Magic Hour, Susan Isaacs [life changing books txt] 📗

Plus she’d passed sixty push-ups, which was more than I could do, and showed no signs of stopping; I figured I didn’t have to be around to watch her hit a hundred.

I went into the kitchen and called Thighs, told him to track down Mikey; I had a couple more questions.

Then I woke up Germy on Beekman Place and 350 / SUSAN ISAACS

asked him to get me the names of the cast and crew of Lindsay’s rifle-toting African movie, Transvaal, ASAP. He told me I sounded better. I told him I was. He said he was driving out to Bridgehampton around noon, and to drop by over the weekend if I could. Bring my girl. I said I’d try. He’d just gotten a copy of a beautifully edited video about DiMaggio that hadn’t been released yet. He’d bring it out.

I called Robby. According to Freckled Cleavage, he’d left for work hours ago. Which probably meant he’d just lifted the garage door. I called back Thighs; he said he’d been in since six-thirty and hadn’t seen or heard from Robby.

Then I called Lindsay’s agent, Eddie Pomerantz, who had a house in East Hampton. I told him I’d be over in an hour.

He said, Today isn’t good, and in fact my whole weekend is booked solid, and I said, Have your attorney call me within the next ten minutes and he said, Awright, see you in an hour.

I called Lynne. She said she’d been thinking about me, and I said I’d been thinking about her. She was going to be home most of the day, going over the psychological evalu-ations of her kids for next year. I said I’d try and drop over, but not to hold her breath until I got there. She said she wouldn’t, but it would be lovely if I could find a few minutes.

I thought, I’ll have a wife and kids. I’ll be happy. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life longing for what Bonnie gave me.

When I went back into the bedroom, Bonnie was sitting on the bed again, cross-legged, seemingly communing with her feet. She didn’t look up. “Listen,” I said, “about before.

I’m sorry when I was ribbing you about killing Sy that I brought up…”

“My sterility.”

“Yeah. You know I go for the jugular. It was in bad taste.”

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“Actually, it was beyond bad taste. It was cruel.”

“I apologize.”

“Fine,” she said to her nicely arched soles. “Okay, let’s get back to work. Any other theories? Random thoughts?”

“Like what?”

“I’ve been thinking about Sy. I know I told you he didn’t seem worried, upset, anything like that. But on the other hand: he wasn’t a hundred percent himself.” She paused. “I feel uncomfortable talking about sex, but the last time we did it…he wasn’t there. I mean, he was okay in the performance department, although that in itself doesn’t mean a lot; Sy’s equipment wasn’t wired to his brain. But he wasn’t concentrating on me. And that was such a critical thing for him, tuning in on precisely what a woman wanted and fulfilling that want. It was much more important than the physical act itself. But all of a sudden, it was strictly mechanical. Like he had some extra time because he’d changed his plane reservation, so he called and had me come over. But when I got there, he was an actor walking through a part that didn’t interest him. He did what he had to do, but his mind was someplace else.”

“He was never preoccupied like that before?”

She shook her head. “No. But see, it’s nothing concrete.

It’s just a sense that a wife—or an ex-wife—gets about a man.

That he wasn’t really with me.”

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but could he have been cooling down on you?”

“No, because then he wouldn’t have had me come over.

If he’d just wanted sex and gorgeousness, he could have spent some time with Lindsay in her trailer. Or found someone else. Don’t forget; Sy was an unmarried heterosexu-al multimillionaire movie producer. With a hundred forty IQ and a thirty-two-352 / SUSAN ISAACS

inch waist. Women tend to find that attractive. But he wanted me that afternoon.”

“What for? I’m not being a shit now. I know why I would want you. Why would he want you?”

“Comfort. He could be himself with me. Well, as close to himself as Sy could ever get. I can’t say he wanted me for fun, because he took himself too seriously to really let loose and laugh. But he seemed to have a good time bird-watching, walking with me; it was such a change from the rest of his life. And he loved sitting out in back—he called it his ex-yard—drinking lemonade and gossiping. And the sex was good.” I waited for her to say, Not anything approaching the way it was with you, Stephen. Ah, Stephen: what a beautiful name. She said: “Sy and I knew how to please each other.”

“It’s nice that you had that.” Tramp, I thought. I was so steamed. I went to my closet and picked out a tie, one that Easton had gotten me four or five Christmases earlier. Naturally, it was tasteful: red and blue and pale-yellow stripes.

Bonnie didn’t seem to notice. “I know you have to get going, but just think for a minute. From your professional point of view: Did anyone say anything that would back up the feeling I got of Sy’s being preoccupied? Was there any kind of a change in him?”

I sat on the edge of the bed and started doing my collar buttons. She did not lean over to help. “That’s not an easy call to make,” I explained. “Sy had a talent—a genius—for being what people wanted him to be. Not just what you’ve told me about, in the sack. He could be tough with a Mikey, be intellectual with a film critic, be Mr. Chicken Soup with an old Jewish reporter. He didn’t seem to have any center.

You knew him better