Dating Is Murder

“Honey. How many of your acquaintances share your political values?”

I shrugged. “Lots. I don’t know. Most of them.”

“And how many of those people do you want to get naked with?”

I thought about it. The list was not long.

Joey smiled. “I rest my case.”

Three hours later I’d dropped Joey in Los Feliz, where her husband’s BMW was getting detailed, and got myself back to West Hollywood. It was now fully dark and pouring rain. I was inching closer to accepting Simon’s alleged profession. Since shooting up together wasn’t on my romantic agenda, what did I care?

But when had I acquired a romantic agenda?

Frozen and wet, I walked up the steps to my building. My down-the-hall neighbor was struggling with the front door, armed with groceries, and I ran to unlock it.

“Turkey?” I asked, nodding toward his grocery bag.

He groaned. “Darling, you don’t even want to know. Seventeen for di

“Thanks,” I said, stopping at the mailbox alcove. “But I’m working.”

I was glad Biological Clock was shooting. If you’re not with family on major holidays, people worry, calling to see if you’re being sufficiently festive, yelling at you if you eat Chee-tos for Christmas di

I retrieved from my mail cubbyhole a huge assortment of holiday catalogs and some bills, and turned on my cell phone. It buzzed and pulsed, alerting me to all the unplayed messages acquired while it had been turned off. I ignored it. How had Doc talked me into a cell phone? They were more trouble than pets. My phone changed sounds, a

“It’s Simon. Playing hard to get?”

I tried to conjure up Doc’s face, but Doc-in-my-head had gone out to di

“Lucky me. Okay. You had questions.”

“Are you a DEA agent?”

“Hell, no. Where’d you get that idea?”

I sank to my knees, picking up dropped mail. “Thank God. So what do you do for a living?” A blast of cold heralded the arrival of people dressed in pilgrim hats, doing a rock rendition of “Simple Gifts” in three-part harmony.

“Is there a church service going on there?” Simon asked.

“Of sorts. I’m in the lobby of my building.”

“Go upstairs. Call me in ten minutes.”

I didn’t dwell on how he knew I lived on an upper floor; I was too relieved to know he was not in the Drug Enforcement Agency. Relief is a beautiful, underrated feeling. I reached my apartment and stuck my key in the lock.

The door was already unlocked.

Uh-oh.

I hesitated, my hand on the doorknob, thinking, Maybe I left the apartment unlocked this morning while Ruta’s voice yelled, Run. Run while you have the chance.

Too late.

From the other side of the door a voice called out, “Wollstonecraft? Is that you?” A voice I knew as well as my own.

“Yes, Mother,” I called back, closing my eyes. “It’s me.”

27

“ A ctually, ‘It is I.’ ”

My mother sat curled on the sofa, a theatrical piece of furniture in leopard skin. My mother wore white. Her pants and caftan, drapey as a tablecloth, pooled around her, obscuring her small frame. The arrangement was so artful it would be a pity for her to stand and spoil the effect, and my mother, in fact, did not stand.

“What?” I said.

“You don’t say, ‘It’s me,’ dear, but ‘It’s I.’ Are you going to give me a kiss?”

I leaned over my mother, feeling graceless and large, and touched my lips to her very soft cheek. She closed the coffee-table book Aerial Views of Los Angeles, and smiled. “You look well. My word, have you always had those breasts?”

“Since I was twelve.”

“Oh, good. I’d hate to think you had them enlarged. Mine have always been small. A more pleasing look, especially as you age. The well-endowed look matronly.”

My mother was pretty much as I remembered her. Her hair was a touch more silver, the blond I’d inherited from her giving way gracefully. She wore no makeup, and I could smell the moisturizer she’d used for years.

I said, “How did you get in?”

“The plumber.”

“What plumber?”

“The woman plumber, in the plumber suit. An effeminate young man let me into the building, and the plumber let me into the apartment. A little kitschy, isn’t it? I would never put animal skin against these purples.” She gestured to the walls and carpet. “Of course, I wouldn’t use animal skin in any case. Even faux.”

“It’s a sublet,” I said, distractedly. “Cheap. Almost a house-sit. For my friend Hubie. Was this plumber… plumbing?”

“I have no idea. Gay, I suppose. Your friend. They can be kitschy, can’t they? Generally with more taste than this.”

I perched on a chair. Maybe the building super had let the plumber in. Maybe I had a leak I didn’t know about, dripping into the apartment beneath me. These things happened. I’d call the super. “How’s life at the ashram, Mom? I thought you-”

“Dear, is it so difficult to use my given name? I’ve requested-”

“Sorry. Estelle.”

“No, the new one.”

“Sorry. Prana. Didn’t you say only an act of God could get you back to L.A.?”

“It was an act of God that brought me.” My mother set the coffee-table book on a coffee table already cluttered with books. “I am concerned for your chi.”

I stood. “Okay, let me just change before we launch into… chi. Something to drink?” I detoured to the kitchen for a diet root beer.

My mother, galvanized, followed me. “Green tea, if you have any.”

“I don’t.”

“Champagne, then. Or wine. Wollie, I came as soon as I heard.”

“Heard what?” Being Estelle/Prana’s daughter entailed feeding her cue lines to her monologues. I hadn’t seen her in five years, but I could do my part in a coma.

“I have not been off-ashram since the autumnal equinox, but this week was my turn at market, so yesterday, in the checkout lane in Solvang, I saw it. TV Guide.”

“Yes?” I found a bottle of wine, some cheap Chardo

“Need I describe the effect it had on me? My daughter-on the cover?”

I stopped to gape at my mother. “I’m on the cover of TV Guide?”

My mother stared back, cheekbones high, nostrils flaring. “Your name. Your photo, the size of a tiny stamp. One among dozens, and the headline ‘Who Will We Remember Six Months from Now? And Why Do We Care?’ Despicable grammar. So you’re on this television show, Biology Today-”

“Biological Clock.”

“-a participant in-what is it, some science program?”

“Reality TV,” I said.

“What is that?”

“Television that uses real people in situations-. Never mind, you wouldn’t like it. It’s a job, Mother, temporary, something I fell into and-”

“My God, I used to lie awake nights, fearing my children would one day be drafted. And now my daughter, a willing tool of the patriarchy-”

“Mom. Reality TV-okay, it’s morally decadent. I’m not out there curing cancer or shutting down nuclear reactors, but I’m making the rent, paying off credit cards-”

“Please elevate yourself to the level of this discussion. I speak from a spiritual plane.” My mother’s hands gripped the Formica counter. She was fine-boned and fragile, more delicate than I’d ever been. Her forearms brought to mind some exotic bird. “Don’t you realize the danger, that your image miniaturized and multiplied millions of times over, on television screens everywhere-”