"You do like Rina says, Dunbar. You can use the rest.
You still got ten weeks of editing in front of you.
But don't worry, you got a great picture here.
I wouldn't be surprised if you both get Academy Awards!"
Norman didn't believe it when he said it, but that was exactly the way it turned out.
19.
Nelia Dunbar, sixty-three years old and strong as the proverbial rock, crossed the room and looked down at her son.
"That horrible creature," she said quietly.
She slipped into the seat beside her son and took his head on her shoulder. Absently she stroked his forehead.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to see her in her true light," she said.
"I told you not to marry her."
Claude didn't answer. There was no need to.
There was a familiar safety in his mother's arms.
There always had been. Even when he was a child and had come running home from school when the boys ganged up on him.
His mother knew him.
He didn't have to tell her when he was troubled.
Instinctively she had moved out to California after his marriage to Rina.
He had never been very strong, always frail and thin, and the intense nervousness of his creative spurts left him drained and exhausted.
At times like that, his mother would see to it that he took to his bed – for weeks on end, sometimes. She would serve him his meals, bring him the newspapers, read to him from the books they both loved.
Often he felt that these were the happiest moments of his life. Here in the gentle pastels of the room his mother had decorated for him, he felt warm and comfortable and at ease.
Everything he wanted was at his fingertips. The dirtiness and petty meanness of the world were safely locked away outside the walls of that room.
His father had never been more than a vague nebulous shadow. He could scarcely remember him, for he had died when Claude was only five.
His father's death had caused scarcely a noticeable ripple in the course of their lives, for they were left well off. They weren't wealthy but never was there want.
"You go back to the house and get what few things you need," his mother said. "You can spend the night here. In the morning, we'll see about a divorce."
He raised his head from his mother's shoulder and looked at her.
"But, Mother, I wouldn't even know what to say to a lawyer."
"Don't worry," his mother said confidently. "I'll take care of everything."
He could feel a great weight lifting from his shoulders.
Once again, his mother had spoken the magic words.
But when he stood in the street in front of the house and saw Rina's car in the driveway, he was afraid to go in.
There would only be another scene and he wasn't up to it. He had no more strength.
He looked at his wrist watch. It was almost eleven o'clock.
She would be leaving soon because she had a luncheon date at the studio.
He walked back down the hill to the cocktail lounge just off the corner of Sunset. He would have a drink while he waited. He would be able to see her car as it came down the hill.
The cocktail lounge was dark as he entered, the chairs still up on the tables. The bar was open, however, and there was already a customer seated with a glass of beer in front of him.
Claude climbed up on a stool near the window, from which he could watch the street. He shivered slightly. It had begun to drizzle as he came down the hill and was turning into one of those nasty, chilly afternoons peculiarly indigenous to sunny California. He shivered again. He hoped he wasn't catching cold.
"Whisky and warm water," he said to the bartender, remembering the drink his mother always gave him at the first sign of a cold.
The bartender looked at him peculiarly. "Warm water?"
Claude nodded. "Yes, please." He looked up and noticed that the lone customer was also staring at him – a young man in a yellow lumber jacket. "And a slice of lemon, if you have it," he called after the bartender.
Claude picked up the small steaming mug. He sipped at it and felt its warmth creep down toward his stomach.
He turned and looked out the window. It was really raining now.
He picked up the mug again and to his surprise, it was empty.
He decided to have another. There was time.
He knew exactly what Rina was doing right now. He gestured to the bartender.
Right at this moment, she was seated in front of her dressing table, putting on her make-up, until it was precisely the way she wanted it.
Then she would fuss with her hair, teasing it until it hung carelessly, but with every strand in its allotted place. She had a fetish about not getting anywhere on time.
She was always at least an hour late, most of the time even later.
It used to drive him crazy having to wait for her, but it never seemed to disturb anyone else. They just took it for granted.
Claude looked down at the mug. It was empty again.
He ordered another drink. He was beginning to feel better.