“A girl was safe so long as she had a hat pin.” — Vera Caspary, The Gardenia
Los Angeles, 1998
1.
Charlotte Lange was a sex machine. From the moment he’d first glimpsed her, Liam Hunt had known it. But women. He’d sworn off them. Not only would they rip your heart out, they’d serve it as an appetizer. Still, sex machines didn’t come along every day, so he’d asked her to go dancing.
Normally, Charlotte didn’t go out with men she barely knew. But she hadn’t felt normal since she’d moved to Los Angeles three months earlier. She’d been surprised when Liam had invited her, and even more surprised that she’d said yes.
They coasted down Los Feliz Boulevard in Liam’s beat-up Ford. He was taking her to The Derby, the epicenter of the swing-dancing craze. The scent of his aftershave filled the car, reminding her that he was an older man. Liam was thirty-five; Charlotte was twenty-two. He made a sharp turn into the parking lot, causing a careening sensation familiar to her.
Charlotte was a ballet dancer—or had been. She’d studied at the School of American Ballet, from whose ranks New York City Ballet chose its apprentices and its corps. She was born to dance–her lines were graceful and her body flexible. She was also possessed of an aching delicacy that came not just from her small bones and elegant carriage but from some mysterious substance that flowed through her veins. For all those gifts, she had a greater one still: her musicality. She created the illusion that she was dictating the pace of the music instead of the other way around, by stretching and syncopating her phrases with gleeful control. It was this brash virtuosity that marked her as a genuine artist—and a possible star.
Then fate swerved. In her last semester at S.A.B., Charlotte developed a nagging ache in her hip. One day, as she reached the highest point of a saut de chat, the ache blossomed into breathtaking pain. She had torn the protective cuff surrounding her right hip bone. In the space of ten seconds, she’d gone from flying to limping. The smooth glide of a healthy gait was replaced by a clicking and locking of her joint, like a wheel stuck in mud. Surgery replaced performances, physical therapy, rehearsals.
Even a year after the damaged tissue was removed, pain stalked her. She hid her pointe shoes deep in her closet. After prodding from her mother, she applied to college. For four years she tried to give her old body a proper burial. But she learned that a soul is not as easily buried as a body. She found some pleasure in her studies, but there was no euphoria like dancing. Her muscles began to ache from atrophy. Slowly, timidly, she began taking the subway to a ballet school on Broadway, working from first position so as not to stress the old injury, gradually pushing past pain–and the fear of pain–until she began to recognize herself a bit more.
She might never join a ballet company, but she was still a dancer, and after graduation, she lined up for chorus calls at Actors’ Equity. But she could not escape the legacy of injury. Her mind perpetually weighed risk against reward, and timidity diminished her power. She grew flustered at auditions, losing the choreography in a heartbeat of panic.
Meanwhile, her mother relinquished the lease on the apartment in which she’d raised Charlotte. Charlotte’s father had died when she was small, and Elaine had raised her in a one-bedroom walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen. From the living room, they could see a small stretch of the Hudson River. Charlotte had pleaded for her mother to stay one more year, but Elaine had long been ready for a change of scene. She had friends in California who would put her up until she got settled. Charlotte found a studio behind Lincoln Center, and a roommate to split the rent.
Fear became a habit. At auditions, she would hit the brake just after hitting her stride. Her mind would cloud, she’d lose the steps and then disappear into the ranks of those destined to be cut. Months stretched into a year without landing a job, and the little flame she’d tried so hard to protect blew out. She flew to her mother for comfort.
On Charlotte’s first night in West Hollywood, Elaine Lange showed her daughter the neighborhood. Eucalyptus trees lined her block, their heady scent floating on the breeze. A dozen or so gay clubs offered the comforting pulse of nightlife on Santa Monica. Tower Records and Book Soup were just up the hill on Sunset.
Charlotte soon learned the climate’s routine. Mornings were foggy and cool. At midday, the clouds would lift, and sunlight, filtered through those peculiar air particles specific to Southern California that diffused its rays, bathed everything it touched in a movie-star glow. The sleepy purple twilights and whisper-soft wind, her mother’s clean white apartment, these comforted Charlotte in her first weeks, offering the illusion that she had all the time in the world to figure things out.
She got a driver’s license and then a job tutoring prep school kids who lived in the fashionable enclaves of Brentwood and Bel Air, or in compounds nestled in the hills above Sherman Oaks and Encino. As she saw more of the city, that curious suspension of time stretched into an infinite emptiness. Charlotte was trapped in her mother’s car for hours each day, inching along the clogged arteries of the sprawling city, staring at the iron fences and intercoms that shielded the wealthy residents of Los Angeles from interaction with those less well-heeled. Here was the paradox of the city: a dense population, but little evidence of human existence. Even in the flats of Beverly Hills, where the homes had front lawns, residents never availed themselves of the grass, never sat in a lawn chair to read the paper or play with their kids. That was what backyard pools and tennis courts were for. And on the industrial streets, Charlotte could inch along for miles without seeing a pedestrian, though she did see people getting in and out of cars, dropping coins in meters and vanishing into office buildings. They struck her as eternally trapped in the in-between.
She missed racing for buses and dashing down subway stairs. She longed to be surrounded by crying babies and tired parents, college students kissing or arguing, any crowd intensely aware of the humanity of each of its members, each one with capacities to attract or repel, to be selfish or empathetic.
In Los Angeles, she grew desolate from the endless sun-baked stucco and sick from the gasoline fumes that rose from the oil-stained parking lots. She enjoyed the small comforts of air-conditioning and NPR, but these soon began to fail in their power. She was shipwrecked in the Land of the Lotus Eaters, but this version had no narcotizing fruit, only the vexing ability to drain her of volition.
One day, she was at the bookstore, leafing through a volume of historical photos of tinsel town. Under an aerial shot of a vast mountain range, the caption read: Los Angeles has been home to many infamous murders, in part because of its large swaths of empty land. With its dark canyons and twisting mountain roads, there are plenty of places to bury a body in the middle of the night.
That night she came home and sank into her mother’s couch.
“You look haunted.” Elaine said, as she stroked her daughter’s cheek. “You need to dance again.”
The Debbie Reynolds Rehearsal Studios were on Lankershim Boulevard, in the San Fernando Valley. When Charlotte first saw the building, with its caricature of Debbie painted on one wall, its pink facade faded from the scorching valley heat, she almost turned the car around. It looked more like a landmark than a thriving place of business, making her feel so far from the bustling studios of New York City that she might as well be on Mars. But she muscled her way out of the car and crossed the burning asphalt to the studio’s rear entrance.
Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dim interior. She made her way along a corridor of threadbare carpet that smelled of perspiration and baby powder, peering into each studio along the way. Instead of modern marley, the floors were old-fashioned wood. The classrooms were equipped with anachronistic resin boxes, where dancers could crush cubes of the sticky substance with the soles of their shoes, grinding the powder until it coated them.
She found the front office and paid for her class. “You’ll be in Studio Five,” the lone woman at the desk informed her. Charlotte walked down the hall, glancing at the faculty headshots lining the wall. Each one had a biography underneath it. She stopped at a photo of a man with a square jaw and a pleasingly wide forehead. Liam Hunt. Theatre Dance, 4:00 to 5:30, Tuesdays/Thursdays. He had trained with American Dance Machine. He’d danced in the Broadway production of Fiddler.
Charlotte felt a glimmer of excitement, as though proximity to Hunt would bring her closer to home, or closer to her old self, or both. She entered the studio warmed up, dropping her head and bending her knees, then swaying her pelvis to ease the joints.
She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to four. Where were the other dancers? Where was Liam Hunt? Five minutes to four. Liam Hunt strode in.
He dropped a box of CDs with a thud, barely glancing in her direction. His dirty blond hair was shaggy and looked unclean. He was pale as a vampire, and his brown eyes looked black against his skin.
“Let me check the front hall for stragglers,” he said, more to himself than to Charlotte. Her stomach dropped. She was going to be trapped with this fiendish-looking man in old bell bottoms and tattered jazz shoes. “Who’s here for Theatre Dance?” he bellowed. “You’re late!” Three women of varying ages and shapes hurried in. They began pulling out the portable barres and arranging them in the center of the room. Liam returned and one of them squealed. “Liam! I’m back!” They hugged in the way that show folk did, theatrically and for the benefit of spectators. She told him about her regional tour of Carousel. Charlotte burned with envy.
“For the newcomers, we warm up at the barre in this class,” Liam announced. “That may not be what you’re used to in a jazz class.” His voice boomed through the small studio. Another dancer entered and dropped her bag before bending into grand plie to stretch her hips. She wore a champagne-colored leotard that stretched over the curves of her full breasts and shapely legs. She tossed her silky hair over her head before twirling it into a french twist and securing it with a clip.
Liam slid a CD into the stereo.
“First position parallel to start.” His appearance reflected apathy, but his voice, a rich baritone, was forceful. Charlotte found herself both longing for and fearing his attention. He pressed “play” and Billie Holiday’s rendition of Good Morning, Heartache poured through the speakers. Liam walked the length of the room, assessing his pupils. The pace of the music was agonizingly slow, especially for pliés. Charlotte’s thighs burned in protest. She exhaled and he laughed, pleased with the strain his class produced.
“Hurts, right? That’s how you find your center of gravity. Especially you ballet dancers.” He looked at Charlotte before continuing. “Ballet dancers are beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but your center is too high and your back is too arched.” He touched Charlotte’s back.
“Neutral spine. You’re curling your pelvis under and hyperextending your back.”
She adjusted.
“That’s it.”
They did every exercise one would do in a ballet class, but first in parallel and a second time turned out. When they finally cleared the barres for center work, Charlotte took off her t-shirt and used it to mop her brow. She assessed herself in the mirror, comparing herself to the dancer in gold, whose cleavage glittered pleasingly with perspiration. Her own reflection disheartened her; her small breasts looked like petulant buds next to a real woman’s luscious lines. Liam was shouting again.
“If you haven’t done the American Dance Machine warmup before, pay attention!” They worked their way through every part of their upper bodies, isolating head, neck, shoulders, ribcage, wrists, even eyeballs.
“Remember that rib cage isolations aren’t straight across, but up and over,” Liam said. He pulled up his shirt, demonstrating the motion of lifting up the torso to elevate the ribs before moving them forward in a motion that formed an arc, which showcased his chiseled abdomen. His darting eyes caught hers in the mirror, and she realized she’d been staring. Her cheeks flushed and she looked away. After turns and jumps they were ready to learn the combination.
“Now we travel to 1930s Berlin,” Liam announced, as he switched out one cd for another. She recognized the melody but could not place it until the lyrics began.
Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome!
Fremde, etranger, stranger.
Liam pounded the floor with his heel. “That’s the tempo, do it with me. Feel it in your bones.”
Gluklich zu sehen, je suis enchante,
Happy to see you, bleibe, reste, stay.
“Note how the rhythm doesn’t change when the Emcee speaks.” Liam gestured for them to stop pounding the floor. “Okay, alright, now we learn it.” He stopped the music and returned to the front of the room.
“Every movement has to be swift and precise, like a knife cutting through taut fabric,” he lectured. “These shapes I’m making with my arms–they’re swastikas. And the feet come down forcefully–you’re mimicking the goose-stepping soldiers of the Third Reich.” Charlotte was so fascinated by this gruesome idea that she forgot to be nervous. The first sixteen counts came easily. Then the next sixteen. She forgot to worry about her hip. Every time they repeated the section, her confidence grew. The endorphins flowed and she felt no pain.
And then Liam crushed her.
“Very good, little ballet dancer!”
“I have to get some water,” she said, escaping to the hallway. For several minutes, she sat on the bench, persuading herself to go back. She heard Liam turn up the volume and the stamping inside grew louder. Screw him, she told herself. Go learn the rest. Charlotte tried to sneak back in but she was caught by Liam’s searchlight gaze.
“C’mon, ballerina, you’ve gotta catch up!” Over and over they worked their way through the intricate steps, breathless and pouring with sweat. “Alright,” Liam said at last. “That’s enough for today! Remember it for Thursday!” Charlotte grabbed her bag and fled.
“Hey!” She was already halfway down the hall. “Hey!” Liam called again. “You in a rush?” She stopped and turned back. “I just need to get my stuff, can you wait for a minute?”
“Sure.” Charlotte stood awkwardly, holding her bag in one hand and her sneakers in the other. She’d planned to change her shoes in the car, once safely out of view. Liam returned with his box of CDs and sat on the bench, patting his face with a towel.
“That was good work today.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, man, you ballet dancers are strong. It’s just–you gotta lower your center of gravity.”
“You mentioned that.”
“What’s your name?”
“Charlotte.”
“Are you mad at me, Charlotte?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“I dunno. I was just..teaching. You did come to my class to learn, right?” Charlotte sat down, slipping off her jazz shoes. She massaged her thigh with the heel of her hand.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly.
“For what?”
“You’ll be sore tonight.” Charlotte smiled.
“You aren’t sorry at all.” She put on her sneakers and began tying the laces.
“I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
“I’m not.”
“Was I too hard on you?”
“No.”
“I want you to come back to class.”
“I’ll try.”
“Nah, you won’t.” His schoolboy disappointment took her by surprise.
“I will. Look, I just moved to Los Angeles. I’m adjusting.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Gee, thanks.” Liam laughed.
“Nah, you’ll be alright.” Charlotte slung her bag over her shoulder.
“Thanks for class. I learned a lot.”
“Sure thing.” Charlotte turned and walked down the hall.
“Hey!”
Again, she turned back.
“You like swing dancing?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never been.”
“I’m going this weekend. You should come. It’s one of the few fun things to do in this godforsaken town.”
“Oh, how you talk.”
“Come back to class on Thursday. I’ll get off your case, you won’t hate me anymore, and then we’ll go to The Derby this weekend. It’ll be good for you.” Her eyes narrowed. He laughed. “It’ll be good for me too!”
She couldn’t think of a reason to say no.
2.
The Derby was a sea of halter dresses with sweetheart necklines, ruched bustlines and fitted waists. A few women wore poodle skirts and saddle shoes. All were dolled up in bright lipstick, their ponytails adorned with ribbons. Mostly they wore tennis shoes or cabaret shoes with straps to secure them, designed for dancing on stage. Charlotte hadn’t thought of swing dancing as rigorous or athletic, and she would pay for that ignorance. She had worked so hard to look pretty, choosing a black slip dress and three-inch heels. She’d taken time getting dressed, curling her lashes, lining her eyes, checking her stockings for runs, setting her hair with hot rollers. Staring at the girls in peter pan blouses and cat-eye glasses, she didn’t feel pretty; she felt foolish and prim.
The Squirrel Nut Zippers were playing next to the bar in the front room. They were the most successful of the “neo-swing” bands that dominated the radio of late. Charlotte had discovered jazz in a movie soundtrack when she was fourteen. She knew every artist of the swing era, every Tin Pan alley tune that a jazz orchestra had ever recorded. Instinctively, she never talked about it. She knew there were many ways in which she did not fit in. So she didn’t tell Liam what she was thinking: that “neo-swing” was fool’s gold.
“How ‘bout a drink?” Liam cocked his head toward the bar.
“Sure. I’ll have what you’re having.” The Jack and Coke went down easy, the syrup and carbonation both reviving and comforting.
“Shall we dance?” Liam took her by the elbow and steered her to the back room, where an instructor was teaching pairs of beginners. They had formed two circles, one within the other. The group was learning the “rock step” while In the Mood poured from the speakers. The sound of Glenn Miller cheered her. Liam whispered in her ear.
“Don’t think of it as a step, think of it as a rhythm. It’s syncopated.” She wished again that she’d worn tennis shoes. It was impossible to keep up while teetering in heels. Her calves cramped from squeezing to keep her shoes on as she twirled. He kept telling her she had to follow his cues, his rhythm, his signals, but she instinctively resisted being led. Her intensely musical mind always went its own way, just as it had in ballet, phrasing to the rhythm in the music. Liam struggled to contain her, to impose on her his pace and movements. Periodically, he grunted in exasperation, making Charlotte feel dim-witted and clumsy.
She watched the other pairs of dancers. The partners looked like intertwined loops, circling one another like dancers in a music box, then briefly unclasping and extending into one supple line made of two, maintaining their connection with the gentle pressure of finger to palm. They glided like skaters in unison, then effortlessly switched to the jaunty bounce of the rock-step in all its variations, finishing with a deep and thrilling dip. Charlotte shouted over the music.
“Do you want to dance with a different partner?” Liam pulled her close and switched to a two-step that kept their cheeks and bodies pressed firmly against one another.
“You’re doing fine. Watch my feet. The rock-step is three on four. That’s the tricky part. The music is a four, the step is three and. There is no four. Follow my cues. A little pressure from this hand means turn that way. Hold your free arm to your chest as you twirl into me, then let it unravel when I prompt you to spin back out. If I let go of your hand, know that I’m about to take the other one. It’s like forming a chain. But you have to trust me.” He spun her out but when she twirled back in, she stepped on his toe.
“You know what?” he asked. “I could use another drink.” Embarrassed, Charlotte smiled weakly. “Do you like a Gibson?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Shirley Temple drinker, am I right?” The Squirrel Nut Zippers were still on stage, playing their biggest hit: You and me and the bottle make three tonight. When the Gibson arrived, she slugged the briny fluid. A spasm passed through her and she slapped the glass down. The salty cocktail rose in her throat along with a wave of nausea.
“Not a fan?”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not for everyone.”
The room swirled. Liam held up the dish of peanuts from the bar. They looked as dusty as set-dressing, but she took a few and chewed them slowly. Her stomach settled, and a pleasant lightness set in. It was like riding an ocean wave without ever reaching shore.
“Feeling better?”
“I think so.”
“How about a French Kiss?” Her cheeks flushed and he laughed. “It’s a drink. It’s sweet and gentle. Like you.” He ordered one for Charlotte, and a shot of whiskey for himself. The bartender placed the drinks before them. The French Kiss was a bubbly red cocktail served in a champagne glass. Liam gently bumped her side. “Yours is prettier than mine.” The drink was also an enchantress, soothing and stimulating in equal measure. Her body began to vibrate.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, enjoying the sound of her own slurred speech. She rose to her feet and the floor swerved beneath her.
“Careful.” Liam’s hand was at the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd to the ladies room. How delicious was the mixture of his protectiveness and his boyish erotic longing.
3.
Liam lit a cigarette as they headed to his car. Charlotte was surprised.
“You judging me?”
“No.”
“It’s okay. You should. It’s a nasty habit.” He took a last drag and dropped the cigarette, stubbing it out with his boot. He turned away from her to blow out the last of the smoke. “So, you’ve never had a cigarette?”
“No.”
“You’re pure as the driven snow.”
“No I’m not,” she said.
“What’s wrong with being pure?”
“I don’t know. You made it sound like an insult.”
“Maybe you just heard it that way.”
“Right. I’m imagining things.”
“I can’t keep up with you, college girl.”
“Stop talking to me as if I were a kid.”
“You think I see you as a kid?”
“Yeah.”
“I think that’s how you see yourself.” He tilted his head. “Can I offer some advice?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” Liam’s laughter was sweet, like a peal of bells. She laughed too, and things were alright again. He opened her door and she got into the beat-up Ford, careful to avoid crushing the cassettes at her feet. After revving the engine, he turned to her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Ah, it’s nothing. I should get you home.”
“Tell me.”
“Oh, I have this thing. It’s not a big deal, but I thought you might appreciate it. I wanted to show it to you. It’s at my apartment.”
“At your apartment?”
“You trust me, right?”
The dashboard clock read 11:30. Her mother must be frantic.
“Do you have a phone at your place?”
“I’m no Rockefeller, Charlotte, but yes, I have a phone.”
“I have to call my mother.”
“So let’s hurry back and call her, yeah?” He reached over her shoulder and tugged at her seatbelt, smoothing it over her body and buckling it into place, sending waves of pleasure through her. And then they were on the road, the windows down, the breeze ruffling their hair. He dropped his right hand and grazed her knee with his finger, the thrill heightened by the friction of her stockings.
The Hollywood Hills came into view. Liam made a sharp right on Camino Palmero and drove up the road until he found a spot. He hitched the emergency brake with a jerk, jumped out of the car, and opened her door. He extended his hand and she took it, stepping into the misty air. Perfume dripped from the jacaranda trees. Liam leaned in and she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he pointed to a building across the street. Charlotte was still not accustomed to how dark Los Angeles was at night. “That’s me,” he said. She heard her heels clicking on the asphalt as though she were listening to a radio show instead of her own footsteps. They walked a short path lined with succulents. At the gate there were two planters, one to each side of the path, filled with gardenias, velvet and lush.
“Succulents next to gardenias. That’s Los Angeles for you.” Liam did not reply; he was rifling through his pocket for his keys.
“After you.”
Charlotte stepped onto the brown shag carpeting, a species of decorating endemic to the city. Liam strode into the living room and switched on a table lamp, revealing an apartment furnished strictly for function. There was a faded leather couch, a glass coffee table covered with cds and sheet music, a guitar propped in the corner. On the wall opposite the couch hung two framed posters. One was of the Broadway production of Fiddler, signed by the cast, including Liam. The other poster was the original West Side Story. She inspected the inscription.
“To Liam, the brightest star on the horizon. May you light up the Great White Way for years to come. -Lee Theodore.” Liam watched her.
“Do you know who that is?”
“A choreographer?”
“The original Anybodys. God, you’re young. I was her protegé. Then I blew my knee out doing Fiddler. But I had more shows in me.” His sudden bitterness turned the air rancid. “I never should have come to this dismal city.”
“I know how you feel,” she said. He chuckled.
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“I tore my hip when I was eighteen. Took me out of the running for ballet companies. And it aches a lot of the time. I’ll never be the same.” He stared at her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We just met.”
“But you’re healed. You could do so much. You could do Broadway! What are you doing out here?”
“My mother lives here.” Charlotte did not wish to confess the psychic damage her injury had caused. He let it go.
“Let’s toast to new stages!” He headed to the kitchen. She heard him opening the fridge, dropping ice cubes into glasses, stirring vigorously. When he emerged, he handed her a fizzy drink. Except for the sour note of vodka, it tasted like carbonated lemonade.
“What did you want to show me?” she asked. He smiled.
“It’s quite fitting, actually.” He walked behind the couch. “Check it out!” He pulled out a wooden barre. “I’m going to install it on the wall in my bedroom. So I can work out every day.”
“That’s what you wanted to show me?”
“Yeah. Why? You don’t like it?”
“Sure, I like it. But why do you need it? Don’t they let you use the studio?”
“Probably, but who wants to hang out in North Hollywood? No, I want to wake up every morning and work out first thing. I have to get strong before I blow out of here.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home! New York! I’m driving cross-country in August.”
“To go back to auditions?”
“Maybe. I’m old, you know? For a dancer, I’m old.” He grinned. “But who knows?” His eyes clouded. “I came out here for a film career. That blew up in my face, so there’s no reason to stay.”
“What happened?”
“Ach, let’s not talk about sad things.”
“I’m jealous.”
“Of what?”
“You’re going home.”
“Come with me!” She said nothing. Liam was a creature of impulse, not bound to his own suggestions. She looked over his CDs and spotted a favorite: Sophisticated Lady. Duke Ellington.
“Good choice.” Liam took it from her hand and slid it into the stereo. Cherokee washed over her. The first ten notes spoke to her of some lost and ancient world, familiar but mystical, like Ziggy Elman’s klezmer music and the songs of The Barry Sisters. The swing era fusion of jazz and Yiddish dance music called to her as though from a past life.
Some music seems not to have been written, but instead, plucked from the universe, her mother had told her. Charlotte loved that idea–it captured the bewildering sense of primordial memory that certain melodies evoked. Which reminded her–she had to call her mother. She was drinking the fizzy cocktail too quickly. By the time Perdido began, she had again forgotten Elaine. Liam moved closer.
“You know what you are?” he asked.
“No.”
“You’re a sex machine.”
“A what?”
“A sex machine. You know, like James Brown?”
“No.”
“God, really? I am old.”
“You’re not.”
“You don’t know what a sex machine is?”
“No.”
“It’s a perfect creation. A Platonic ideal. When he shouts–‘I’m a sex machine!’–he’s saying, ‘Damn, I’m perfect! I’m a perfect specimen!’” Liam glanced at her empty glass. “Want another?”
“No thanks, but I could use some water.” Charlotte’s head had begun to throb.
“Sure.” He filled a glass from the tap. Her muscles felt funny and she tried to stand and stretch, but the room shifted, as though it were a movie set on wheels. It was past midnight. Elaine was either asleep, or very angry. Liam was telling her something. The bellicose tone was back–his moods shifted faster than lightning. He was describing a woman he’d loved. Her name was Diane.
“She was a director. A brilliant one. But she tried to mold me into the person she wanted me to be. In front of the camera and in life. And because she was so brilliant, and so beautiful, I let her. She consumed me. So I followed her here. Never blinked. And then she slept with my best friend. Can you believe that? I almost killed myself. I could barely get out of bed. It’s taken a year to pull myself together.” He grunted, “Women are the devil!” He peered at her. “Never again!”
“I have to call a cab,” she said.
“No! C’mon. I’m sorry. You aren’t the devil.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“We don’t have to talk at all.”
And then he was on top of her, kissing her. He’d played with her emotions for hours, teased and frustrated her to the point where she wanted certainty more than pleasure, so she accepted his rough touch with gratitude. Maybe he didn’t like her but he wanted her. His desire aroused her. But soon she realized that her participation did not increase his pleasure. At first, this hurt only her pride. Then his mouth bore down so hard on hers that the inside of her lower lip was chafed. She tasted blood. His hand slid down her back, hunting for the zipper on her dress. The other hand crept up her leg, and when she pushed it away, he shoved his knee into her thigh, pinning her hip open. She wanted to say “no,’ but the thought of it embarrassed her.
“Slow down,” she whispered. It sounded like movie dialogue. Now he was supposed to say, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rush you. He was supposed to lie down next to her and take her hand. She wanted him to recognize the things that made her different: her humor, her shyness, the feral strength of her dancing, her love of old music, anything that offered assurance that Liam knew her body contained a soul, and that his lust was specific to her.
He offered no such demonstration. He moaned and rocked his pelvis into hers. She felt oddly drowsy. She was jolted back when she felt him tugging off her stockings. Then her eyelids grew heavy. She was bobbing on the sea. It was such a pleasant thing to close one’s eyes.
4.
Music. She strained to hear it. Mood Indigo. Was it just in her head? She did not perceive herself as a discrete entity; she had merged with her surroundings. She detected a source of light. Not steady, but flickering. Candles.
“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty.” Acid seared her stomach. Her head throbbed. She looked up to see Liam sitting in a chair, watching her. “I kiss a girl and she falls asleep.” She considered this. He’d stopped. He’d stopped when she’d fallen asleep. Or had she dreamed it? The mauling, the feral urgency, the impending assault. Yes, she had dreamed it.
“One too many cocktails,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
The walls were sliding sideways, she felt the movement of her joints, the turn of her neck, the bending of her elbow, as inorganic, as though she were a wind-up doll. Her breathing grew labored, her lungs felt coated with wax.
“Really,” he added. “You don’t. You’re lovely, Charlotte.” He walked to the couch and sat down, stroking her arm. “You’re soft as satin.”
“A regular satin doll.” Liam tickled her ribs. She laughed.
“How come you know so much old music?”
“I heard it in a movie and it felt like home.” He nuzzled her neck.
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“See? You’re a sex machine.”
“I need to call a cab. Do you know where my shoes are?”
“Women!” he snorted. “You think they’re having a great time. Then they ask where their shoes are.” Bits of light wriggled and shook before her eyes. They brightened and disappeared every time she blinked. “Charlotte, it’s late. You can take my bed. I’ll stay out here.”
She closed her eyes. “Can I just stay on the couch?”
“Of course.” He disappeared into his bedroom and returned with a blanket. It was soft against her legs. Her bare legs. Where were her stockings? Oh, what did it matter? Just a little more sleep would clear her head. The scent of Liam on the blanket, the gentle lullaby of Mood Indigo, the candlelight…she was swaying in a canopy rocked by a soft, warm, breeze that suddenly turned cold. She reached for the blanket but it wasn’t there and her neck was wet and Liam’s weight was upon her and his mouth was traveling from her neck to her chest to her torso to—
“Don’t!” She sat up, blinking in the darkness.
“I have to be inside you,” he whispered. She should give in. She should lie still and it would be over with. But his hand was hurting her and his mouth was traveling and then he was cursing. She’d kicked him and sprung to her feet.
“You crazy bitch!” The words descended like arrows and he was coming toward her and she saw it–the ballet barre, resting across the arms of his leather armchair.
She sprang for it, holding it up between her and Liam.
“Charlotte, you’re being ridiculous.”
She swiveled and swung the barre as though it were a baseball bat. His scream pierced the air and she knew it was not real, she was not awake, she was having a nightmare because a river of blood was flowing from the cut on his head–not just a cut but a canyon filled with pulsing flesh and the blood flowed into his eye, a crimson stream filling a tidepool and she tried to force herself awake but the light worms were back and wriggling before her eyes and when she tried to blink them away, they multiplied, blinding her with their neon glow. My god, there was so much blood. Wildly, she looked around for a phone. You psychotic bitch, he screamed, and she forgot about calling for help and there they were–her black high heels, lying on their sides, sunk into the carpet and she picked them up and held them to herself like a mother holding her children and she ran to the door and opened it and he was quiet now, but still, she fled into the street and the gravel scraped her feet because she could not stop to put her shoes on and they weren’t in her hands anymore, anyway. And now the blood was not Liam’s, but her own, pulsing with each painful contraction of her heart. And then there was one enormous light in her eyes, brighter than the others, and she held up her hands to block the glare.
5.
Someone was squeezing her arm. A scream pierced the air. It was her own. “Charlie? Are you awake? Charlie! Can you hear me?”
“Mom?” The squeezing started again. Then a suction sound. Then it eased. Squeeze, suction, release. A blood pressure cuff. Though the room was dark she knew where she was: a hospital. She peered into her mind and saw nothing.
“Charlie! I’m going to tell the nurse you’re awake!” Her mother dashed from the room and Charlotte tried to visualize the before, the place where she was before she was here, in the beeping room, not knowing if it was day or night, if she were dreaming or awake. Nothing. No detail, no form, no sound.
She pushed several buttons until a light flickered on overhead. She stretched and her feet bumped into something: a clear bag at the foot of the bed. She pulled it toward her. A black bra. A dress. A gold wind wristwatch, an heirloom from her grandmother. She remembered lining her eyes, curling her lashes, checking her pantyhose for runs. Where had she gone? Her head throbbed. She put her hand over her eyes. Her wrist ached. She looked at it. It was wrapped in an ace bandage. Her mother returned. “The nurse is on her way!”
“What happened to my wrist?”
“A sprain, most likely. They’ll x-ray it to be sure it’s not broken. You were very lucky, darling.”
“Look who’s up!” The nurse bustled in and checked the monitors, then thrust a thermometer under her tongue.
“98.6. Beautiful. I’m going to page Dr. Colley.”
“Mom? What do you mean it could have been worse?”
“Charlie, the doctor asked that I wait for her before saying anything.”
“Why? Why am I in the hospital? Why did you bring me here?”
“Sweetheart, I didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
“The woman who nearly hit you with her car.”
“What? Where?”
“Please, Charlie, I’m supposed to wait for the doctor.”
The before remained black as midnight.
“I have to use the bathroom.” She swung her legs carefully over the bed, rising slowly to her feet. Wherever she glanced, there was an odd delay, as though a strobe light were spinning to one side. As though butterflies were floating to her left, but when she turned to see them head on, they fluttered to the left once more. Crossing the room was like walking through waves at high tide. She blinked, and there was a light behind her eyelids, and the butterflies fluttered their wings. She leaned against the wall.
Her mother flew to her side, and Charlotte submitted to being escorted.
6.
“Hi Charlotte, I’m Dr. Colley. I’m glad to see you’re awake.”
“Thank you.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fantastic.”
Dr. Colley had a nice laugh, warm and sincere. Her lustrous black hair was swept into a large clip and her dainty diamond earrings took the curse off her drab white coat.
“Can you describe what you’re feeling?”
“Dizzy. Nauseated. Like I can’t trust my vision.”
Dr. Colley nodded, as if something were clicking into place.
“Do you take any medications?”
“Advil, when I need it.”
“And you take the Advil for what sort of pain?”
“Dancer pain. Muscle aches.”
“Do you ever take anything else for muscle aches? Anything prescribed?”
“No.” Charlotte focused on the doctor’s long lashes.
“Cyclobenzaprine showed up in your blood work. Do you know what that is?” Charlotte shook her head. Her throat stung and her mouth was dry.
“Mom, where did I go last night?”
“You went dancing.”
“Cyclobenzaprine is a muscle relaxant,” Dr. Colley explained.
“I’ve never taken a muscle relaxant.”
“Vertigo is a side effect. Confusion, disorientation, and sleepiness are also side effects.”
“I didn’t take anything!”
“I believe you.”
“You’re saying I was drugged?”
“Can you think of any other explanation?”
“Sweetheart, can’t you remember anything?” Charlotte wanted to shove her mother out of the room. Did she think that pressuring her daughter would open the floodgates of memory? But then she heard a voice in her head. Shirley Temple drinker, am I right? She looked at her mother. “I didn’t tell you his name?”
“The man you went dancing with? No.”
“How did I get here?”
“I told you.”
“Tell me again.”
“A woman nearly hit you with her car. You were running in the street. She brought you here.”
“I was running in the street?”
“Down Franklin Avenue.”
“Did I say anything to her? The woman who hit me?’
“Almost hit you. She swerved just in time.”
“Did I tell her anything?”
“You fell asleep on the way here.” Hey there, sleeping beauty. Who was that? He was in the before. Images began to flicker before her eyes. As though a downed power line had been restored, the memories lit up like buildings in the night, one after another, except they were out of order, like rows of Christmas lights blinking out of sync. The Gibson. Shirley Temple drinker, am I right? The scent of aftershave. You have to let the man lead. Otherwise it doesn’t work. You’re sweet. Women are the devil.
7.
She dreamed of running downhill in the dark, wheezing as she gulped the cold air. Then, a commotion. She awoke to the sound of excited voices, a cranking metallic noise. Wheels. A gurney was being rolled past her room. Her evening nurse arrived.
“Would you like some apple juice?”
“No, thank you. Where’s my mother?”
“Don’t know. We’ve got our hands full today.”
“What do you mean?”
“Got a patient in a coma down the hall. Compared to him, you’re in great shape.” She took Charlotte’s vitals.
“What happened to him?”
“Head trauma. Maybe a robbery.” It was like inspecting a wall for loose bricks. She’d pushed a few out, seen some light here and there, but not enough to see the shape of the thing that loomed on the other side. She sighed and picked up the remote control on her bed.
“Mystery surrounds a near-deadly assault last night in the Hollywood Hills.” The nurse looked up at the screen.
“Hey, it’s on the news!” Charlotte turned up the volume.
“Police say there was no sign of robbery or forced entry at the apartment where a landlady found her tenant unconscious, with a gash on his forehead, inflicted, oddly enough, by a portable dance barre. Mrs. Floreck says that her tenant, Liam Hunt, was not one to leave his ground-level front door open, which had prompted her to investigate in the early morning hours of May 19th.” They cut to Mrs. Floreck, standing on her patio in a house gown.
“Liam is always friendly and helpful. Who would do such a thing? It was an awful shock.” Footage began to roll as the anchor continued. “The quiet Los Feliz street has been filled with horrified residents and curious onlookers.” The camera panned to the building. Charlotte gasped. The front walkway, bordered by succulents. The report ended and she turned off the sound. Brick after brick loosened and tumbled from the wall. You crazy bitch! She’d almost killed a man, and his name was Liam Hunt.
8.
She looked through the bag again. Her dress, her bra, her wristwatch. Where were her shoes? She’d been running barefoot on Franklin Avenue. She wasn’t even sure where that was. Women. You think they’re having a great time. Then they ask where their shoes are. Had she left them in his apartment? There had been no mention of women’s high heels on the news. But what if the police had found them? How easily could a pair of shoes be traced to their owner?
“You seem deep in thought.” Dr. Colley was standing in the doorway. Charlotte turned the television off. “Don’t push yourself so hard. Recovery has its own timeline.” Dr. Colley walked to Charlotte’s bed. “There’s something we haven’t talked about. You have a bruise on your thigh and a cut on your lip.” Tears welled in Charlotte’s eyes. “I think a rape kit is advisable. Mixing drugs and alcohol can cause blackouts. You might remember eventually, but regardless, we need to gather as much data as possible.” Charlotte could only nod.
9.
It was nice to be back in her mother’s clean, white apartment. A vase filled with fuchsia peonies stood on Charlotte’s nightstand. She lay against the pillows and drifted.
Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome!
Fremde, etranger, stranger.
Every movement has to be swift and precise, like a knife cutting through taut fabric.
Don’t overthink it! You have to let me guide you.
Shirley Temple drinker, am I right?
Gluklich zu sehen, je suis enchante,
I kiss a girl and she falls asleep.
She opened her eyes with a start. The sherbet light of a Los Angeles sunset was flooding the room. Elaine came in. “Just a bad dream. You’re safe.” Her mother stroked her hair. “I made soup. Why don’t you shower, and we’ll eat after that.”
Charlotte emerged from the tub and wiped the steam from the mirror. She peered at the purple bruise below her lip. The rape kit had found no evidence of intercourse. No fluids to be tested for DNA. Charlotte wanted to tell her mother the things she remembered. But she was afraid. She’d put a man in a coma.
“Charlie! Are you out of the shower?”
“Be right there, Mom!”
“Before I forget, the doctor called. She said she’ll call back!” Charlotte sank to the floor. Dr. Colley knew she was a criminal.
10.
The doctor lit one of the three cigarettes she allowed herself a year. She’d spent an hour or more with the two detectives assigned to Liam Hunt’s case. She’d been very grateful that he’d awakened only after they’d left. The detectives had instructed her to call them as soon as he was conscious. She hadn’t.
It was a terrible thing to dislike a patient. But she disliked Liam Hunt. The poor man had been attacked in his own home and remembered nothing. Or so he claimed. The young woman had obviously been mixed up with him. Dr. Colley had withheld relevant information from the police. She was trying to protect one of her patients from another. To do that, she’d broken the law.
Liam Hunt’s labs had come back. She’d asked the detectives if there were any prescription pills at his apartment. Yes, as a matter of fact, there were. Take two every twelve hours for knee pain as needed. That was what the label read on the near-empty bottle of Flexeril they’d found in his cabinet. Flexeril was a brand name. It was also known as cyclobenzaprine.
Dr. Colley lived in the Sunset Hills, on St. Ives Drive. Her house was filled with light–one wall was made entirely of glass. Just beyond was a patio,and orange trees, and a garden surrounding a dark blue pool that gleamed like a sapphire at night. She sat on a deck chair by the water, gazing at the lights of Sunset Boulevard and the creamsicle sky above. Smog particles made for spectacular sunsets.
She had not lied. She had simply not mentioned the woman who’d come in a few hours before Liam. The woman who’d been running in the hills with no shoes on. Even when she overheard them discussing what they’d found in the planter outside Liam’s apartment. Like two wounded crows, a pair of black pumps had been lying in a bed of gardenias. Dr. Colley extinguished her cigarette. Then she dialed Charlotte’s apartment for the second time that night.
11.
“I’ll get it, Mom!” Charlotte ran to her mother’s desk, where an old-fashioned, pale blue rotary phone was ringing. “Hello?” Charlotte stroked the rubber coils of the phone cord.
“Charlotte? This is Dr. Colley. How are you feeling?”
Charlotte knew the doctor was calling to warn her, perhaps to encourage her to confess, before the police connected the dots. The evening news had reported that Liam was awake. Maybe he’d already named his attacker.
“I’m feeling okay.”
“Good. I wanted to know if you remembered anything more about what happened.”
“I thought you said I shouldn’t push too hard.”
“I did. And I still don’t want you to.” Charlotte held her breath. “ Charlotte? Are you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“I don’t want you to be afraid. You have a right to heal in private. You have no obligation to anyone but yourself right now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Charlotte swallowed. “I think so.”
Dr. Colley was silent. Then she laughed, a put-on kind of laugh. “It’s funny, amnesia is going around.”
“Going around?”
“I have a patient who woke up from a coma today, and he can’t remember what happened to him, either. Not one thing!”
“Wow. That is funny.”
“You take care, okay?”
“Thanks, Dr. Colley. I will.”
12.
Charlotte sat in the car for a long time, gazing at the 78th Police Precinct. The sun-bleached stucco, the scarce, dry trees, the little grass islands bordered by cement–maybe the city was all one bad dream. What was she doing here? What had seemed necessary the night before now struck her as cataclysmically stupid. But she was too enraged to change her mind. Liam had told the police he had no idea what had happened. He was lying. She’d bet her life on it. Not that she held her life so dear. She was, after all, sitting outside a police station preparing to confess to a brutal assault. An act of self defense, she reminded herself. Based on what evidence? None. What would the police see? A girl had bashed in her date’s face after mixing pills and liquor. Witnesses would remember them dancing, drinking, having fun.
The Derby. She’d felt so foolish in Liam’s arms. Unwomanly. Unappealing. Uncoordinated. Unable to follow instructions. It was like she’d never been a dancer at all. Liam had used her insecurities to disarm her. Or was it Charlotte herself who had allowed setbacks to strip her of her sense of worth? Either way, he had sensed her timidity and thought she was easy prey.
How convenient for Liam that he remembered nothing. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. If Charlotte walked in there, she could tell them exactly what had happened. Would the word of a drugged woman go far on a witness stand if it came to it? Or would their accusations cancel each other out? As of yet, he had not accused her of anything. He had not even mentioned her name, or detectives would have shown up at her door. He had erased her as if she were a mistake on a school paper. He had rubbed her out.
Charlotte stared at the precinct door. Last night, the local news had reported on the shoes. Her shoes. They’d been found in a planter outside his apartment. Like Cinderella, she was going to claim what belonged to her. The car engine was still running; she wanted to hear the Benny Goodman Orchestra playing Sing Sing Sing. Ziggy Elman had a showstopping trumpet solo right in the middle. The sound of cymbals crashing signaled the track’s climax and conclusion. Charlotte turned off the engine and stepped out of the car.
It’s a perfect creation. A Platonic ideal. A sex machine.
Liam had told her exactly what she was.
For this, she would always be grateful.
— Leslie Kendall Dye was born in Los Angeles and raised in an apartment with eight thousand books. She is a dancer, actress, and freelance writer, whose essays and stories have appeared at The Atlantic, The Los Angeles Review of Books, The Millions, Salon, Longreads, The New York Times, The Washington Post, Electric Literature, Hippocampus, and Thriller Magazine, among others. She is a member of the American Renaissance Theatre Company, and lives in New York City with her husband, daughter, and Albert, their werewolf. Find her on Instagram and threads at @leslie_kendall_dye
Image courtesy of IGM Kappa Films.