than anyone should ever admit.
* * *
I drove back up to Mrs. W—’s house two days later. This time, I was greeted by Lourdes, who led me to the office and offered iced tea, which I declined, and said to call if I needed anything. She told me that Mrs. W— was out with her women’s group and would probably not be back while I was there. She clarified that she, Lourdes, was Mrs. W—’s “personal assistant”—i.e., she took care of all her scheduling, shopping, and personal needs—and I was her “research assistant.” There was also a housekeeper, the gardeners, two cooks, a chauffeur, and a butler. This seemed a bit much for one person.
“Mrs. W—, she’s very attached to that book,” Lourdes said, and it took me a moment to realize she meant the project I was working on. “She wants to make sure that things get remembered right. Especially about her father and grandfather.”
“Well, why wouldn’t they?”
Lourdes smiled indulgently. “People don’t know much about the W— family. They’ve kept a low profile, and the things that have been said about them haven’t always been true.”
Something about the tone of her voice made me wonder what those people had said. It also made me wonder how long she’d worked for the W—s. Had she known Mrs. W— for much of her life? I wasn’t sure it was acceptable to ask.
I settled down in the office, fired up the laptop, and opened the notebook I’d looked at two days before. It didn’t take long to get through what I’d already read, about the party at the Cocoanut Grove. This was followed by accounts of other parties, and of a hunting trip to Jackson Hole. There, Mrs. W— went for a horseback ride with the son of one of her father’s friends, whose name I’d also recognized from buildings in town. Lars S— just would not stay away from me with his hairy hands and putrid breath, she’d written. I should have shot him in the woods and called it a hunting accident.
I’d been working steadily for two and a half hours—I’d typed twenty pages—when I felt a presence behind me. Turning around, I saw Mrs. W— standing in the doorway. I had no idea how long she had been there. She was dressed in a honey-colored pantsuit, cut fashionably at the neckline, with an orange scarf, small pearl earrings, and a thin necklace to match. It was a simple outfit, yet nothing like the suits that businesswomen wore—more unique, most likely individually tailored, clearly something not off any rack. “Interesting stories, aren’t they?” she asked, ignoring my surprise.
“Yes,” I said. “I just read about your father’s going on the board of the County Art Museum and how one of his business rivals tried to keep him off.” Then I stopped, suddenly afraid it might not have been proper to comment. But she didn’t seem to mind.
“Yes, Travis Jones,” she said. “That backstabbing crook. He kept a whore in Tijuana—who would go to Tijuana anyway, except to find a whore? He eventually died of syphilis.”
She asked how many pages I’d typed that day, and when I told her, she seemed pleased. “You’re fast,” she said approvingly. Then: “I’m tired from talking to old windbags. Come to the garden and have some iced tea.”
I left my things and followed her to an outside seating area paved with blue polished stones and surrounded by a river rock wall. In the center was an iron and glass table and a matching set of chairs; around the edges, flower beds with flowers in spectacular bloom. The lawn extended out in every direction, lush grass not native to the chaparral hills. From the patio you could see the entire city—Downtown in the distance, the San Gabriel Mountains rising behind, the vast spread of Los Angeles in every direction. You could sit here and watch the sun rise over the mountains in the morning and see it set over the ocean at night. It was like the homestead of a conquering ruler—which, I supposed, is exactly what the W—s were.
We sat at the table and I kept rearranging myself, unsure of whether to sit up straight or lean back, cross my legs or keep both feet on the ground. Outside, I was reminded of the sheer scale of Mrs. W—’s home—from our spot, I couldn’t see either end of it. Another young woman, whom Mrs. W— addressed as Maria, came out with a silver platter holding a pitcher and tall glasses. She set the glasses in front of us and poured the iced tea, being careful not to look us in the face. Mrs. W— smiled and thanked her. Now she sat drinking, back still straight, looking very much in her element. She’d put on a shawl that looked more fashionable than warm; I myself felt a bit of a chill. The moment before she slipped on her dark glasses, I caught a glimpse of her eyes, which were the blue of the ocean, the blue of the earth from space.
“Those women,” she started midsentence, and I didn’t know at first whom she was speaking of, “they sit around all day talking about parties and clothes, or where their families will summer this year. No interest in the larger world, in politics, in art. No wonder all their husbands have mistresses.”
I lifted my glass with a shaky hand, praying I wouldn’t spill it, and took a sip. It was like no iced tea I’d ever tasted. As if the herbs had been plucked straight from some heavenly garden and transported directly to my glass. “The women’s group?” I ventured.
“Yes. We meet monthly to talk about raising funds for the children’s hospital. When the group started fifty years ago, it had the very best girls in the city.” And she named several names I recognized: governors’ wives, names from department stores and international corporations, even one president’s wife. “But now all of that’s changed, and the younger girls just aren’t the same caliber.”
I didn’t know what to say to this, and instead looked down at the Lhasa apsos, who’d shuffled over to a nearby patch of grass and were now rolling on their backs, wriggling and grunting with joy.
“They’re ridiculous, aren’t they?” Mrs. W— said. “I’ve always thought they looked like Winston Churchill.”
“They’re pretty funny,” I offered.
“This is the third Pinot. The first two were eaten by coyotes. One they carried off right in front of me. A big coyote came and plucked him like a dandelion.”
“That’s terrible!” I said. “How’d it get in here?”
“They’re crafty. Even six-foot-high fences can’t keep them out. Now I resort to a rifle.”
“You shoot them?”
“I told you already. I’m a very good shot.”
We were silent for a moment, and I turned to take this all in—the land, the view, the coyote-bait dogs, the image of Mrs. W— with a gun. In an outer circle of the yard, I could see two of the llamas; at night they were brought into an outbuilding, and now I knew why. I picked up my drink again. The glass had left a ring of water on the cut-stone coaster, and I brushed it off hurriedly, and then didn’t know what to do with my wet hand. Surreptitiously I wiped it on my pants. Now Mrs. W— looked at me and asked, “And what about you? What are you studying?”
Haltingly, I tried to describe my research, my classes, the subjects I’d taught.
“Have you enjoyed USC?” she asked.
I paused. Had I enjoyed it? I didn’t really know. “Yes, I’ve had some very good professors,” I said.
“Good. Every now and again we have to go through that place and clean out all the Commies.”
I thought she was kidding. “Excuse me?”
“Those left-wingers that rule the universities now. But you,” she said, tipping her glass at me, “you seem very sensible.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted to be distinguished from the left-wing Commies.
“Those academics wouldn’t recognize history if it bit them in the ass,” she continued. “History doesn’t happen in books. It happens out here.” She tapped the table with her bony finger. “It bends to the will of important people.”
She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket—it was embroidered with MW—and delicately patted her lips. I noticed her hands then—thin and graceful, no age spots or beauty marks, and while I did see a few delicate lines, they had the effect of making the skin look more lovely, the way that tiny cracks in porcelain can make one aware of the delicacy of the clay.
“My journals tell more of the history of Los Angeles than all those boring scholarly books put together,” she said. “My grandfather Langley made this city. And yet so few people are even aware of it.” Then: “You were talking about the County Art Museum. Well. This Sunday, the new north wing is being dedicated. Waverly Stone, that insufferable fool, donated her family’s sculpture collection, but the building itself was funded by a fifty-million-dollar anonymous gift.”
I didn’t know what to say. What does one say about fifty million dollars? I could barely scrounge up fifty.
“You should come with me,” Mrs. W— said. “It will help you understand the world you’re reading about.”
I sat up straight. “Mrs. W—, I’ve got things to do—my dissertation, and . . .” I stopped. What did I have to do, really? And besides, I was curious. Mrs. W— must have known this, because she said, “Come here at five o’clock. My driver will take us.” Looking me up and down with an expression of distaste, she added, “We shall have to arrange to get you better clothes.”
* * *
The next day, I found myself at a men’s store on Robertson Boulevard, being tended to by Rafael, a tall, refined shadow of a man with sleek brown hair.
At first, Mrs. W— had planned to send me to Rodeo Drive, but after conferring with two of whom she called the “younger girls” in their forties about where they shopped for their husbands, she decided I needed clothing more appropriate for my age. She had waved off all protests by explaining again that this was related to my work. “It’s no different than a job that requires a uniform,” she said. “And the employer provides the uniform.”
And so I turned myself over to Rafael, and watched in bewilderment as he brought over jackets, shirts, pants made with material I’d never heard of, things so soft and fine and pleasing to touch I was afraid to put them on. I owned a couple of jackets and a pair of decent trousers, but they seemed like ratty gym clothes compared to this finery. Rafael’s ability to choose clothes that might suit me was utterly mysterious, like someone who could walk through a forest and see signs of animal life that were invisible to the untrained eye.
“Such a good-looking man,” he said, not trying to butter me up, or to flirt, for that matter, but in a slightly chastising tone that suggested I wasn’t doing very well with what I had. “You don’t think very much, do you? About your clothes.”
I had to admit I didn’t, but when I tried on the outfits he brought in—nervous at first about tearing or soiling them—I was amazed at the transformation. The clothes that had appeared so untouchable on their hangers now seemed like they’d been made just for me. Looking in the mirror, I saw someone well-dressed and confident, a man of a certain standing. I didn’t recognize who I was looking at.
At Mrs. W—’s instruction, we settled on two outfits—a dark-gray pinstripe suit with a white silk shirt and lavender tie, and tan trousers and a navy-blue jacket with a light-blue tie. Italian leather shoes to match each outfit, as well as pocket squares and two new leather belts.
I made a show of trying to pay for at least part of the purchase, which embarrassed us both. There was no way I could have afforded even a single shoe. With the accessories, the total bill was equal to about six months’ rent.
Rafael slipped the clothes into a garment bag; then he handed me another bag that held the shoes and the belts. “Take care of these,” he said, as if I couldn’t be trusted with them. I muttered thanks and escaped to my car.
* * *
On Sunday afternoon, I drove up to Mrs. W—’s house, wearing the gray pinstripe suit. I felt self-conscious from the moment I stepped out my front door—first because of my neighbor, Mrs. Hernandez, who stared at me in shock, the water from her garden hose spilling onto her shoes; then because my beat-up Honda seemed inadequate for the occasion. Suddenly I understood why people cared about cars—they were the ultimate accessory, the first impression you created. An ugly car could nullify whatever was inside, like precious jewels encased in a layer of mud.
But luckily I wasn’t going to the museum in my car. I was going to Mrs. W—’s. When I drove up, the Bentley was parked out front, and a driver in suit and cap was polishing the headlights. Mrs. W— came to the doorway, looked me up and down, and made a sound of general approval. “Rafael did very well,” she said, after she’d made me turn a full circle. “I will have to send him a tip.”
She herself looked marvelous in an elegant silver-green pantsuit and silver flats. She carried a small purse and shawl, and when I got a bit closer, I saw the subtle makeup, the perfectly styled hair. I also saw that she was holding a cane. It had a small round mirror attached to the bottom, and when she saw me notice this, she lifted the cane and shook the end of it. “For looking up women’s dresses,” she said. “You can always tell how classy someone is by the cut of her underwear.”
When I helped her down the stairs, her grip on my arm was surprisingly firm. The driver opened the door and helped her in, and then I got in the other side. Other than a few times taking a cab, I’d never been in a car with a driver. I didn’t know what to say, or where to hold my hands. But Mrs. W— and the driver, a fifty-ish black man named Dalton, talked a blue streak about, of all things, baseball. Mrs. W— was a very knowledgeable fan, with an attachment to the Dodgers. As much as she hated Rupert Murdoch—“a crook and a blowhard,” she called him—she also said that the ownership of the McCourts was proving to be a failure, because they’d structured the purchase of the team with so much debt. He would lose the team soon, she predicted. “If you can’t buy something outright, you can’t afford it at all,” she said.
