Book Lover. Karen Mack

out in the store. He still notices the prices of food items and pays particular attention to the cost of a quart of milk, feeling that it’s a bellwether for fluctuations in the economy.

      Given all of Palmer’s obvious attributes, it always amazed me how impressed he was with old money. Even these clowns, the kind of people who juxtapose fancy cars with bad skin, bad breath, and slightly agape flies, were elevated in his eyes because of their once-fashionable social standing. He’s still grateful for the fact that they anointed him “Palmer” the first week of school as they ushered him into their snobby group, and he continues to find them interesting in spite of their pretentious and slightly depraved lifestyles. When I suggested that these people were just losers taking up space, he shot back that I was the real snob here, not them.

      Palmer loved everything that I hated, including fancy parties, corporate intrigue, business networking, and the whole Hollywood scene. I especially hated going to his Young Presidents Organization (YPO) weekend extravaganzas. This was an organization for mostly second-generation presidents of companies who liked to get together in places like Vail or Tucson to talk about interest rates and balancing their portfolios. They had boring seminars during the day and endless cocktail parties at night in dark reception rooms located in the basement level of the hotels. The wives were expected to come along, look beautiful, and spend their time participating in stupid activities like Asian flower arranging, shopping sprees at local malls, or guided tours by ancient docents of obscure museums.

      I went along the first time to a weekend in Monterey, but after three excruciating days of socializing with women I never would have talked to ordinarily, I told him to forget about bringing me along the next time. He went alone after that, but always came home silent, resentful, and full of accusatory pronouncements like “I was the only one who didn’t bring his wife” or “You missed a great speech by Buzz Aldrin about orbiting hotels on Mars.”

      But it wasn’t all Palmer’s fault. He was out in the world and I stayed home and read. Not that I let myself indulge all the time, but I’d have to admit that the book-binge thing sometimes got out of control. After all, I had plenty of time to kill. He had evolved into a workaholic and I was lost in the blissful, dreamlike otherworldness of books. Compared to reality, it was much more enticing.

      In retrospect, I made a mistake not going back to work. After my father died, I thought I’d take a short sabbatical. But how did it turn into five years? I just couldn’t seem to pull myself together. And Palmer was happy to have me all to himself. I should have remembered how miserable and bored my mother was just being the corporate wife. But now I’m not even the corporate wife. I’m just one of those thirtysomething women who roam around Los Angeles, speeding down the freeway with nowhere to go.

      I am jolted out of my reverie by Steve, the neighborhood Bel Air patrolman. He taps on the window and peers in at me. “Hey, Dora. What’s up?” He’s friendly but clearly wants to know what the hell I’m doing here. I suddenly get queasy at the prospect of him maybe calling Palmer. Do they have a restraining order against me? Not possible. I’ve never showed signs of aggression or threatening behavior that would warrant such measures. Granted, it is weird that I’m hanging out in front of Palmer’s gate.

      Even I don’t know why I’m here. I give Steve one of my most of-course-this-is-perfectly-normal looks and say, “Just came to pick up a few things.” Sure, that’s why I’ve been hiding in the bushes. “Guess no one’s home. I’ll try later.” He doesn’t believe it for a second. How humiliating. And I remember how I used to complain to him about all the tourists who cruised our streets and, god forbid, if anyone parked by my gate to try to get a glimpse of the actress next door. I’d call Steve all agitated and make him come right over and roust the guy to move on.

      I start my car and try to get out of the parking spot I had wedged myself into. Not easy. I never was very good at parallel parking. I think if you don’t grow up in L.A., you never quite get the hang of it. Finally, I angle it out. If a car could have its tail between its legs, that’s my once proud vehicle as I slowly head home.

       The Wasteland

      “I read much of the night and go south in the winter.”

      ∼ T. S. Eliot (1888–1965) The Waste Land, “The Burial of the Dead” ∼

      I pull into my apartment building and one of four uniformed valets takes my car. The ads for this place describe it as L.A.’s only month-to-month, ultra-luxury high-rise oceanfront residence. They say it’s comparable to the finest five-star hotel, but I say it’s assisted living for the socially impaired. It’s certainly one of the first places West L.A. people think of when they get divorced and can’t figure out where to go for that sticky in-between time. I moved in a year ago, furnished it from Ikea (except for my antique iron bed), and haven’t had the energy or motivation to look for more suitable quarters. It was supposed to be temporary, like a brief vacation, but somehow inertia set in, not to mention getting seduced by the embarrassing number of amenities. Everything I hate to do is taken care of, including picking up my laundry, parking my car, carrying up the groceries, and reconnecting me to the Internet when my computer freezes up. There’s even a concierge that makes dinner reservations and arranges travel. So here I am in a place that grates on me every time I pull into the palatial circular driveway and walk through the marble entry. Oh well, maybe just a few more months.

      Victor the Doorman greets me, “Hey Dora, how ya doin’? Your sister’s upstairs.”

      My first thought is “Oh Christ, I don’t have the energy for this right now.” My sister, Virginia, drops by whenever her baby, Camille, is driving her crazy, which seems to be every other minute lately. Virginia is three years older than me and it took years of fertility treatments to have this baby. Right now there are sleep issues (like I don’t have any) and lately she’s been throwing the baby in the car, driving around, and ending up at my place.

      As I walk through the door, the enormous amount of paraphernalia that my sister carries around with her is strewn all over the living room and the phone is ringing. My sister ignores it while trying to comfort her screaming, overtired child. She looks even more disheveled than usual and there is a large greasy spot in the middle of her stretched-out T-shirt. Virginia and I look so different that people always react with suspicion when we tell them we’re sisters. She is five foot two with olive skin and dark, inquisitive eyes. When she smiles, you can still see that one of her front teeth is slightly chipped, the result of the accident on the bridge years ago. You’d think she would’ve at least had the tooth capped, but she’s always made a point of saying looks aren’t important.

      She’s let her hair go gray and when I tell her that she looks ten years older because of it, she argues that her girlfriends think her hair is a beautiful shade of silver. One should never rely on girlfriends for things like this. They tend to try to make you feel good. You should always rely on sisters, who tell you the awful truth no matter how bad it makes you feel. Then there is the issue of her weight. I wouldn’t say that she’s fat, but she’s a size 12, which in this part of town is considered politically incorrect, right up there with smoking, drinking, and eating desserts. It doesn’t help that sizes in the Beverly Hills stores start at 0 and usually end at 8. I must say that when I travel, it amazes me how much heavier everyone is. What seems normal in L.A. is anorexic anywhere else.

      My sister avoids the shopping problem by sticking to oversized sweats decorated with animal decals, glitter, or rhinestones. I don’t comment on her wardrobe anymore. I’ve learned it’s easier to just shut up about it.

      The baby’s shrieks are reaching fever pitch and the phone is still ringing. I pick her up and walk to the balcony so we can both look at the ocean. Camille releases a series of weak little staccato sighs and curls into me. I can feel her whole body relax.

      In the midst of all this chaos, Virginia answers the phone. It’s my mother. Perfect timing. Why can’t we be like normal families and never talk to each other?

      “Hi, Mom. Wait a minute. I’ll