"YOU A LIE!" someone shouted from the alleyway near where I walked downtown, where homeless men had congregated, and it sent me directly to my childhood. "You a damn lie!"
That was how people accused each other back in Rio Seco. Not "That's a lie," or "You're a liar."
You were the lie.
"I ain't no lie, you drunk-ass — "
The shouts faded when I left the hot sidewalk that smelled faintly of beer and pee and onions, off Spring Street, and went into the lobby of a beautifully restored building that used to be a toy factory. Two people were already in the elevator. The young woman held the door for me and smiled.
"Hi, I'm Donovan," she said. "I'm the publicist's assistant. What a great building!"
"It used to be like a Third World country on this block," the man said. Perfect pressed shirt. Artful stubble. He nodded. "Jeremiah. I'm one of Arthur's lawyers."
They looked at me expectantly. "FX Antoine," I said.
Donovan, whose hair was a shining auburn bob, said, "Oh, I loved your last article in Vogue! It was on Belize, right?"
Jeremiah looked sideways at me. "Your mom named you FX?" he said.
I smiled. People from my childhood didn't know the initials I used for my travel essays, because no one from home ever read them. I had just finished one about Oaxaca for Vogue, and an article on Bath for Travel and Leisure. At noon today, I'd gotten off a plane from Zurich. I was working on a Switzerland piece for Immerse, the funky travel magazine where I had regular assignments.
No one who read my essays or assigned them knew my real name.
"She did," I said to Jeremiah as the elevator door opened.
The loft had cement floors the color and texture of limestone cliffs, and ebony-wood furniture, and grass growing in pots. Arthur Graves's new place. He'd made a career by moving to a different city each year and writing a book, always about himself — a man who searched for the right apartment or house where he could paint, who always found a local woman to cook for him and another local woman to love him. He'd done Rio de Janeiro, Lisbon, San Francisco, and Avignon. After a year, he'd leave for another place. Another love.
Arthur Graves actually looked like his jacket photo — white-blond hair combed severely back from his tanned forehead and curling like commas behind his ears, black horn-rimmed glasses. Very British. He stood near a table piled with empanadas and fruit, his new book propped on a side table with a vase full of white roses. He'd been in Argentina this time. Not Buenos Aires but Cordoba, and the first chapter had been published in Immerse. So here we were — magazine writers, editors and publicists, people from the Los Angeles Times, and people from Hollywood because this book was being made into a movie.
I was headed for the empanadas when my phone rang. Rick, my editor at Immerse. "Hey, FX, you at the launch party?"
"Yes," I said.
"Tony's there with you?"
"No," I said, bending to get a plate.
"Come on, get him out of the house. This guy from The Wall Street Journal said he might come. He wants to cover Immerse, and if Tony's at the party, that makes it worthwhile."
Tony had just won a Pulitzer for a photo essay on children without fathers — he'd gone to rural Mexico, Nigeria, Kentucky, Montana, and Iraq and shot pictures of children holding cell phones, talking to the absent fathers whose portraits were beside them. "Tony doesn't go out on Wednesdays. And I'm not staying long — I need to go home and sleep. I only came to check out some new connections."
"Try," Rick said. "I'll be there in a while."
I stood near a window, looking outside at the heat waves shimmering off the skyline and the parked cars below glinting like silver teeth. We were on the ﬁfth ﬂoor. Down there, homeless men were gathering in an alley, settling along the wall though it was not near sunset yet. From here, the green pup tents, brown cardboard squares, and shopping carts made the alley look like a cul-de-sac with absolute boundaries and property lines. Two men were shirtless, their dark backs wide with muscle.
Grady Jackson might be out there, arranging cardboard or sleeping however he had in the streets for so many years. Grady Jackson, who'd been a walking fool, who'd made me know I was a walking fool way back when I was ﬁfteen. He brought me here to LA the ﬁrst time, when he stole a car and I climbed into the backseat. I had thought of Grady every day of my life since then. But he was a fool for love, too, and I would never be. He was homeless, living somewhere in an alley or under an overpass, and I lived in Los Feliz in an Art Deco apartment building.
We had been kids together, and he fell in love with Glorette. Then he'd stolen something from her — the man she loved — so she'd have to marry him. But she could never love him, and when she left him, he lost his mind. He came here and lived on Skid Row. Glorette had lost her heart, and ﬁlled the emptiness every day with the smoky vapors of crack.
Excerpted from Take One Candle Light a Room by Susan Straight. Copyright 2010 by Susan Straight. Excerpted by permission of Pantheon. All rights reserved.