He did not move. After a bit she walked toward the house where, extravagantly, every window upstairs and down was lit. He stood where he was, looking up at the sky and then at her as she became smaller and smaller going across the lawn, reaching first the aura, then the brightness, then tripping on the kitchen steps.

  Eyes of the Stars

  SHE WAS SHORT with short legs and her body had lost its shape. It began at her neck and continued down, and her arms were like a cook’s. In her sixties Teddy had looked the same for a decade and would probably go on looking the same, there was not that much to change. She had pouches under her eyes and a chin, slightly receding when she was a girl, that was lost now in several others, but she dressed neatly and people liked her.

  Myron, her late husband, had been an ophthalmologist and proud of the fact that he treated the eyes of many stars, although frequently it was a relative of a star, a nephew or mother-in-law, almost the same thing. He could recite the exact condition of all these eyes, retinitis, mild amblyopia . . .

  — So, what is that?

  Silvery-haired, he would confide,

  —Lazy-eyed.

  But Myron was gone. He hadn’t really been a very interesting man, Teddy would sometimes admit, apart from knowing exactly what was wrong with famous patients’ eyes. They had married when she was past forty and resigned to the idea of being single, not that she wouldn’t have made a good wife in every way, but she had only her personality and good nature by that time, the rest, as she herself would say, had turned into a size fourteen.

  It had not always been that way. Though she did not state, like London’s notorious Mrs. Wilson two hundred years earlier, that she would not reveal the circumstances that had made her the mistress of an older man at the age of fifteen, Teddy had had something of the same experience. The first great episode of her life had been with a writer, a detoured novelist more than twenty years older than she was. He had first seen her at a bus stop. She was not, even in those days, exactly beautiful, but there was a body that spoke, at the time, of much that youth could offer. He took her to get her first diaphragm and she was his mistress for three years until he left town and returned to literature and in the end a large house in New Jersey.

  She had stayed in touch with him for a time, her real link to the grown-up world, and read his books, of course, but slowly his letters became less frequent until they simply stopped and along with them the foolish hope that he would come back someday.

  Through the years she began to remember him less and less as he had been and more as one lone image: driving. The boulevards in those days were wide and very white and the car was weaving a little while he, half-drunk, was telling her stories about actors and parties he had not taken her to.

  He had gotten her a job in the story department and she began a long career in the world of movies with its intimate acquaintances, fraudulence, and dreams. One could, though, as that world went, rely on her and she tried to be honest. In the end she became a producer. She had never actually produced anything, but she had suggested things and seen them on the way to realization or oblivion, sometimes both. The marriage to Dr. Hirsch had helped. One of his patients was a rich man who owned a game-show company, and through him she met figures in television. It was after she was widowed that the long-awaited opportunity came. She was invited to coproduce a show that turned out to be a success, and a year later she became the sole producer when her partner fell in love and left to marry a Venezuelan businessman. Easygoing in manner, sentimental but shrewd, she drove to work in an inexpensive car and was well liked by the crew. They wanted to please her, to see her laugh and smile.

  YOU WILL PROBABLY RECOGNIZE the outlines of the plot. A romantic and mysterious figure, cynical and well able to take care of himself, is, beneath all that, a lost idealist. In this version he is a lawyer, first in his class at law school, who throws it all in after several years in a large firm and proceeds on his own, as much investigator as anything else and not above fixing a DUI charge for a suitable fee. In short, the dark hero of dime novels. In one memorable episode he leaves the office in evening clothes to drive to a birthday party in Palm Springs where he sees the moral rot of his rich client and ends up seducing the wife.

  The fortunate thing was how well the actor fit the role. Boothman Keck was in his forties but looked younger. He had come late to acting, taking his twelve-year-old son to an open call one afternoon and being asked if he had ever done any acting himself.

  — No, he said.

  — None? Never?

  — Well, not that I know of.

  He had a quality they were seeking for a small part as an alcoholic who still had an essential manhood.

  — So, what do you do for a living?

  — I’m a swimming coach, Keck said.

  — Personal?

  — No, I coach a team. A high school team, he explained.

  They liked him. Luck followed. The movie got some attention and he with it. Teddy had hired him. He was not impressed with her at first, but over time he began to see her differently and even to like her looks, the fact that she was heavy, that she was short. For some reason she called him Bud. They got along. He had had an ordinary life but was now living one that was the complete opposite. He never lost his modesty.

  — It’s all a dream, he would admit.

  Then Deborah Legley, who had not been in a movie for some years but whose name was still alive—the slender arrogance when she was younger, the marriage to an immortal— came from the east for a guest appearance. She was being paid a lot of money, too much, Teddy felt, and from the beginning she was difficult. She came off the plane in dark glasses and no makeup though expecting to be recognized. Teddy met her on arrival. They had to wait a little too long for the car. On the set she turned out to be a monster. She made everyone wait, snubbed the director, and barely acknowledged the presence of the crew.

  Teddy had to invite her to dinner and invited Keck, too, whose wife was out of town, to make the evening bearable. She bought caviar, Beluga, in the large round tin with the sturgeon on the label. She set the caviar in crushed ice with lemon halves around it. They would have caviar, a drink, and go on to the restaurant. Keck was picking up Deborah at the hotel. Teddy looked at her watch. It was past seven. They would arrive before long.

  PARKING BENEATH the tall black palms, Keck went into the hotel and up to the suite. A dog began to bark when he knocked. He waited and then knocked again. He stood looking at the carpet. Finally,

  — Who is it?

  — It’s Booth.

  — Who?

  — Booth, he said loudly.

  — Just a minute.

  An equally long time passed. The dog had stopped barking. There was silence. He knocked again. At last, like the sweeping aside of a great curtain, the door opened.

  — Come in, she said. I’m sorry, were you waiting?

  She was wearing a tan silk jacket, casual in a way, and a smooth white T-shirt beneath.

  — Something spilled in the bathroom, she explained, fastening an earring and preceding him into the room. Anyway, this ghastly dinner. What are we going to do?

  The dog was sniffing his leg.

  — The thought of spending the evening with that boring woman, she went on, is more than I can bear. I don’t know how you put up with her. Here, sit.

  She patted the couch beside her. The dog leapt onto it.

  — Get down, Sammy, she said, pushing him with the back of her hand.

  She patted the couch again.

  — She’s an idiot. That driver at the airport had a big sign with my name on it, can you imagine? Put that down, I told him.

  Her nostrils flared in annoyance or anger, Keck could not tell. She had two distinct ways of doing it. One was in pride and anger, a thoroughbred flaring. The other was more intimate, like the raising of an eyebrow.

  — The stupidity! He wanted to wave it around so people could see it, make himself important. Exactly what one needs, isn’t it? If there’d been anything, the least little thing wrong here at the hotel, I’d have flown straight back to New York. Bye-bye. But of course, they know me here, I’ve been here so many times.

  — I guess so.

  — So, what are we going to do? she said. Let’s have a drink and figure something out. There’s white wine in the fridge. I only drink white wine now. Is that all right for you? We can order something.

  — I don’t think we have enough time, Keck said.

  — We have plenty of time.

  The dog had gripped Keck’s leg with its own two front legs.

  — Sammy, she said, stop.

  Keck tried to disengage himself.

  — Later, Sammy, he said.

  — He seems to like you, she said. But then who wouldn’t, hm? You have your car, don’t you? Why don’t we just drive down to Santa Monica and have dinner?

  — You mean, without Teddy?

  — Completely without her.

  — We should call her.

  — Darling, that’s for you, she said in a warm voice.

  Keck sat down by the phone, uncertain of what to say.

  — Hello, Teddy? It’s Booth. No, I’m at the hotel, he said. Listen, Deborah’s dog is sick. She isn’t going to be able to come to dinner. We’ll have to call it off.

  — Her dog? What’s wrong with it? Teddy said.

  — Oh, it’s been throwing up and it can’t . . . it’s having trouble walking.

  — She’s probably looking for a vet. I have a good one. Hold on, I’ll get the number.

  — No that’s all right, Keck said. One is already coming. She got him through the hotel.

  — Well, tell her I’m sorry. If you need the other number, call me.

  When he hung up, Keck said,

  — It’s OK.

  — You lie almost as well as I do.

  She poured some wine.

  — Or would you rather have something else? she said again. We can drink here or we can drink there.

  — Where’s that?

  — Do you know Rank’s? It’s down off Pacific. I haven’t been there in ages.

  It was not quite night. The sky was an intense, deep blue, vast and cloudless. She sat beside him as they headed for the beach, her graceful neck, her cheeks, her perfume. He felt like an imposter. She still represented beauty. Her body seemed youthful. How old was she? Fifty-five, at least, but with barely a wrinkle. A goddess still. It would have once been beyond imagination to think of driving down Wilshire with her toward the last of the light.

  — You don’t smoke, do you? she said.

  — No.

  — Good. I hate cigarettes. Nick smoked day and night. Of course, it killed him. That’s something you never want to see, when it spreads to the bone and nothing stops the pain. It’s horrible. Here we are.

  There was a blue neon sign from which the first letter—F— was gone; it had been gone for years. Inside it was noisy and dark.

  — Is Frank here? Deborah asked the waiter.

  — Just a minute, he said. I’ll go and see.

  Some heads had turned when she walked past the bar, her insolent walk and then seeing who she was. After a few minutes a young man in a shirt without a tie came back to where they were sitting.

  — You were asking for Frank? he said, recognizing them but politely not showing it. Frank isn’t here anymore.

  — What happened? Deborah said.

  — He sold the place.

  — When was that?

  — A year and a half ago.

  Deborah nodded.

  — You ought to change the name or something, she said, so you don’t fool people.

  — Well, it’s always been the name of the place. We have the same menu, the same chef, he explained cordially.

  — Good for you, she said. Then to Keck, Let’s go.

  — Did I say something wrong? the new owner asked.

  — Probably, she said.

  TEDDY HAD CALLED and cancelled the reservation. She wondered about the dog. She hadn’t bothered to remember its name. It had lain in its bed on the set, head on paws, watching. Teddy had had a dog for years, an English pug named Ava, all wrinkled velvet with bulging eyes and a comic nature. Deaf and nearly blind at the end, unable to walk, she was carried into the garden four or five times a day where she stood on trembling legs and looked up at Teddy helplessly with chalky, unseeing eyes. At last there was nothing that could be done and Teddy drove her to the vet for the last time. She carried her in, tears running down her cheeks. The vet pretended not to notice. He greeted the old dog instead.

  — Hello, princess, he said gently.

  With one of the small ivory spoons Teddy put some caviar on a piece of toast and ate it. She went into the kitchen for the chopped egg and brought it into the living room. She decided to have some vodka as well. There was a bottle of it in the freezer.

  With the egg and a squeeze of lemon she served herself more caviar. There was far too much of it to even think of eating; she would bring it to the set the next day, she decided. There were only two more weeks of shooting. Perhaps she would take a short vacation afterward. She might go down to Baja where some friends were going. She had been to Baja when she was sixteen. You were able to drink in Mexico and do anything, although by that time they were often in separate beds. They had twin beds in the apartment on Venice Boulevard and also that summer in Malibu in a house rented from an actor who had gone on location for six weeks. There was a leafy passageway that led to the beach. She didn’t wear a bikini that summer, she was too embarrassed to, she remembered. She had a one-piece black bathing suit, the same one every day, and an abortion that fall.

  THERE WAS A MOTH on the windshield as they headed back. They were going forty miles an hour; its wings were quivering in what must have been a titanic wind as it resisted being borne into the night. Still, stubbornly, it clung, like gray ash but thick and trembling.

  — What are you doing? she said.

  Keck had pulled over and stopped. He reached out and pushed the moth a little. Abruptly it flew into the darkness.

  — Are you a Buddhist or something?

  — No, he said. I didn’t know if it wanted to go where we’re going, that’s all.

  At Jack’s they were quickly given a good table. She had come here all the time when she lived out here and was making movies, she said.

  — I’ve seen all of them, Keck said.

  — Well, you should have. They were good. But you were a little kid. How old are you?

  — Forty-three.

  — Forty-three. Not bad, she said.

  — I won’t ask you.

  — Don’t be crass, she warned.

  — Whatever it is, you don’t look it. You look about thirty.

  — Thank you.

  — I mean, it’s astonishing.

  — Don’t let it be too astonishing.

  What was her accent, was it English or just languid upper-class? It was different in those days, she was saying. That was when there were geniuses, great directors, Huston, Billy Wilder, Hitch. You learned a lot from them.

  — You know why? she said. Because they had actually lived, they just didn’t grow up on movies. They’d been in the war.

  — Hitchcock?

  — Huston, Ford.

  — How did you and Nick meet? Keck asked.

  — He saw a photo of me, she said.

  — Is that the truth?

  — In a white bathing suit. No, somebody made that up. They make up all kinds of things. We met at a party at the Bistro. I was eighteen. He asked me to dance. Somehow I lost an earring and was looking for it. He’d find it, he said, call him the next day. Well, you can imagine, he was one of the god kings, it was pretty heady stuff. Anyway, I called. He said to come to his house.

  Keck could see it, eighteen and more or less innocent, everything still ahead of her. If she took off her clothes you would never forget it.

  — So, you did.

  — When I got there, she said, he had a bottle of champagne and the bed turned down.

  — So that was it?

  — Not quite, she said.

  — What happened?

  — I told him, thanks, just the earring, please.

  — That’s the truth?

  — Look, he was forty-five, I was eighteen. I mean, let’s see what’s going on. Let’s not raise the curtain so fast.

  — The curtain?

  — You know what I mean. He’d been quite the ladies’ man. I took care of that, she said.

  She looked at him with knowing eyes.

  — You men get all excited by young girls. You think they’re some kind of erotic toy. You haven’t met a real woman, that’s the difference.

  — The difference.

  Her nostrils flared.

  — With a real woman, the buck stops here, she said.

  — I don’t know what that means.

  — You don’t, eh? I think you do.

  After a while, she said,

  — So, where is your wife this evening?

  — Vancouver. She’s visiting her sister.

  — All the way up in Vancouver.

  — Yeah.

  — That’s a long way from here. You know one of the things I’ve learned? she said.

  — No, what?

  — One never has the human company one longs for. Something else is always offered.

  Perhaps it was a line from a play.

  — Like me, you mean?

  — No, sweetheart, not like you. At least I don’t think so.

  He felt uneasy. What’s wrong, are you afraid of something? she was going to say. No, why? You’re acting afraid.

  There was a knot in his stomach. What is it, your wife? she was going to ask. Oh, yes, I forgot, the wife. There’s always the wife.

  Deborah had gone to the ladies’ room.

  — Hello, Teddy? Keck said. He was talking on his cell phone. I just thought I’d call you.

  — Where are you? What’s happened? Is the dog all right?

  — Yeah, the dog’s OK. We’re at a restaurant.

  — Well, it’s a little late . . .

  — Don’t you even budge. I’m taking care of it. I’ll handle it.