Going Home Read online

  We walked slowly up on the beach on the other side and Chris tied the horse to a long piece of drift wood. Again, there was no one on the beach but us. It looked like a movie and felt like a dream. He stretched out in the sun and closed his eyes, making no move toward me. He was doing what he wanted to do and I was free to do the same.

  “Do you always run your shootings like this, Chris?” I was stretched out on the sand, with a respectable distance between us, my head was propped up and I was looking out to sea.

  “Not always. Just most of the time. There’s no point working if it’s going to be a drag.” Apparently he really believed that.

  “Joe says you’re good.”

  “Joe’s got his head up his ass, but he’s a nice guy. He’s been giving me a lot of work.”

  “Me too. And I need it. He’s nice to work for.” We were roaming around comfortable subjects and it seemed a little funny to me to be making small talk about work as we lay naked in the sun.

  “Where are you from, Gill? Back East?”

  “Yes. New York, but I hate to admit it.”

  “That’s a bad place. Bad for the head. I wouldn’t go near it flying 40,000 feet above the ground.”

  “You’re probably right. I’ve been here three months and I’m beginning to feel that way myself.”

  “Married?” It seemed a little late to ask, but maybe that was his style.

  “No. Divorced. You?”

  “Nope. Free as that bird over the water.” He pointed to a gull drifting slowly downward in a lazily swooping arc. “It’s a nice way to be.”

  “Lonely sometimes though. Isn’t it for you?” He didn’t look as though he’d suffered from much loneliness. He didn’t have that sharp look about the eyes that one gets from trying to survive.

  “I guess it’s lonely sometimes, but . . . well, I work a lot. And I guess I don’t think about being lonely.” I envied him and wondered briefly if he was living with a girl, but I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to know. He was the first man I’d met in a long time who had guts and style and a sense of humor. “You look like a thinker. Are you?” He had rolled over on his stomach and was watching me with an amused grin.

  “A thinker?” He nodded. I was stalling . . . yes . . . I was a thinker . . . what was wrong with that? “Yeah, I’m a thinker.”

  “And you read a lot.” I nodded. “And you’re lonely as hell.” I nodded again, but what he was saying was beginning to bother me. It was as though he lived on the top of Mount Olympus and was looking down.

  “And you talk too much.” I stood up and looked at him for a second before walking toward the water and slipping into the waves. I liked him but I wanted to be alone for a bit. He seemed to stand very close and see a lot. And I suspected I could care about him. A lot. About what he thought, and what he was. I even liked how he looked. . . . Chris Matthews was what I’d been waiting for, but now that he’d arrived I was afraid.

  A sudden splash in the water next to me caught me by surprise and I turned quickly to see if I was being attacked by a local sea monster. But it was only Chris swimming by, and then turning back to swim at me again. He was really just a giant kid. I waited for him to dive at me from underwater, or try to dunk me, but he didn’t, he just swam toward me and then kissed me as the waves swept by.

  “Let’s go back.” He had a quiet look on his face as he said it and I was glad. I was getting tired of the games.

  We swam toward the shore side by side and I started to walk toward where we had lain before, but he took me by the hand for a moment and looked at me.

  “There’s a nice cove back there. I’ll show you.” He kept my hand in his and walked me slowly around the point to a tiny cove nestled in the tall dune grass, like a secret garden. And suddenly I felt stronger and more desirable than I’d felt in years. I wanted him and he knew it and I knew he wanted me. . . . But it was too soon, I hardly knew him . . . it couldn’t be right . . . it . . . I was scared.

  “Chris . . . I . . .”

  “Shhh . . . everything’s going to be okay.” He wrapped his arms around me as we stood in the tall grass with our feet dug into the sand, and then I felt my body swaying with his, until we lay in the sand, and I was his.

  2

  Do you do this a lot, Chris?” The sun was still bright in the sky and we were still lying in his secret cove.

  “What? Screw? . . . Yeah . . . I do this a lot.”

  “No, you smartass bastard. I mean like this. Here, in this cove. With someone you don’t even know.” I was serious. It had all seemed a little bit set up, the way he knew about the hidden cove and all.

  “What do you mean? Hell, I know you. Your name is . . . uh . . . hang on just a sec and I’ll get it . . . your name is . . .” He scratched his head with a feeble-minded look on his face and I felt like hitting him, but instead I laughed.

  “Okay. I get the message. Mind my own business, right?”

  “Maybe. I’ll let you know when you bug me. New Yorkers just like to ask a lot of questions.”

  “Oh . . . is that so?” I looked mock pompous as I said it but I knew he was right. New Yorkers are nosier than Californians for some reason, probably because they’re used to living in closer quarters with more people underfoot in a world of terrifying anonymity, so when they sink their teeth into someone for questioning they go all the way to the bone. “Wanna go for a ride, Gill?”

  “On the beach?” He nodded as he scrounged in the sand looking for shells. “I’d love it. But I’ll ride behind you this time.”

  “Bareback okay with you?”

  “Terrific.”

  “So are you, New York.” His words were the barest whisper, and he leaned over and kissed me as he pulled me slowly to my feet. Everything he did had a sensual quality about it, as though he enjoyed life to the fullest, but as though what he liked best was making love. “Here . . . I found a present for you.” He pressed something into my hand as we walked toward the horse, and I looked down to see what it was. With his sense of humor, I figured I’d be lucky if it wasn’t a jelly fish he’d found on the beach. But it wasn’t. It was a sand dollar. A strange fossil-like shell with imprints of a flower on either side. It was so delicate you could almost see through it, and it was lovely.

  “Hey . . . it’s beautiful, Chris, thanks.” I reached up and kissed him on the neck and felt another stirring deep within me. I hadn’t had a man since I’d come to California, for a while before even, and Chris was quite a man.

  “Quit kissing me or I’ll make love to you right here on the open beach.”

  “Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.”

  I was teasing and he knew it, but he grabbed me by the arm, spun me around, and the next thing I knew we were lying on the beach making love again. And when we stopped we both broke into delighted chuckles.

  “You’re crazy. Do you know that, Mr. Matthews?”

  “You forced me into it, so don’t blame me.”

  “Bullshit. And if you’re trying to make me feel guilty, forget it. I’m glad.”

  “So am I. Now . . . as I was saying, let’s go for a ride.” He unbuckled the saddle and put it down on the sand, stroking the horse’s head and flanks with a knowing hand, and then he jumped gracefully onto the mare’s back and held out a hand to me.

  “Whatcha waiting for, Gill? Chicken?”

  “No, something else. Happy. You’re nice to look at.” And so he was, sitting tall and proud astride the sandy-colored horse, his bronzed flesh standing out against her pale hide, and the grace of their two bodies making me think of poetry I’d read as a girl. Chris looked so beautiful.

  “You’re nice to look at too, now hop up.” He gave me a hand and I slid up behind him, put my hands around his waist, and leaned into him as we sailed into the wind. It was the most marvelous feeling I could ever remember. Racing down the beach on a pale golden mare with a man I loved . . . loved? . . . Chris? . . . I hardly knew him. But it didn’t matter, I was already in love wi
th him. From that first day on.

  We galloped up and down the beach until sunset and then took a hasty swim before reluctantly taking our leave.

  “Do you want to swim the mare back to the other side?” I asked. I was a little worried, the tide was coming in, but he had seen it too.

  “No, we’d better go by the road this time. It’s less fun but it makes more sense.”

  “It does, huh? You’re beginning to make me wonder if you just swam her over so you could make me take my clothes off.” I hadn’t even thought of that at the time.

  “Is that what you think?” He looked hurt and I was sorry I’d said it. “Well, you happen to be right.” He let out a delighted laugh, and I stood watching him again. The giant boy who’d taken my heart at water-pistol point. Not bad.

  “What’s next on your agenda, Conceito Bandito? You leave me tied naked to a telephone pole till morning?” He would be capable of it.

  “No. I feed you. How does that sound?”

  “Intravenous or regular?”

  “You’re disgusting, Gillian. Regular, of course. The Watson House, the best Bolinas has to offer. Have you ever been there?”

  “Nope.”

  “Wait and see.” We got back on the horse and trotted slowly down the beach to the part that belonged to the state, then walked the horse slowly past the empty parking lot to the road. It was a fifteen-minute ride into Bolinas and we got there just as the sun was setting; it seemed as though the entire world were lit in red and gold.

  We stopped in front of a small dilapidated Victorian house and tied up the horse as I looked around. There were a number of hippies wandering in and out of the house and a discreet sign said “The Watson House,” but it offered no further information as to what it was.

  “What is this place?”

  “A restaurant, dopey. What did you think?”

  “How do I know? Hey . . . by the way, I have to call my neighbor and tell her I’ll be late. She’s taking care of my little girl.”

  “That’s okay. They have a phone inside.” He swung slowly up the steps to the house and opened the screen door without knocking. It had the look of a private house belonging to a large family and certainly no suggestion of a restaurant about it. Vast quantities of laundry hung on a clothesline, and a strange assortment of bicycles and motorcycles stood outside, while two cats and a dog played in the grass. It had a friendly, homey look to it which appealed to me and seemed well-suited to Chris Matthews.

  “Hi, gang. What’s doing?” Chris walked straight into the kitchen and sniffed into a pot on a brilliantly clean, museum-piece stove. There were three girls in the kitchen and a man. The man wore his hair to his waist, tied neatly back with a leather thong. He was wearing what looked like a pajama top over his jeans, and it probably was, but what struck me most were the bright, kindly eyes that stood out above his beard.

  Without moving a single muscle in his face, his eyes seemed to smile and say a dozen welcoming things. The girls were all pretty, young, and simply dressed.

  “Gillian, this is Bruce . . . Anna, Penny, and Beth. They live here.” Bruce and the girls all said hi, and Chris shepherded me back to a little room decorated in cheerful Victoriana and Tiffany lamps.

  “What is this place, Chris? It’s neat.”

  “Isn’t it? It’s actually a hippie commune, but to support themselves they run a restaurant, and it’s the best goddam food this side of the bay. You should try the escargots, they’re terrific.”

  “I will.” And I did, and they were. And so was the coq au vin, and the homemade bread, and the salad, and the mousse au chocolat and the tarte aux fraises. It was a royal repast. Chris had been right, the food was superb. But there was more to it than that. The friendliness of the place was endearing too. I had been right on the way in—it had the feeling of a home with many children in it. There were twenty-seven people living there at the time, and each one contributed his or her efforts to the restaurant. They drifted in and out as we sat there in the candlelight at one of the eight small tables. Everyone seemed to know Chris, and a few stopped and sat at our table for a few minutes before going into the kitchen, or back upstairs.

  “Do you come here a lot?”

  “Yes. Especially in the summer. I rent a small shack in Bolinas and sometimes I just come by to bullshit with the gang. Sometimes I come here to eat. But only on special occasions.” He was teasing me gently, but he had a nice way of doing it. His smile lit up his face as he did, and his eyes said that he meant no harm. He was a gentle man.

  “How old is your little girl?” He seemed only vaguely interested, but it was nice of him to ask.

  “She’ll be five next month. And she’s something of a terror. Her main ambition in life is to become a cowboy. If she’d known we’d spent the day with a horse, and without her, she wouldn’t speak to me for a week. I think she was under the impression that we came out here to be cowboys.”

  “Maybe we could take her riding sometime. Is she a brave kid?”

  “Brave enough. She’d love it. I was her age when I started.”

  “I figured, but you don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to Western Saddle. I could see that too.” I blushed faintly and wound myself up to say something insulting, but then broke into a laugh and threw up my hands in defeat.

  “You’re right.”

  We talked on for another hour or so, of nothing in particular, California mostly, and work, and why the simple life was better for both of us, when a group came in that looked vaguely familiar.

  “Whatcha looking at?” Chris had noticed me looking at them.

  “Nothing. I thought I knew those people, but I don’t think I do.” They were three hippies much like Chris and the ones in the house, and I think it was just the familiar type that had struck me.

  “You know them?” He looked surprised.

  “No. I just thought I did.”

  “Well let’s find out. That’s really funny.” He signaled to them to come over to us and I began to wish I were dead.

  “Chris . . . no . . . really . . . look, I . . . But then I knew where I had seen them before. They were Chris’s crew. He saw the recognition in my eyes and he and his boys started to laugh. They had heard the brief exchange and knew Chris was up to one of his tricks again.

  “Oh you big, lousy bastard, Chris Matthews. . . . Hi, boys. Nice to see you again. How did the fight wind up? Did anyone drown the account guys from Carson?”

  “No, they went back in the jeep almost as soon as you two left. And we spent the afternoon drinking wine with Joe and the models. They were paid for the day so we all figured what the hell. How was it with you?” They seemed to be addressing Chris more than me, and I let him carry the ball. He also wanted to know how they felt about the shooting and what they hoped they had gotten on film. Everyone seemed to feel it had gone well, and I was relieved for Joe Tramino from Carson. I would have hated to have him suffer for our craziness. Our? . . . Well, I had ridden off with Chris, and that was bad enough. They hadn’t been expecting that from their “stylist from New York,” but then again neither had I.

  We paid the check at the Watson House then and the five of us ambled outside where Chris’s truck, the car, and the horse trailer stood near our mare. It was nice to see her again. She reminded me of what had happened on the beach.

  “I’ll take the car. Thanks for dropping it off.” They said goodnight and took charge of the horse as we hopped into Chris’s somewhat dubious chariot. As Chris fought with the choke, I wasn’t sure I was going to enjoy driving back over the winding mountain road in that, but maybe with Chris I would.

  As it turned out, it was an easy drive. There was no fog that night, and the moon lit up the road with a lovely silver glow.

  I sang old ballads that I had known as a child, and once in a while Chris joined in. We looked at each other in the moonlight, and kissed from time to time, and very little was said. We didn’t need to. It was just nice to be there.
r />   I saw the entrance to the freeway with regret and wished that there were a longer way home. I hated to see all the people and cars again. I had liked our lonely mountain road . . . and our deserted beach.

  “Where do you live, Gill?” We were already crossing the bridge, and it was pretty to see the lights of Sausalito, Tiburon, and Belvedere on one side of the bay and San Francisco on the other. Usually the fog was in by sundown, so it was a rare sight.

  “I live in the Marina. On Bay.”

  “Fine.” He took the first turn off, I gave him the address, and we were home in a few minutes.

  “This’ll be fine, Chris. I have to pick up Sam next door.”

  “Sam?” He raised an eyebrow and looked surprised.

  “My little girl.” He nodded, and I was pleased to think he might have been jealous.

  “Shall I wait, or will that screw up your scene?”

  “No, that would be nice. I’ll be right out.” I rang my neighbor’s bell and went inside to scoop my half-sleeping child off their couch. She was groggy but not in a deep sleep yet. And I was surprised to realize that it was only nine o’clock. I thanked the neighbors and went out to find Chris sitting on our stoop. I put a finger to my lips and handed him the key, so as not to wake Sam. She had already drifted back to sleep in my arms.

  He looked at her for a moment and then nodded his head in approval as he turned to open the door, and then Sam’s croaky four-and-a-half-year-old voice rang out in the night.

  “Who’s he, Mommy?” I grinned and Chris laughed. He had the door open and I set her down inside.

  “This is Chris Matthews, Sam. And this is Samantha . . . now, time for bed, young lady. I’ll get your pajamas and then you can have a glass of milk if you want.”