AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 15

“Hey, I love you, I need you, I want to see you tonight, say yes!”

“Mom, get off the phone.  I think it’s for me.”

“Well, I guess so,” Mom said, hanging up.  She and Courtney had both picked up the phone at the same time; different extensions.

“Hello, Reed,” Courtney said, trying to figure out how she was going to handle this.

“Where’s my yes?”

Pause.  “Yes.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.  I must be slipping.”

Short pause.  “You’re not slipping.  I said yes.”

“How about right now?  I’ll send a limo to pick you up.”

“A limo?”

“Don’t like limos?  I’ll send a taxi.  Come on.  I want to see you.”

The phone conversation was going disastrously.  Courtney was saying none of the things she wanted to say.  She felt all jammed up; the words coming out of her mouth hurt they were so wrong.

“Where are you calling from?  Right next to the world’s loudest stereo?”  Gawwd.

“I’m calling from work.  Just a sec.”

She heard him yell something, and almost immediately, the music was shut off.

“Is that better?” he asked.

Courtney wanted to object to him suggesting that he send a car for her, rather than coming himself to see her.  But she didn’t want to object to him in any way until she had clarified how she felt——for him and for her——and established some ground rules for their relationship.

She wanted to thank him for the poem——she had even come to think of it as poetry, possibly because she had always secretly wished that someone would write a love poem about her.  Throwing away the printed card hadn’t worked: she couldn’t get the words out of her mind.  She wanted to thank him for the long-stemmed red roses and the beautiful, outlandishly expensive set of sterling silver flower vases and trays.  Flower over-kill.  (The sheer size of the impractical gift at the restaurant had created temporary logistic problems, until the unromantic Lancôme directed the people at the Parfait to ship the silver to Courtney’s home in California, and trash all but one of the flowers, which Courtney——pouting——walked out of the restaurant herself.  When she had protested Lancôme’s cavalier treatment of her precious flowers, he had used the cuffs.)  She wanted to thank Reed for the beautiful experience of just receiving the flowers, just reading the poem, just of being so desired.

She especially wanted to correct her earlier objections, and thank him for the fabulous opportunities, the inside tracks he had opened up for her in the field of modeling.  She didn’t know whether she was becoming corrupted, or whether she perceived things more accurately, but she now saw modeling as a tremendous challenge, as a relentless series of difficult tests and obstacles to overcome.  Reed had given her the initial impetus, helped her to achieve ‘escape velocity,’ but now it really was up to her.  He had gotten her the audition, but that was really it.  She had passed the audition.  She had impressed Tyne Peck Geyerman and Alex Lancôme.  Her hard work in front of the camera had enabled Lancôme to get just the precisely right images on film.  Courtney wanted to thank Reed, but she wanted to somehow balance out the sense of obligation without resorting to emotional or sexual barter.

She wanted to somehow bring up the issue of Tina Sherman, and find out if she and Reed had officially broken up yet.

But what she quickly said was: “You play your stereo at work?”

Reed chuckled.  Simultaneously, Courtney thought: Stupid, Courty.  Stupid!  He’s a musician.  Music is his work!

“Yeah, I uh . . .”  (laugh)  “. . . yeah, I play my stereo at work.  Listen, we can have lunch together.  I’ll break it off early today; the hell with SoundSync.  We can do the whole day together.  What do you say?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“Well, listen,” Reed finally said, “I’ll pick you up around 5:30.  Just wear something casual.  OK?”

“OK,” she said.  “Ree——”

And he hung up!

All the things that were whirling inside of her, busting with desire to be said and communicated, had no means of ready expression.

Savagely, in a rage that was unusual for her, she waved the receiver around frantically, in unbearable, almost tearful frustration, and with a cry of pain, she threw it against the wall.  It left a dent in the patterned wallpaper of her bedroom.

A moment later, Mom knocked timidly at her door.  Courtney replaced what was left of the receiver.

The little tray with the two coffees and the Winchell’s box was the dead giveaway: it was mother-daughter talk time.

Suck.

Courtney cleared a space for the tray on her desk, and they sat together on her made-bed.

Courtney had told Mom very little of what had happened in New York, and in fact hadn’t even told her that she had signed an exclusive modeling agreement with Geyerman Publishing, an agreement that would pay her $100,000 dollars for several months work.  Rather than bubbling with joy at the new things happening to her, sharing all her thoughts and feelings and triumphs, she was reacting true to form: quiet introspection, ambivalence, dropping almost reluctant hints and clues to her life.  Courtney had led her mother to believe that the modeling job was all still up in the air, and probably would never happen.  And Mom was being such a dear about Courtney’s haircut.  Courtney knew that she thought it was just awful; but beyond a choked, ‘That’s different!’ she had said nothing.

“Courty,” Mom said seriously, “he’s in love with you.  The way he looked at you——it was plain to see.”

Courtney selected a chocolate devil’s food.  “I know.”

A hand reached out to touch and hold Courtney’s other hand, but then timidly withdrew.  Rather than speaking, Mom stared out the window into the garden.

“What?” Courtney asked, drawing Mom’s eyes back to her.

“Oh, Courty . . . I’m so proud of you.  I’m so proud.  You’re so beautiful.  And so intelligent.”

Courtney smiled sadly.  ‘Intelligent’ tacked on as an afterthought.

With both her hands, Mom held Courtney’s free hand, and looked deeply into Courtney’s eyes.  “Do you care for him?”

Not do I love him, but do I care for him.  “Yes, of course.”

“Is he the special man for you?”  Her eyes were searching, intense.

Tears welled up in Courtney’s eyes.  Her mouth wavered.  “Yes.”  The depth of her own feelings surprised her.

Mom gathered her up in her arms and they held each other tight.  “Courty, I want you to quit your writing, drop your modeling, whatever he wants, do whatever is necessary to be with this man.”

“Mom . . .”

“Just listen, Dear, please.  I want you to put this man first in your life.”

“I can’t . . . just . . .”

“Courty, a good man is a career.  Creating a home and family——it’s a full-time job, Courty.  Byron Reed is a great man.  If he’s the man for you, I want you to drop everything, and follow him.”

“Mom, you’re so selfless, it’s wonderful.  But I just can’t be that way.”  Courtney freed herself, and stood up.

“You can’t have it both ways, Dear.  You can’t have both a career and a full family life.”

“I can too!  I will, Mom!”

“Don’t be selfish, Courty.”

“Selfish?!  Mom!  Marriage is a partnership.  An equal partnership.  How will he ever respect me if I always follow, and never lead?  I have thoughts and feelings and rights, too!”

“I know better than to try to argue with you.”  Mom smiled, and went for the tray.  Then, she quickly gave Courtney a fast hug, first.  “Someday, you’ll understand.  I love you.”  And she walked out into the hallway, towards the kitchen.

We try to communicate, Courtney thought.  But it just doesn’t happen.

Courtney slumped in her writer’s chair, and looked at her typewriter, empty of paper.

I’ve written nothing in a week.  And I don’t feel like writing anything.  Amazing.  There’s no itch at all.  There’s no uneasiness away from the typewriter.  He’s killed it.  He’s killed my drive to write.  Am I angry?  I should be angry.  Am I angry?

She leaned forward, rested her elbows on her writing table, propped her head in her hands and stared out the bright window.

No, I’m not angry.  I’m sucked.  Where is SoundSync anyway?

COURTNEY, Chapter 16
 

Copyright 2005 Area 47