Nora

By Scott Steward

Revised June 4, 2022

Nora’s dead. The words lingered heavy and grey on the screen of my laptop. Matter of fact. Unfair. Impossible. I knew they rang true somehow. The message came through Facebook messenger sent from my good friend James who married Nora seven years prior. I texted him my condolences. “Thanks man, Nora really thought highly of you, I love you brother”. This is how we communicate grief in the modern era. Cold. Distant. Safe. Impersonal. The human voice is no longer in fashion. The system that gave us optimal productivity gives little room for the agency of human interaction. The funeral would be held the day before Halloween in Los Angeles. I was back from Europe. I told him I would attend.

My mind wandered back to the last time I saw Nora. It was springtime earlier that year. James and Nora had invited me to dinner. They said my former roommate Zoey would be there. Beautiful Zoey, the half Japanese goddess of samurai lineage from my college days. Oh, the elusive Zoey. The girl in love with Louis from the French air force. The girl I wanted to love but never did. The girl in love with trains that rumbled through town at night near the house we shared. She teased me with her nakedness but always kept herself at a safe distance. Eventually time and circumstance forgot about her. The girl that never fell into place. I looked forward to seeing her again.

I first met Nora at her wedding. There she was radiant in her white gown with her big blue eyes and a hopeful smile that gave light to the room and everyone around her. She was elegant. Charming. She seemed to float as she moved around the grand hall of Chateau Marmot in Los Angeles.  “You’re supposed to tell me I look ravishing.” Those were the first words she ever said to me. I only met her twice more until her death. Even still she had charmed me with her brilliance. She was a screen writer and a producer. She co-wrote and produced a low budget film with her ex-husband before meeting James. The last time I saw her was at the dinner party.

I remember it was dreary day in Los Angeles when I stepped off the train at Union Station. It was overcast. A light drizzle was in the air. I felt it against my face when the wind blew just right. I descended the escalator from the concrete platform into the belly of the sprawling station and into the long hallways filled with people filing their way to their destination. Mine led me through the front entrance of the Art Deco grand hallway outside into the filthy city. I used to go to Phillipe’s for their French dip sandwiches. There has always been some debate on who came up with the first French Dip sandwich. Both Phillipe’s and Cole’s make that claim. Cole’s was a more elegant establishment closer to downtown. I’ve been to both frequently and love them both so I’m not one to weigh in. Cole’s has a speakeasy behind an nondescript red door in the back of the place called the Varnish. I suppose that gives them an edge over Phillipe’s. I once met Nora and James at Phillipe’s for dinner with their boys a few years prior. That was the second time Nora and I met. The next day would be the last day I ever saw her smile.

I had some time before I needed to be in Silverlake for dinner. I wandered through downtown Los Angeles. It is a filthy city. A city filled with human refuse. Tent camps of homeless people are sprawled on the sidewalk of bridges overlooking the 101 freeway. The smell of urine kicks up when buses pass by. I always quiz at the bemused faces of European visitors as they see their dreams of California die in the death throes of cognitive dissonance on the squalid streets of Los Angeles.

After stepping outside of Union Station, I crossed Alameda Street toward Olvera Street Park and headed in the direction of the 101 freeway overpass and Little Tokyo. I made my way to the King Eddy at the edge of skid row on South Los Angeles Street. There are old men still drinking at the King Eddy who claim to know the great writers of Los Angeles. “I remember him.” One old man said while we discussed a particular writer. “He would come in here and pretend he could write.” Though I wanted to believe the old guy I suspect he was just trying to get a free drink out of me.

I pushed the heavy black doors of the King Eddy open and followed the flood of light into the darkness. A white-haired man sitting at the bar turned around and said “Hey man! Let me get you a drink!”. He thought he knew me. I have one of those kinds of faces. “Sure” I said. “Thank you so much”.

I made my way past the white haired man’s party of young tattooed women and hipster guys who wear their souls on their sleeve. I found a seat next to an old man wearing a red jacket, red pants, and a red hat. “Are you part of the entourage?” the old man asked with a wry look in his eye. He was drinking a beer. “Not that I’m aware of” I replied dryly. I ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon from a limited selection of canned beer. There was nothing on tap at this place back then. That was part of the charm of this drinking hole. The white haired man was prattling on about the built in patriarchy of chess to his troupe of sycophants who hung onto his every word. “The queen is the most powerful piece on the board” I said, interrupting his narrative. “Yes, but every piece on the board is there to protect the king”. We debated for a few minutes before I realized the man I was talking with was a famous comedian and actor. “What’s that book you’re reading?” one of the tattooed women asked me. It was “A Manual for Cleaning Women” by Lucia Berlin. “Oh, just something I picked up today”.

Before stopping by the King Eddy I visited The Last Bookstore a few blocks up the street. It’s a massive used bookstore with vaults, stacks, a myriad of sculptures and tunnels made from old books. Artists can rent space to sell their creations. I get lost in bookstores. The minds of thousands of people with their unique view of the universe bleeding onto paper bound between careful covers waiting to be explored like a new lover or bond with a friend you seem to have known for years. I wandered upstairs past the tunnel sculpture made of books and the iron bank vault which housed the horror novel section. I walked past a nook and the memories of a lover pressed against the bookshelf with panties around her ankles, dress hiked up, a fistful of hair in my hands as I slipped deep inside her. It was the memory of fingers and mouths and delicate things sliding down soft thighs guided by insatiable hands, rough hands, impatient hands and mouths and tongues having their way. The hot breath of danger. A dance of muffled moans among the stacks of books; of careful ears listening for footfalls on creaking floorboards. The memory of two lovers drowned in the moment. Drowned in the ecstasy of each other where at that moment in time nothing mattered. Just this thing we carved from the world and existing only in memory.

The driver stopped in front of a craftsman style house with a manicured lawn and a couple of cars in the driveway which ran along the side of the house. I walked up to the door and knocked. The familiar face of a friend I had not seen in some time greeted me with a warm smile and a hug. His beautiful wife, Nora, threw her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek. I smelled seafood boiling from the kitchen. “Hey man, it’s been a while. What, a year or so since Nate and I took you drinking in LA?” James said, smiling broadly. “It’s great to see you man.” He said as he gave me another hug. “Look who’s here!” he pointed to Zoey who was walking from the kitchen. “You look amazing!” she beamed as she hugged me. Her smile. Goddamn her smile.

The four of us sat down at the dining room table. We drank beer and wine and ate a delicious shrimp boil with redskin potatoes, corn on the cob, and homemade beer bread. After we finished eating James pulled out the whiskey. I don’t remember the brand, but it went down easy. Zoey and Nora continued with the wine. Nora was a writer and producer of movies. Her ex-husband was a producer. She was fascinated by my career which I won’t go into here. She wanted to write the script for a movie about my life.

We were all getting drunk. We moved to the living room and James made us some horrible cocktail with lemonade and vodka. I drank it anyway. He and I went down the street to the Silversun liquor store for some more Whiskey. “This is the liquor store that inspired the band name for the Silversun Pickups” James slurred. We continued to drink and talk about life.

We talked about sex. My then recent ex-girlfriend came up in conversation. Zoey was very interested in my sexual exploits. I detailed swank sex parties I attended near the Capitol in DC. Orgies, and sex parties at our friend’s place in Maryland. I got into detail about the time I wrapped my ex up like a mummy in plastic wrap and deliciously pleasured and tortured her with a vibrator as she lay helpless and writhing and at my mercy. Zoey brought up fisting and as I was about to speak Nora stood up and shouted at me. “She obviously was a troubled woman. She had problems from her childhood!” Nora shouted. “She was probably abused as a child or has some psychological trauma!” Nora stood up and stormed out of the room. I looked at James and Zoey.

“I should go.” Zoey said as she gathered her things and called for a car. “That was uncomfortable.” I said as I looked at James. “Don’t worry about it man.” He brought me another drink. “She gets emotional about shit like that sometimes.” He took a drink.

“Look, you’re not going anywhere tonight. I want you to stay here. You can sleep on the sofa.” He said while putting his hand on my shoulder. We drank until around three or four am. We finally called it a night. James brought out a pillow and some blankets. James hugged me. “I missed you man.” He said while patting my back. “Goodnight.” I told him. I passed out.

“I’m sorry I shouted at you.”

The voice came from the darkness. A woman was sitting next to me on the sofa. I sat up. “It’s okay.” I said. Our mouths met. Our tongues explored. Hands touched. The smell of her fragrance penetrated my senses. I held her head in my hands with my fingers in her hair and kissed her deeply. I nibbled her ear and she took a deep breath. My hands roamed freely and found themselves under her shirt, cupping her breasts. I lifted the loose garment up and took her nipple in my mouth, lightly flicking it against my teeth. Her moans made me hard. I felt her flood for me when I explored her with my fingers. My tongue deep inside her mouth. I penetrated her with two of my fingers. I slid them in and out until I was pounding her hard and she was a wild slavering mess. She held me tight when I brought her over the brink of orgasm. I pulled back and looked at her through a drunken haze. “Nora?” I whispered. “Yes love.” She replied. My god. What I have I done?

“I want to fuck you.”

She whispered into my ear as she grabbed my engorged cock. “This is nice.” She taunted as she stood up and went back to the bedroom. “I’ll let you go back to sleep”, she whispered. I could almost see her smile in the darkness.

The morning sun was cruel and unforgiving as it bled across the living room onto the sofa where I slept. I was still drunk. Nora was already awake. She cooked me some eggs. “Eat” she told me. I felt like shit. The reality of the situation hit me hard. After finishing breakfast, I sat with Nora in the back yard. James and their children were still asleep. We were seated at a patio table on a large wooden deck. We were surrounded by a lush garden.

“So you write?” Nora asked.

“I dabble. I have a self-published poetry book that I’m not happy about and a sizeable following on Twitter, if that counts.”

“Let me see.” I showed her my blog where I compiled the story I wrote from a series of Tweets. I was terrified. I felt like a fool. I watched as she read the story. She was silent for a long time.

“Incredible” she said finally. “This is Hemingway. It’s James Joyce. It needs some editing, but this is amazing work.”

She looked beautiful. The way she looked at me took me aback. She told me she wasn’t happy with James. She said she caught him masturbating to porn on their wedding day in Ireland. She got furious when she told me how he bungled their retirement and didn’t contribute to his teachers 401k for ten years. The stress of taking care of James’s Dad did not help. She was crying. “I want a do over.” She said. She held my face. “I want to fuck you.” she said as she looked into my eyes. She held my hand in hers. I dodged the question. “I would like that.” I lied. James was still sleeping in the bedroom inside. I’m loyal to him. I thought the woman who visited me in the night was Zoe but then I remembered she left after Nora freaked out. Everything was surreal.

That was the last time I saw Nora. I later took an assignment in Europe. When I returned a few months later I received the email about Nora. I couldn’t believe it.

The funeral was held on a sunny day in October. The day before Halloween. Nora’s father and his longtime girlfriend was there at the house. They flew in from Ireland. James was disoriented. He seemed lost. Nora’s ashes rested in a pewter urn in the china cabinet in the dining room next to the sofa where she tried to seduce me. I was disoriented as well. The reality of the situation was almost too much to bear. I was strong for James. On our way to the church, we had to turn back because James forgot the urn. I should have made sure he had it. I held Nora’s remains in my lap while James drove. I was conscious of the weight of what remained in my lap. When we arrived at the church James looked at me. “I should take Nora’s ashes into the church, otherwise people might think you two had a thing going” he said, smiling.

Much of living a fulfilling life is coming to terms with the darkness of who we are.

The End