Clandestine

"'And we, the citizens of Los Angeles, are the lucky benefactors of Fred Underhill's boyhood decision to seek the selfless life of a police officer. Item: while working as a patrolman in the Wilshire Division, Fred Underhill had more felony arrests to his credit than any officer at the station. Item: Fred Underhill had one of the highest academic averages ever to come out of the Police Academy. Item: Captain William Beckworth, Underhill's former watch commander at Wilshire, called him, "The greatest natural policeman I have ever encountered." Heady praise indeed, but backed up by fact: in February of this year, Officer Fred Underhill shot and killed the two armed robbers who had just robbed a market. His partner died in the shootout. Now the cracking of the baffling Margaret Cadwallader case, both within one year.

"'The Korean War rages on. Overseas we are at a standstill with the communist enemy. On the home front, the war against crime wages on. It is a war that will regrettably always be with us. Thank God men like Detective Fred Underhill will always be with us.'"

Lorna finished with a flourish and swooned in a parody of lovestruck awe. "Well, Officer Fred?" she said.

"They forgot to say I was tall, handsome, intelligent, and charming. That would have been the truth. However, they opted for horseshit—it reads better. They couldn't very well have said that I was an atheist draft dodger and, before you, a pussy-chaser on the prowl . . ."

"Freddy!"

"It's the truth. Oh, shit, Lorna, I'm so goddamned tired of this thing."

"Are you really, dear?"

"Yes."

"Then will you do me two favors?"

"Name them."

"Don't mention the case for the rest of the weekend."

"Okay. And?"

"And make love to me."

"Double okay." I reached for Lorna, and we fell laughing onto the bed.

Sometime later, we called room service for two trout dinners that arrived on a linen-covered pushcart, delivered by a bellboy who rapped discreetly on the door and called out softly, "Supper, folks!"

After eating, Lorna lit a cigarette and eyed me with warmth and much humor. Somehow it brought forth in me a huge rush of curiosity, and I said, "Turnabout, Lorna?"

"Turnabout?"

"Right. You wanted to know about the missing hours in my life . . ."

"All right, darling, turnabout. After the accident, much self-pity: feeling trapped, a saintly dead mother, a fat sister, a buffoon for a father, and all the goddamned operations—and false hopes and speculations and guilt and self-hatred and anger. And the detachment. That was the worst of all. Knowing I was not of this time and place—or any time and place. Then learning to walk all over again, and feeling joyous until the doctor told me I could never have children. Then awful, awful bitterness and the little lessons in acceptance."

"What do you mean, Lor?"

"I mean never knowing when my bad leg would go out completely, and I'd fall on my ass. It always seemed to happen when I was wearing a white dress. Learning to take stairs. Having to leave early for class when I knew there would be stairs to climb. The awful, gentle people who wanted to help. The men who thought I'd be an easy lay because I was crippled. They were right, you know. I was an easy lay."

"So was I, Lor."

"Anyway, then college, and law school, and books and painting and music and a few men and some kind of reconciliation with my family, and finally the D.A.'s office."

"And?"

"And what, Freddy?" Lorna's voice rose in exasperation. "You are so goddamned persistent! I know you want me to talk about the 'wonder'—whatever the hell it is—but I just don't feel it."

"Easy, sweetheart. I wasn't prying."

"You were and you weren't. I know you want to know everything about me, but give it time. I'm not the wonder."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not! You want to control the wonder. That's why you're a cop. Freddy, I want to be with you, but you can never control me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand that you're still afraid of things. I'm not anymore."

"Don't be oblique, goddamnit!"

"Shit," I said, feeling suddenly the weight of my carefully thought-out life collapse from three weeks of tension and expectation. "Wonder, justice, horseshit. I just don't know anymore."

"Yes, you do," Lorna said. "There's me. I'm not wonder or justice."

"What are you?"

"I'm your Lorna."

That night and early morning we didn't go sight-seeing on State Street or take a romantic walk on the beach, or tour historic Santa Barbara Mission. We went dancing—in our lemon-colored room—to the music, on the radio, of the Four Lads, the McGuire Sisters, Teresa Brewer, and the immortal big band of the late Glenn Miller.