VILLA NEAPOLIS was the kind of motel for which Petronius might have written the advertising pamphlet. Its architect had crossed the villas of early Rome and the modem Mediterranean and the resulting hybrid structure of wood and stucco was arresting if not aesthetically commendable. The sixty apartments of Villa Neapolis, on two levels, sprawled indolently across the summit of a long hill. From an upper veranda, the view was spectacular—a patch of the blue ocean behind a moist gauze haze to the west, a woodland of green knolls rising before a university campus to the east, and, directly below, beyond the great cement circle of heated swimming pool and multicolored patio lounges, beyond the sharply descending gravel road lined with royal palms, the asphalt ribbon of Sunset Boulevard twisted through The Briars.
Emil Ackerman had made the reservations at the Villa Neapolis--a suite for Dr. Chapman, a double for Paul and Horace, a single for Cass, and a single for Miss Selby—because the motel was relatively new and patronized by passing celebrities, because the proprietor was beholden to Ackerman for some past favor and agreeable to a cut rate for two weeks, and because the location was but a mile east of The Village Green and Romola Place, where the Women's Association building stood. Dr. Chapman, usually too preoccupied to appreciate or disapprove of any transient habitation, had been impressed with the Villa Neapolis and had been effusively grateful to his political patron.
Now it was early Sunday morning, and Dr. Chapman, in sport shirt and linen slacks, sat at a white metal table beneath the shade of a large striped umbrella eating breakfast with Horace and Cass. Dr. Chapman picked thoughtfully at his eggs and bacon, Horace worked steadily at his pancakes, and Cass ignored his French toast to watch an awkward sixteen-year-old blond girl pad from the cabanas to the diving board.
"Well," said Dr. Chapman, cutting his bacon with a fork, "I'm glad we're going to wind it up here."
"I think you told me—but I'm afraid I've forgotten—how many volunteers did we get?" asked Horace.
"A most gratifying response," said Dr. Chapman. "The Association has 286 members, of which 220 are eligible for our survey. Benita has the exact figures, but I believe 201 or 202 volunteered. Assuming that seven to ten percent, for one reason or another, do not appear, we will still have enough. I've already sent a wire canceling our tentative visit to San Francisco."
He returned to his bacon and eggs, Horace cleaned his syrupy plate with the last portion of pancake, and Cass continued to watch the sixteen-year-old blonde. She had knelt beside the pool to test the water, and then made her way to the edge of the diving board. Now she executed a graceful jackknife, cleaving the water cleanly, and a moment later she burst to the surface. Her long stroking arms brought her quickly to the ladder of the pool. She climbed out, hair stringy wet, face and limbs dripping, yellow suit clinging to her small round breasts and hips. Hastily, avoiding Cass's gaze, she tugged her skirt low.
As she trotted back to the board, Cass poked at Horace's arm and nodded off. "Look at that behind," he whispered.
Horace fished for a cigarette, "Jail bait," he murmured. "I prefer them full grown."
"Each to his own," said Cass. His eyes followed the girl. "I suppose almost every girl under seventeen or sixteen is pretty. They won't all be pretty in a few years, but they are now. Youth is beauty in itself. Every contour of the body is new. After that—" he turned back to the table and shook his head—"after that they all become used and worn. It's too bad."
Dr. Chapman had not been listening, but now he raised his head. "What's bothering you, Cass?"
"The human condition," said Cass lightly, "with accent on the female."
There was the sound of someone descending the wooden stairs, and they all turned. It was Paul Radford, in white tennis shirt and shorts, his knobby knees and bare legs accentuating his height. He greeted his colleagues, and then, almost imperceptibly, flashed a signal to Dr. Chapman, who promptly lifted himself out of the wicker chair with a grunt.
Paul and Dr. Chapman sauntered across the sunny flagstone patio, until they were out of earshot of the others. Paul halted. "I just spoke to Dr. Jonas," he said.
"Personally?"
"Yes. He was at home."
Dr. Chapman waited, anxiety on his face.
"It was quite brief," Paul continued. "I simply introduced myself. I told him we were finishing our survey here, that we'd be here two weeks, and—well—that I'd like to meet him."
"What did he say to that? Was he surprised?"
Paul considered. "No, not surprised. Matter of fact, I felt he was rather expecting to hear from you or from one of us; he said he knew we were in town, he'd read about it."
"He's a crafty one, that one."
"Perhaps," said Paul. "He sounded quite down-to-earth, pleasant—really friendly."
"Don't let him hoodwink you. I know all about him. You keep your guard up."
"Of course. I was extremely cautious."
"To be sure," said Dr. Chapman. "Did he want to know why you were asking to meet him?"
"Not a word. He just said he'd be delighted. I felt some kind of explanation was in order. I said, `Dr. Jonas, we've read what you've written about Dr. Chapman's work and we've been concerned—upset about certain public comments you have made and interested and impressed by others.' I went on like that; I told him that he and the four of us were, in a sense, in the same field, with a common goal, even if our approaches were different. I thought that I might profit by talking to him, and I told him that he might find it useful to see me. He was quite affable and agreeable."
"Did he ask about me?" Dr. Chapman wanted to know. "Not a word, until we'd made a date, and then he said,`Of course, Radford, your boss is invited to come along, too.' “
“Your boss—is that what he said?"
"It wasn't disrespectful. His vocabulary is on the informal side."
"When are you meeting him?"
"Monday night—tomorrow—after dinner, around eight, at his place. He has a house in Cheviot Hills. I believe that's about a half hour from here."
Dr. Chapman was thinking hard, biting his lower lip. "Well, I'm glad," he said. "If he's as friendly as you say, he may be receptive to our proposition. Let me mull over the whole thing today and brief you once more after dinner tonight."
"Fine."
"Preparedness," said Dr. Chapman. "As the Good Book says, `Let your loins be girded about, and your lights burning."
Paul saw Benita Selby, carrying a large paper bag, hurriedly crossing the patio toward them. She held up the bag triumphantly. "All done," she said.
Dr. Chapman turned. "What is it?"
"I worked out the entire interview schedule," she said, "and finished the post cards." She tapped the bag. "They're all right here."
"How many cards?" asked Dr. Chapman.
"Two hundred and one, exactly."
"Let me see now," said Dr. Chapman, calculating. "There'll be three of you interviewing—I'm begging off this last time, Paul, since I want to catch up on the paper work—well now, three of you can handle six women apiece, daily, eighteen a day in all. In eleven working days, you'll have recorded 198 women—more than will show up, I warrant. Fine. That means, allowing for next Sunday off, we should be out of here two weeks from—when do the interviews start, Senile"
"Tuesday, Doctor. They'll all have the notices tomorrow morning, and Tuesday they can start reporting."
"Plan to get us out of here two weeks from today."
"I'll make the reservations tomorrow," said Benita.
"Now, you'd better get those cards in the mail," said Dr. Chapman. "There's a post office just across from the auditorium. It's closed, but there's a box in front. There'll be several pickups this afternoon. We've rented two cars—a new Ford and a Dodge—came in an hour ago. They're in stalls forty-nine and fifty." He dug into his trouser pocket and extracted two rings of keys. "Take the Ford."
"Has it got power brakes?" asked Benita. "I get so nervous—"
"I'll drive you," said Paul. "I've got to pick up some tobacco, anyway." He took the manila bag from her. He studied it. "Well, may our last crop be our best,"
"Don't you worry," said Dr. Chapman. "I had a good look at those women Friday. Most intelligent lot I've seen in months. Besides, Emil couldn't speak too highly of The Briars. Some of the finest families in the city, he said."
"I don't care if they're the finest," said Paul. "I just care about whether they're the most interesting. I'm going to be listening to sixty-six of them in eleven days."
"As the psychiatrist said, 'Who listens?' " said Benita.
"Please mail those cards," said Dr. Chapman, with the dedicated insistence of one who had already humbled the marmoset, the lemur, and the human male.
The post-office branch that serviced The Briars furnished its mailmen with three-wheeled, gas-driven, seven-and-a-halfhorsepower scooters, painted red, white, and blue, to deliver mail more efficiently to houses so widely separated by their large surrounding yards. The mailmen guided their scooters swiftly from box to box, stuffing letters into each and gunning their motors as they raced to the next stop. In this way, all the mail destined for the houses in The Briars was fully deposited in boxes before noon, and Monday was no exception.
The post card addressed to Mrs. Kathleen Ballard had the following information on the back: "Your interview will take place from 4 to 5:15 at The Briars' Women's Association building, on Thursday, May 28." The information was mimeographed, except for the time, day, and date, which had been filled in by pen.
The card lay on the Biedemeir tea table in the living room with the usual Monday-morning accumulation of unimportant mail—two magazines, a department-store circular, the dairy bill, the new gasoline credit card, an invitation to a fashion show for charity, and the regular semi-monthly lavender page of trivia from an older married sister in Vermont.
Kathleen had the cup of hot coffee to her lips, and over the top of the cup she could see the heap of mail. She had glanced through it, minutes before J. Ronald Metzgar arrived, and had seen the card. She had already determined to tear the card up the moment Metzgar was gone, and if anyone phoned she would plead illness. The illness would be a lingering one and would last the entire two weeks that the doctor and his team were in The Briars. Now, aware that Metzgar was still talking, as he had been almost steadily for the past half hour, she turned her face to him and pretended comprehension.
Metzgar, she had noted long ago, had been type cast for his role in life. He looked exactly like a man who, at sixty-two, would still play tennis instead of golf, would have his third wife from society circles (each wife progressively younger and more ladylike), would be president of something terribly rich and important known as Radcone Aircraft. His wavy silver hair, rimless glasses, small, trim mustache, and smooth-shaved banker's face personified executive. He was probably just under six feet, stocky rather than fat, and vain about his good health. His voice was high-pitched, and his words tumbled and over-lapped in their haste, and he was said to be business shrewd and clever in a way that Kathleen had always secretly felt was obvious and overrated.
Early in the morning, Metzgar had telephoned from San Pedro to say that he would be returning to the plant in the valley and would like to look in on Kathleen about ten o'clock. He had arrived within a minute of ten o'clock, in a chauffeured black limousine now parked out in the driveway, and for a half hour he had rambled on about a recent vacation to Hawaii, labor problems, the usual incompetence resulting from too much government, and recent researches in atomic-powered aircraft. During all this, Kathleen had wondered if he were here for any special purpose, beyond a compulsive visit to the shrine.
She saw that his coffee cup was empty and interrupted. "Jay—" Boynton had always called him Jay, and she had eventually been forced to do the same—"let me get Albertine to bring some more coffee." Albertine was the thin, sinewy, crisply dressed Mulatto day worker, with gold teeth much admired by Deirdre, who appeared five times a week to make the beds, dust half the furniture, break the cups, and read in a singsong to Deirdre before bedtime.
"No, thanks, Katie. I'll be on my way in a few minutes.”
“You've only just come." The amenities.
"It's wrong, I know, to rush about like this. There's always too much to do. I suppose I don't delegate enough. As Boy used to say, 'Knock it off, Jay; you only live once—enjoy it, make the peasants work for you.' And you know, when Boy said it, why, it would bring me up short. I'd take stock. I'd say to myself, He has the right philosophy. And I'd really be more sensible for a day or two. Unchain myself from the desk. I've never known another man so understanding of the real meaning and values of life."
Kathleen said nothing.
Metzgar glanced at her, and, like everyone, perhaps more than anyone, misunderstood. "I'm sorry," he said. "I guess I've always got him on my mind—always will. It's not fair to you."
She wanted to shout. But the civilizing process that had be-gun twenty-eight years before tightened its clamp of restraint. "It doesn't upset me anymore," she said firmly. "Life goes on. Boynton was alive. Now he's dead. It's a fact. It'll happen to all of us."
She was sure that Metzgar did not like this. He was still smoothing his mustache with a finger, blinking down at the coffee cup. "Well, certainly, I think that's the only attitude—that's healthy," he said at last, doubt releasing each word one at a time. "As a matter of fact, there was something I wanted to discuss with you about Boy. It concerns both of us. Jim Scoville told me he saw you last week."
"Yes, briefly. He had a few last questions about the book."
"The book," said Metzgar as a priest might say Deuteronomy. "You know, Katie, we want this book to represent everything Boy stood for."
"I'm sure it will. Jim's very conscientious—and properly worshipful."
A slight flicker of disapproval winked across Metzgar's face at the levity of the last. "I feel strongly—and I know you do, too—that we must allow nothing to happen that might impair the public's image of Boy as he is remembered and as he will be truly represented in the book."
"I don't understand you."
"Jim Scoville happened to remark that you were allowing yourself to get involved in this sex survey—this Dr. Chapman thing. I'm sure Jim misunderstood you."
"Not at all," said Kathleen. "I belong to a perfectly respectable club that was selected for questioning, and I volunteered with all the rest."
"But, Katie, don't you see—you're not like all the rest; you hold a peculiar, special-position in the eyes of the public. You were married to a hero. To many, it would violate the trust he left you—it would disappoint—if you allowed yourself to be forced to . . . to discuss certain matters about Boy and yourself that properly belong to only Boy and yourself."
Kathleen felt the hot twitch of her nerve fibers. "Good God, Jay, what are you trying to make me into—or Boynton? We were married, husband and wife, and we were like any other couple, despite what you may think. In the eyes of Dr. Chapman, I'm just another married—once married—woman, and Boynton was the man to whom I was married. It's all perfectly anonymous and scientific—"
"It's not right," interrupted Metzgar. "It's not fitting to your station. You just can't see how it looks to an outsider. As for the anonymity, you're too famous, and so is Boy, and it's bound to get out."
"What if it did? Every reader of your book will know I'm no longer a virgin, and Boynton was not quite a eunuch—"
"Really, Katie—"
"No, I mean it. We were married. We slept together. How was Deirdre born—by immaculate conception?"
"That's different. That's normal and clean. But—well, you must know this—all kinds of dirty and abnormal sex connotations are associated with Dr. Chapman's survey. His report on married women will be made public, and everyone will know you participated."
"With three or four thousand others."
"That's not the point. Please don't go through with it, Katie. It's not like you."
She saw that he was an anxious child, this tycoon, this great man, humbled still by a vision of the man he had always wanted to be. She saw that further discussion would be useless. Metzgar had not the perception, or desire even, to understand what the truth might have been, and it was simply no use with him. Now she wanted him out of the house, far away, like an old bad dream.
"Well, if you feel that fiercely about it—" she said.
"I do. It's you I'm thinking of, Katie. Call them and cancel it."
"All right, Jay. I will."
"Good girl. You're right-minded, and I knew you would see what was right." He rose to his feet, inflated with self-satisfaction. This is the way he must look and feel, she thought, after putting over one of those million-dollar deals. "You've let me go back to work with a clear head. Shall we have dinner one night soon?"
"I'd love to."
"I'll have Irene call you."
After he had driven off in his black limousine, she closed the front door, absently stared at the gold silk walls of her small entry hall, then walked restlessly into the large living room. Often, when she was disturbed, the quiet elegance of the room, so devotedly furnished, pleased and soothed her. Now, studying the long, low sofa covered with Venetian silk, the flanking turquoise Thaibok chairs, the tea table, the exquisite collection of porcelain Chinoiserie, the sliding Spanish grilled panels that hid the bar to the left of the fireplace, the three shelves of boxed Limited Editions Club books, there was little pleasure it it. The harmonious and comforting refinement of the room seemed to have no salutary effect on her jumbled brain.
At last, she went to the tea table and placed cups and saucers on the tray. Her eyes found the mail, and she took up the post card. She turned it over in her fingers without rereading it. In some curious way, it had become invested with an importance that it had not had an hour before. She had meant to rip it in half and throw it away, and possibly telephone Miss Selby and cancel out or just default by nonappearance. But by that act, she saw, she would remain imprisoned to the past. Metzgar, Scoville, the vast blur of public opinion, would remain her guardians. The three-penny post card— 4 to 5:15, Thursday, May 28—was a call to escape, to live unfettered, possessed by none but herself, to acknowledge the possibility of a future without Boynton. The card was a passport to a place of defiance and rebellion.
Firmly, she slid the card into her skirt pocket, then picked up the tray and started for the kitchen.
Ursula Palmer unfastened her large leather handbag, extracted the post card, and handed it to Bertram Foster.
"There's the evidence," she said cheerfully. "I'm now a bona-fide member in low standing of Dr. Chapman's sex club."
Foster had the card in both pudgy hands, and he was reading it, moving his lips as he read. Ursula watched him closely, wondering why it took him so long when there was so little to read. His tiny, slit eyes glittered as he read. Were he any other man, Ursula thought, she would have written him off as utterly repulsive. But she quickly banished the heresy, and determined to regard him as a brilliant and wealthy cherub. His perfectly round face seemed rounder because he was almost bald. His nose was spread wide and flat, and this, with the puffed lips, made him appear gross. He was short, and hypo-thyroid, and the most expensive tailor in New York could make him appear neither taller nor leaner.
Nov, seated—squatted really, she decided—in the pull-up chair directly across from her, in the French Provincial living room of his hotel suite, he pursed his baggy lips--a sensuous Cupid or, better, a depraved Roman senator, she decided—and looked up from the card. "Tuesday, one o'clock to two-fifteen," he said. "That's tomorrow."
"Yes."
He studied the card again; then, with seeming reluctance, as if it had been a sex offer he hated to forgo, he returned it to her. "An hour and fifteen minutes," he said. "Now, my dear, what can you tell them for an hour and fifteen minutes?'
"I'm a grown woman," said Ursula, with deliberate provocation, hating this but knowing that he wanted to hear it, and that it was part of the expected game.
"You mean you've been around," said Foster with heavy pleasure.
"Don't get any wrong ideas about my past, Mr. Foster. I'm a normal married woman—"
"I've met plenty of normal women who give ideas.”
“I'll bet you have."
"How long you been married?"
"Ten years, almost."
"So you had a whole lifetime before?"
"Well, yes."
It made her uncomfortable being sunk deep in the sofa, so that she had to keep pulling her dress to her knees and pressing her legs together, and he on the chair facing her, and Alma Foster off at the beauty parlor. But this was morning, she reassured herself, and men didn't make passes in the morning, and besides, the beauty parlor was probably in the hotel, and Alma would be back any minute.
"Umm, I suppose you're like most women," he was saying. "If they ask questions, there's enough to say for an hour and fifteen minutes."
He stared at her knees, and she pressed them together. "It'll make a marvelous article, Mr. Foster," she said, desperately trying to distract his gaze from her knees. "It'll make Houseday a sell-out for that issue."
"There are always newsstand returns," he said moodily, lifting his gaze from her knees. "I was thinking about it since you told me. Maybe it could be a three-parter—"
"Oh, Mr. Foster!" She clapped her hands with delight, and in her excitement her knees parted, and his gaze dropped. She left them apart, feeling suddenly that it was unimportant, and if it made him happy, what the hell. There was so much at stake.
"Ursula, maybe I better let you in on my mind. Only the day before I left New York, I was talking to Irving Pinkert—you know who he is?"
Ursula nodded excitedly. Irving Pinkert was Foster's publishing partner. He was a silent power behind the scenes. He allowed Foster to put his name on the mastheads, and dominate the editorial content, and take the trips, but he remained overseer of the business end, which probably meant printing, advertising, distribution.
"I told Irving I had my eye on you. I was thinking of you for maybe associate editor—later, maybe something better—of Houseday."
"Mr. Foster, I don't know what to say."
His fat lips folded upward, pleased. To Ursula, at once, the whole concept of him was changing. He was taking on the appearance of a benevolent and wise Kris Kringle.
"Now," he was continuing, "you are far away from this, but in big companies, we have politics. The editor I want to get rid of for you—she was put in two years ago by Irving. She is no good, a lesbian. He doesn't want her no more than I do. But still, there is his pride. He put her in. He will not let her go so easy, admit he can be wrong, unless there is a special reason. My argument for you is that you have a good head, clever, a fresh injection. He doesn't disagree, but to him, you are still not proved. So it needs only something, a little thing, to push him on my side—to prove you are better. I think this sex article is exactly the medicine. It shows you are a step ahead. And it deals with something every woman and man is interested in—even Irving."
"Mr. Foster, I could kiss you!"
"Who's stopping you?"
She pushed herself to her feet and bent over him, meaning to kiss his forehead, but suddenly his lips were where his forehead had been. She felt them cushioned on her mouth, smelling of cigar and bacon, and felt his hands grip her under the armpits, one hand pressing downward and clutching at the side of her left breast. Her instinct was to pull angrily away, but he wanted this little, just as she wanted so much, and the bargain seemed eminently fair. She lingered a moment longer than she had intended, then withdrew her lips slowly, and his hand fell from her breast. She straightened and smiled down at him. "There," she said.
"That's the kind of thank-you I like," he said. "Sit down. We still have a few minutes' business before Alma drags me away."
She sat down recklessly on the sofa, her knees apart and her skirt drawn taut several inches above them. She didn't care. She saw Foster's eyes drop, and she hoped he was happy, happy as she.
"Now, my dear," he said, "my plans for you are very concrete. You do what I say, and leave Irving to me. You will be in New York by July—big office, your own, with inter-com and secretary and agents taking you to lunch—if I let them."
She laughed giddily.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you go tell your whole sex life to those men—"
"Dr. Chapman."
"Yes, him. Tell him everything, hold nothing back—you understand? You tell him—well, what do they ask?"
"You mean the questions, Mr. Foster? I'm not sure, though I suppose the same as they asked the men in the last book.”
“An example."
"I suppose they'll want to know about my pre-adolescent sex history, petting, premarital and marital and extramarital experiences."
He wet his lips. "Good, good; it'll make a fine article. You'll change some words—after all, we live with advertisers and churches—but for me, don't change the words. I want the facts so I can ... can evaluate, guide you."
"What do you mean, Mr. Foster?"
"Look, my dear, you go tomorrow, and when they take notes, you take notes. Then you type up the notes, their questions, your answers—exactly—nothing left out. We will have a meeting. Tomorrow, I take Alma to Palm Springs. It's supposed to be a week, but she can stay a week. This is too important. I'll come back myself before. We'll meet right here Friday—maybe have dinner together while we work. How does that suit the future editor?"
"I think it's a marvelous idea."
"When I come back Friday I'II phone you.... I think that's Alma at the door." He jumped to his feet. "Write down everything. Remember—three parts."
"I won't forget, Mr. Foster."
It was only later, when Ursula had reached The Briars and was turning into her street, that she remembered the appointment with Harold. She had promised to meet him—she held up her arm and squinted at the wrist watch—ten minutes ago, to go over his new office with him and help him decorate and furnish it. Well, she'd call and explain that she'd been tied up. Then suddenly she remembered that now he wouldn't be needing the office anyway. They would be moving East. She could help him, even hire a decorator for him. That would certainly show that she was thinking of him, wouldn't it?
Sarah Goldsmith lay on her back, eyes closed, arm limp over her forehead. Her breath still came in short gasps, and her heart hammered, and from inside her ample thighs to her feet, she was drained and spent. She felt the bed move beside her, and then she felt Fred's sturdy, hairy leg against her own, rubbing her playfully, his toes touching her toes and curling against them. Eyes still closed, she smiled at the recollection of the minutes recently past, at the continuing, unfailing miracle of them.
"I love you," she whispered.
"You're mine," he said.
"All yours."
She opened her eyes lazily, aware of the sea-green ceiling, then looked ahead, seeing first the wide white rise of her breasts, and then the thin white cotton sheet that concealed the remainder of her empty, naked body. Against the opposite wall, the tilted mirror above the dresser revealed the cherry-wood footboard and nothing more. She turned her head on the pillow and feasted her eyes on her beloved.
He, too, lay on his back, arms on the pillow. She enjoyed again the strength of his profile. It was primitive, a throwback to the Cro-Magnon Man. The tangled dark hair, low brow, broken nose, jutting jaw, the powerful sloping shoulders, thick neck, matted chest, made a promise that was always kept. At first sight, she remembered, the caveman appearance had intrigued but deceived her. Although she had heard he was important, she could not imagine such a frame containing sensitivity and high intelligence. Later, the incongruity of his soft, melodious voice, the deeply penetrating perceptiveness of his brain, the incredible breadth of learning that embraced both Shakespeare and Tennessee Williams, had overwhelmed her.
Just past him, on the green upholstered chair, she saw a measurement of her desire and passion. The remnants of her garments had been hurriedly, unceremoniously flung in a heap her blouse, her skirt, her brassiere, her nylon panties—with only the leather jacket, the first item she had taken off, carefully hung on the back of the chair. From a pocket of the jacket she saw, protruding, a card and several envelopes. She remembered: hurrying out to the car port, she had been intercepted by the mailman for some postage due. Getting into the station wagon, she had glanced at the mail, and there was the cryptic card-9 to 10:15, Thursday, May 28—and then, in her haste, for she was a half hour late, she had forgotten it. Now she wondered whatever had made her bring the mail up to Fred's apartment. Nothing, she supposed. She simply had forgotten.
She saw him stir slightly. "What are you thinking?" he asked.
She looked at him. "How much I love you. I don't know how I ever lived without you." She considered this. "Of course, I didn't live without you. I wasn't alive one cell, one breath, until I met you."
He nodded. " 'And when love speaks, the voice of all the gods/Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.' "
"What's that?" she asked.
"Love's Labor's Lost," he said, pleased.
"Sometimes I think it's been a million years. Do you know how long, Fred?"
"A million years."
"No. Three months and two days."
He rolled over on his side, so that his chest was against her arm and his head on her shoulder. His hand found her neck and the curve of her shoulders. Slowly, gently, he massaged her.
She closed her eyes and gave herself to the sweet sensation, but gave only her body. Her mind was journeying backward—one month, two, three, three months and two days.
It had begun with an amateur production of She Stoops to Conquer, performed and sponsored by The Briars' Women's Association for charity. Grace Waterton, whose records showed that Sarah had appeared in college plays fifteen years before, had begged her to volunteer for the tryouts. Sarah had flatly refused. Then, Ursula Palmer, who had agreed to handle publicity for the one-night show, had prevailed upon Sarah. And she had agreed to accompany Ursula because that day had been a bad day with the children and because she was bored. But on the eve of the tryout, she had once again changed her mind. Sam, who had borne the burden of her increasing unrest, had argued with her all through dinner—it was just for fun, it might be fun, it would be good to get out of the house a few evenings a week. But she had remained adamant, until that moment after dinner when she was clearing the table and saw Sam settle his bulk before the television set. She had known then that she could not endure one more evening of this narcotic monotony. At once, she had telephoned Ursula, and an hour later, she had joined two dozen other women and several husbands and fiancés with acting experience in the cold auditorium of the Women's Association.
She recalled now that they had all been huddled in the first two rows waiting for him. Grace Waterton's husband knew a motion-picture producer who knew a famous director who was between pictures. The director was Fred Tauber, and since this was for a worthy charity, he was agreeable. He appeared, striding down the center aisle, trench coat thrown over his shoulders like a cape, introduced himself to Grace and then to all assembled. He apologized for being late and for being free to undertake this. It was not, he explained quickly, that he was between pictures—motion pictures didn't exist anymore, no one cared about them or went to see them, and television was the current corruption, and he had plenty of television offers, but he did not wish to become the mentor of any effort dominated by a cereal or toothpaste—but what had attracted him to this was that he enjoyed the creativity of the legitimate stage, and he liked Oliver Goldsmith, and he thought that this might be enjoyable.
Sarah thought him unattractive and condescending, although his speech was oddly quiet and charming. On the stage, he summoned the aspirants eight at a time, and they sat on folding chairs and nervously read, while he paced up and down before the footlights. Sarah had ascended the stage with the second group, regretting having left the tomb of her home and the predictability of the evening, and when it was her turn, she had read for Constance Neville, who was Tony Lumpkin's cousin and Hastings' heart. Fred Tauber had not cast her a single glance, pacing all the while, as she began to read. Suddenly, he had halted, glared at her, and snapped, "I can't hear you." She swallowed, and read louder—and he continued to stare at her. Within five minutes, she had the role. That was the beginning.
Fred Tauber decided that rehearsals would take place several times a week for six weeks. Rehearsals began in the auditorium but soon moved to the large living room of Fred's apartment two blocks south of Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. After one such session, Fred invited Sarah to return alone the next evening for some intensive personal coaching. His manner was so impersonal, although he never ceased staring at her with his burning eyes, that she promised to appear.
She had put the children to bed and left Sam comfortable before the television set, and had arrived at Fred's apartment at nine o'clock. Script in hand, he had met her at the door, more friendly than she had ever seen him. When he suggested drinks, she readily accepted. She rarely ever drank after dinner, but she was nervous and afraid, and perceived she was on the brink of some unknown place. One drink became two and four and six, and rehearsal had long before been abandoned, and she was sitting beside Fred, and she was not afraid.
It was all hazy and the first relaxed fun in weeks—no, months, years. He was telling her of his life, and of the woman from whom he was separated, the dreadful creature who would not give him a divorce, and she was telling him about Sam and wasted years and loneliness. He took her hand then, and she never remembered after if she kissed him, or he kissed her, only that they had been in each other's arms a long time, and that she held his hand tightly when they walked into the bedroom. He had undressed her, as she stood dizzily beside the bed, and then he had kissed her until she had wanted to scream. He had settled her on the bed, and she had lain there stiffly, eyes shut tightly so that she could not see and by not seeing avoid being an active participant to guilt and shame. And she had felt him beside her, caressing her, and she had clutched him at last, which had surprised her, and had wanted it done, the terrible thing, done, irrevocable and behind her. And when he had joined his body to hers, she had wanted it done swiftly as it was always with Sam, so that it was no more part of her and she part of this strange and shocking thing, and she waited for it to be done, and waited, and waited, and it wasn't done, and then suddenly, involuntarily, she was a part of it, acting as she had never acted, and feeling as she had never felt, and wanting it never done, never ended.
In the morning, in her kitchen, she avoided looking at the table where Sam and the children ate. She suffered remorse and a hangover, and had never been as excited or alive in her life. She planned to withdraw from the play, and hide the shameful episode from herself, reassuring herself constantly that it had been an accident of intoxication. By nightfall, she knew that she did not want to withdraw from the play. She began counting the hours to the next rehearsal, only dimly aware of the strange house in which she lived and the foreign persons who shared it with her.
Three nights later, in company with the group, she at-tended another rehearsal in Fred's apartment. She was amazed that she could perform so normally, and that Fred could behave as naturally as he had always behaved. She spoke her lines automatically and wondered what he was thinking. At eleven o'clock, the rehearsal broke, and as she was getting her coat, he asked politely if she would remain behind for ten minutes to go over one speech in the first act that troubled him. She nodded dumbly, and remained behind. This time they did not drink, and hardly spoke, and this time it was not an accident. Driving home, at two in the morning, she felt as irresponsible and carefree as a dipsomaniac.
The rehearsals ended. The play went on. Lines were forgotten and props mislaid and, somehow, the final curtain fell. The applause was thunderous, and the charity was served. There could be no more nights, or few, and so the affair became a ritual of the mornings, four or five mornings a week. Her insatiability surprised, shocked, and finally delighted her. What had begun casually, with an end foreseeable—for it was impractical, purposeless, even dangerous—became a necessary habit and the absolute meaning of each day lived and each day to be lived. And yet, still, Sarah would not allow herself to believe that the affair was her entire life, her life's new direction, but rather she regarded it as a finite episode that was temporarily the only living part of her life.
His hand had ceased massaging her, and she opened her eyes. "You're a darling," she said, "my darling own.”
“I hope so," he said.
"What time is it, Fred?"
"Almost noon."
"I'd better get back. One cigarette, and then I'll go. They're in my jacket. Do you mind?"
He threw aside his half of the blanket, slipped off the bed, and stretched. She stared at his solid, athletic body, and felt the glowing pride of possession. Not since the first time had she felt a single pang of guilt. It was all too satisfying and inspirited to be wrong. In all the weeks since, she had suffered only one fleeting moment of doubt colored with shame, and that was the first time she had seen him fully naked in the light—on their fourth occasion together, when he had disrobed and crossed the room toward her, and she had realized that he was not circumcised. She had never seen this before—her husband, her son, her father, were all Jewish—and now what she saw seemed shockingly alien, and in that brief moment she had suffered the sensations of mortification and depravity. But soon she was enveloped by the pain of physical pleasure, and the shame was gone, and she knew that nothing like this could ever be alien.
Fred had reached her jacket on the chair. "Which pocket?" he called.
"The bottom one."
At once, she saw that this was the pocket into which she bad stuffed her mail. Fred's hand was behind the letters. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes, and as he did so, the post card fell to the floor. Sarah sat up, heart pounding, and she watched him retrieve it.
He glanced at it. "Never could resist post cards," he said. He read the back, and looked up. "Who's interviewing you Thursday morning?"
"I forgot to tell you. I won't be able to see you that morning." She was thinking fast and desperately. "A woman psychiatrist is coming in from the university—child psychiatrist—.she's giving free consultations all day."
"I thought your two were normal—like their mother."
"Oh, they are," she said quickly. "It's just that Debbie has been cranky lately. I guess I haven't given her the time I used to—I mean, my mind isn't on them these days."
"And won't be, if I can help it. So you have your nice long talk with that child psychiatrist."
He stuffed the card back into her jacket pocket and returned to the bed with cigarettes and matches. She lifted the blanket over her breasts, held out her hand for a cigarette, and thanked God that Fred read only the theatrical section of the daily newspapers.
Mary McManus came into the dining room from the kitchen, carefully balancing the tray crowded with small glasses of orange juice and a large plate heaped with scrambled eggs and tiny crisp sausages. Since she and Norman had agreed to live with her parents, the dinette in the kitchen was found to be too small for the four of them in the morning. Now breakfast, on gay reed mats, was always served in the large dining room.
Mary lowered the tray to the table, serving first her father at the head of the table, and then Norman, and then the place where her mother sat, and finally herself. The live-in Spanish maid, Rosa, was upstairs doing the bedrooms at this hour, but even if she weren't, Mary would have insisted on serving breakfast herself. It was one of the many efforts that she made to delude Norman into believing they were really in housekeeping for themselves.
Mary glanced from her father, who had taken his juice in a single gulp, to her husband, who was turning the small glass around in his fingers, staring past it absently, not yet drinking.
"Is everything all right, Norman?" she asked anxiously.
"Oh, yes—yes, fine." He drank his orange juice without interest.
"Where's your mother?" Harry Ewing wanted to know. "Her eggs will be cold."
"She went out for the mail," said Mary, finding her fork.
Eating, she shifted her eyes from Norman to her father and back again. Usually, the breakfast scene pleased her, the orderliness of it, the warmth of so many loved ones. She liked to see Norman this way, in his brown lightweight business suit, hair combed, face smooth, hands so clean. He had such a wonderful lawyer look. It made her feel proud. And then her father, in his navy-blue silk suit with the natty handkerchief, so neat and successful and every inch the executive. But Norman—for now she was looking at him again—he seemed so strange and quiet lately, especially at mealtimes. Some instinct restrained her from probing it when they were alone at night. But sooner or later, she knew, she must ask Norman—that is, if it continued.
She looked off. Her mother, wearing the pink quilted housecoat that had been a Christmas gift, appeared from the living room, busily going through the mail. Bessie Ewing was a tall, flat woman with a long mare's face and a preoccupation with the weather and her health.
"It's going to be miserably hot today," she said. "I can feel it in my bones. I wish the summer were over." When the summer was over, she'd wish for an end to winter.
"Anything in the mail?" asked Harry Ewing.
She sat down. "Nothing special." She handed her husband the mail, withholding only a post card. She turned to her daughter. "This is for you, Mary."
Mary accepted it, looked at it blankly a moment.
"Is that the appointment for the interview?" Bessie Ewing asked.
"Of course!" exclaimed Mary with a shrill squeal of delight. "I almost forgot—from Dr. Chapman—I was waiting for it." She held the card up before her husband. "Look, Norman, tomorrow, two-thirty to three-forty-five, D-Day; by tomorrow night, I'll be part of a history book."
"Great," said Norman.
Harry Ewing had stopped sorting the mail and was staring across the table at his daughter. "What's that?" he asked. "Did you say Dr. Chapman?"
"Yes, you know—"
"I don't know," said Harry Ewing with soft patience.
"But I—no, I guess I just told Mother—I thought I'd told you. Dr. Chapman's in town, Dad—"
"I read the newspapers."
"Well, he's interviewing all the married members of the Association for his scientific work. He lectured to us, and now we're going to be interviewed. Isn't it exciting?"
Harry Ewing moved his gaze to Norman. "Does Norman know about this?"
"He's been briefing me all week," said Mary, touching her husband's arm.
Harry Ewing released the mail and sat back. His eyes rested on Norman, who felt them and looked up.
"Surely you don't approve, Norman," Harry Ewing said. "What do you mean?"
"I mean just what I'm saying—surely, you aren't going to permit Mary to expose herself to this . . . this so-called investigation."
"I don't see anything wrong with it. I think it's a good thing. We're not in the Dark Ages."
"Are you implying that I am?" said Harry Ewing without raising his voice, though the effort was apparent.
"Really, Harry," said Bessie Ewing. "I think it's their own affair."
"Perhaps they're too immature to distinguish between right and wrong."
Mary had listened in dumb bewilderment. Her father's objection surprised her and, from long habit, impressed and unnerved her. "What can be wrong with it, Dad? It's perfectly scientific."
"That is highly questionable, I assure you," said Harry Ewing. "Dr. Chapman's methods, the value of the whole report, are suspect in the best circles. Mind you, I have no objection to older married women going. With age, you learn values, know what to accept and reject, how to handle yourself. But you were twenty-two in March, Mary."
Norman set his fork down on his plate with a clatter.
"When my mother was twenty-two she had three children."
Mary could almost touch the electric antagonism in the air. She rubbed the goose pimples on her arm. In two years, the only serious fight with Norman had been over children. He wanted them, at once, and many. Her father had never been more firm than in advising against them. He had told Mary, confidentially, father to daughter and only child, that she was too young, that she must learn to live in marriage first, that early years were years to be enjoyed unencumbered, that there was always time. She had never sorted out her own feelings about children. She wanted what Norman wanted. Rather, she wanted Norman to be happy with her. But she had never known her father to be unwise or to misinform her. Still, his attitude toward Dr. Chapman seemed irrational.
"Mary isn't a baby any longer," she heard Norman say in anger. "She's a grown married woman. You can't keep trying to shield her. I think this Chapman study is healthy and normal."
"I'm sorry I must disagree with you, Norman. I think it might do more harm than good."
"Well, I want her to go," said Norman doggedly.
Harry Ewing shrugged, and forced a smile. "She's your wife," he said. He consulted his watch, and pushed back his chair. "Time for work."
He rose and went into the hall for his hat. Norman glared after him, then got stiffly to his feet. He was about to start away.
"Norman," Mary called, "haven't you forgotten something?" He returned to her, his face constricted. "Sorry," he said. He bent and kissed her briefly.
"Don't be angry," she whispered. "I want to go."
"Good," he said curtly, then pivoted and walked out.
Bessie Ewing had been peeling through the mail again, and now she unfolded a colored circular. "There's a sale at Brandon's—cotton dresses," she said.
Mary stared miserably at the card and wished that Norman would change his mind about children or that her father would change his. She suddenly hoped that Dr. Chapman would not question her about having children. If he did, what would she say?
Teresa Hamish turned the key, let herself into the cool, shaded living room, and removed her wrap-around sun glasses with an audible sigh of relief. It had been suffocating and blinding outside. Her arms, beneath her sleeveless white blouse, and her knees and legs, beneath her gray Bermuda shorts, were baked.
She had left Constable's Cove a half hour earlier than usual, she told herself, because even the beach offered no comfort from the relentless sun. Actually, the Cove had been lonely, and she had not been able to shed an inexplicable nervousness and irritability. It was the first time in memory that the refuge had not served her therapeutically. Certainly, the Cove itself had not disappointed. It was, this morning, as isolated and lovely as she had always known it, before the invasion of the barbarians. When she had descended the precarious decline to the sand, she fully expected to observe the four crude behemoths nearby, exercising and throwing the football. She had girded herself against them, armed with righteous anger. She was prepared to ignore them, very pointedly, and if the huge, cocksure one, with his vulgar tights and bulging thighs, approached her, as she felt he would, she would devastate him with several sharp retorts that she had polished and prepared—and that would give her peace, if he understood them. But, when she reached the sand, neither he nor his companions were anywhere to be. seen. This had surprised her, and she told herself, Good riddance. But later, stretched on the blanket, she had turned five pages of Swinburne and two of Coventry Patmore before realizing that she had not read a word. Her mind went to the invaders, and she carried on a heated imaginary conversation with the four, with the one, and came off with banners flying.
She thought about Geoffrey's Marinetti, and the art shop, and her mornings, and wondered what it was like to be unintellectual like Grace Waterton, who could sublimate her-self in service activity, and Sarah Goldsmith, who could make a busy and satisfying day of her children and home. Perhaps, she told herself, she had been born utterly out of her time. It happened, she was sure: one of Creation's anachronisms and inefficiencies. She could more easily envision herself as Louise Colet of Paris or Mary Wollstonecraft of London (although there was some grubbiness here that displeased) or Kitty O'Shea of Dublin, rather than Teresa Hamish of The Briars in California.
Reconsidering, she saw herself best as Marie Duplessis-- offering elegance and tragedy and inspiration for the young Dumas' lady of the camellias. But somehow the last role seemed more suited to Kathleen Ballard—what did she do with her mornings?—and then Teresa felt an insect move on the back of her hand. Hastily, she brushed it off and found herself in Constable's Cove. Ahead, the turgid water lapped exhaustedly at the wet ribbon of dark brown sand. Above, the circle of sun was a scorching lamp. Encircling her, the Cove was suddenly a geological imperfection—the rock and dirt as unappealing as any dump on an empty lot, the tangled and knotted branches and weeds parched and deformed.
If she were going to be uncomfortable and bored, she decided, she might as well be so in the cool, clean water of her sunken marble bath at home. Who was it who made a practice of letting her towering Negro manservant carry her to the bath and lower her into it? And who then received and chatted with her male circle of French and Italians while she bathed? The sculptured nude in the Villa Borghese—Canova's work—yes, Pauline Bonaparte. Extraordinary. Teresa Harnish sat up, then stood, slowly gathered her beach equipment, and started for home.
Now, in the tasteful, sparsely furnished living room, a symphony of beige and burlap and framed abstract oils, she dropped her book on the end table and became aware of Geoffrey's jacket—the navy one with the brass buttons that he had worn to the shop this morning—neatly draped on a pull-up chair.
"Geoffrey?" she called off.
"In the study!"
Puzzled, she laid her blanket and effects on the wall bench and hastened through the corridor into the study. Geoffrey was kneeling on the floor, unrolling the poster imprinted Divan Japonais.
"Geoffrey, are you all right?"
He glanced up. "Perfectly, my dear." He examined the poster briefly, and then rolled it up tightly.
"What are you doing home at this hour?"
He reached for another poster. "A customer from San Francisco—she just discovered Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec—”
“That's like reaching puberty at forty."
"... and she's coming in at two. Wants everything I can show her." He unrolled another poster in his hand. It was La Troupe de Mademoiselle Eglantine. He pointed to the four kicking dancers. "Jane Avril, Cli opatre, Eglantine, Gazelle. Remember when we found this?" It had been on the wall of a disheveled, cramped shop in the Rue de Seine ten years ago. It had cost them fifty-seven thousand francs when the franc was three hundred and eighty to one in the black market. They had always said that they had discovered Lautrec, or so it seemed in those days. Hanging his posters was an attention. getter and a snobbery. But then, there was the flood of books, and the gaudy motion picture, and soon Lautrecs were on napkins, match covers, coasters.
Geoffrey rolled up the dancers. "I'm tired of him. I'm going to unload the whole bunch. I think I should get three times what we paid." He lifted himself to his feet. "Every artist sooner or later becomes a guest who's stayed too long," he said with regret.
"I don't think people will ever tire of Da Vinci or Shakespeare. Minor artists come and go. Lautrec was a curiosity. The classicists remain."
"Don't be too sure," said Geoffrey. "Shakespeare fell into disrepute and neglect for a long period after his death. His revival is modern. He may tumble again. Even disappear."
For once, Teresa did not feel like pursuing this sort of thing further. "Maybe you're right," she said wearily. "I need a bath."
"One second." He was at the desk. "This came in the mail." He handed her the post card. "The brink of adventure," he added.
She read it. "Wednesday—ten-thirty to eleven-forty-five.”
“I want a full report, play-by-play."
"Silly, what could I report that you didn't already know? You collaborated in everything I'm going to say."
"Well, now, I didn't think of that." He seemed self-satisfied, and momentarily she resented it. "The next few weeks should be exciting," he went on. "A community catharsis."
"It's healthy," she said to say something, and was at once perplexed at her indifference to the Chapman interview. But then another thought came, and grew, and she began to feel better. "You know what might be fun?" She considered it.
"What?"
"A party—a big party. We haven't had one in a month. A celebration of the new freedom. A costume affair. Something like—I have it—a come-as-the-person-you-would-like-to-havebeen-when-Dr.-Chapman-interviewed-you. Wouldn't it be mad fun?"
"Marvelous, Teresa. We have a load of pay-backs to tick off, anyway."
For Teresa, the day was coming alive again. She moved through the room. "I can just see it. Naomi Shields as Ulysses' perfect Penelope, Sarah Goldsmith as—quick, Geoffrey, name some dreadful courtesan—"
"Hester Prynne. Harriette Wilson. Cora Pearl."
"Yes," she said excitedly, "any one of them; and the McManuses—Mary as Ninon—"
"I see. You think each woman will want to be her opposite."
"Don't you? The chaste would secretly long to be unchaste and the unchaste would prefer to appear before the good doctor as pure and maidenly."
"And you, my dear—how would you want to appear?"
Teresa saw the trap. Marie Duplessis? Intuitively, she sidestepped it. "As myself, darling! Isn't that cunning? But I mean it. Why would I ever want to be anything but what I am?"
Naomi Shields, wearing only her slip, lay curled on the unmade bed, and fitfully dozed. Gradually, the part of her that was still conscious was penetrated by the singsong bar of melody. It persisted, the same hideous music, and she opened her eyes, rolled flat on her back, and listened. At last, she realized that it was the doorbell.
She sat up. Her head felt dizzy and apart and extremely high above her body, like a toy balloon attached to a string. She knew that she had been perspiring. The cleft between her breasts felt sticky, and, except where she wore her pants, the slip clung to her. She brought the electric clock into focus. It was ten minutes before noon. She had meant to lie down a few minutes after breakfast, and it had been over two hours.
She tried to remember: yes, she had awakened at nine, fully aware of the resolve she had made after her last drink the night before. Monday, she had determined, would be a new day, a new week, a new life. Even the program had been clear in mind. Before her marriage she had gone to secretarial school for eight months. Touch typing was like dancing and a foreign language. Once learned, it was never forgotten, she hoped. Monday, she had determined, she would telephone Urusla Palmer, much as she disliked her—or, maybe better, Kathleen, who knew all those important aircraft people. She would phone one of them, both maybe, and they would help her. Why hadn't she done this long ago? It would give her life regularity and purpose, and there were always single men in an office, and maybe she would find someone wonderful. It was so sensible. She had carried the resolve to breakfast and seen it dissolve in the first bitter sip of coffee. Why had she taken all that vodka? She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to remember how she got back on the bed.
The doorbell again. She swung off the bed, searched for her mules, and then forgot about them. She started for the living room, remembered that she was in her slip, and hurried back to the dressing room. Once in her white peignoir, she groped, barefooted, through the hall to the living-room door. Working the chain free, she pulled the door open, then shut her eyes and averted her face from the explosion of sunlight and the blast of hot air:
A tall, slender man, in t-shirt, faded blue denims, and leather sandals, was leaving across the lawn.
"Hi," she called out.
He halted and turned. "Hello, there."
"Were you the one ringing?"
"That's right."
He was returning, and she waited. As he drew nearer she saw that his face was ugly and striking. His chestnut-colored hair was shaggy and in need of a trim, his eyes were narrow, and deep in the sockets, his thin lips curved in a mocking smile, and there was too much jaw. He was chicken-breasted.
"Are you selling something or what?" she asked.
He reached the screen door and looked her over, top to bottom, unhurriedly and insolently. She saw now that his pale cheeks were pocked and he seemed debilitated. It was oddly attractive.
When he spoke, his lips hardly moved. She watched them, fascinated."... just down the block," he was saying. "I'm sorry. I'm still not awake. What did you say?"
"I said I live just down the block. About five doors down. My name's Wash Dillon."
She wrinkled her forehead. The name was familiar. "Maybe you've heard my band. We've cut some records.”
“Oh, yes," she said.
"You're Mrs. Naomi Shields."
"Miss Shields," she said quickly.
"How could that be?" His eyes were on her bosom. "Well, anyway—" he dug back into his hip pocket and pulled out a post card—"it says here Mrs."
"What is that?"
"Your mail. The mailman must have hung, one on. He put it in my box by mistake. It looked like some kind of interview for a job. Afraid you might not get it in time, so I came over, good neighborly like."
"Thank you." She opened the screen slightly and took the card.
"I figured nobody was home, and I was hunting for the mailbox. Where is it?"
"Next to that bush in front. It's grown over. I'll have to tell the gardener." She peered at the card and realized what it was. Her interview was on Wednesday from five-thirty to six-forty-five.
"Something important?" he asked.
She looked up. "In a way." He was very tall and curious, and she did not want him to go yet. "I guess I'm still in a daze," she said quickly. "I don't know how to thank you."
"I know how," he said. "By giving a good neighbor a good cup of coffee—for the road—it's a long block."
"All right," she said. She pushed the screen door wide, and he brushed past her into the house.
"No fuss," he said. "Where's the kitchen?"
She closed the front door, tightened the cord on her peignoir, and went into the kitchen without glancing at him. He watched her, noticing her bare feet, then followed.
She heated the coffee and busied herself laying out crackers and jam while he slumped at the dinette table, legs out, marking her every move. Self-consciously, and with an inexplicable sense of mounting turmoil, she served him and herself, and sat down across from him, sipping her tasteless coffee. She wanted vodka, but didn't dare, and kept rattling out questions to forget the vodka. But she found herself answering his questions, as often as listening to his answers to her questions.
Yes, Naomi said, she had bought the house and had been in the neighborhood three years. She knew most everyone around. Surprising that she had never seen him before. Well, Wash Dillon said, that was because he'd just come into the neighborhood a couple weeks ago. He used to live in Van Nuys, and gave up the place to go on tour with the band. Now, he had a long-term setup in Los Angeles, and he was boarding up with Mr. Agajanian, owner of the nightclub, till he could find a shack of his own. Yes, Naomi said, she knew Mrs. Agajanian--casually, that is. The Agajanians seemed very rich. Well, Wash said, anybody could become rich by screwing musicians and watering drinks and peddling to hopheads.
But, Naomi said, people like that didn't live in The Briars. Honey, Wash said, people with dough live anywhere.
He held up his coffee cup and turned it over. She brought the pot from the stove and stood awkwardly beside him, re-filling it, while he smiled insolently at her bust. She poured her own cup and set the pot on the table, preferring the ring it would make to walking back to the stove in front of his eyes. Well, Naomi said, neighbors. Did his wife like The Briars? Honey, Wash said, there is no wife, not yet. Bachelorhood is best for a musician, until he is established, and now that he was established, you never could tell. What about her husband? What did he do? Well, Naomi said, she was divorced three years ago. Honey, Wash said, I just had a hunch that was so.
She held the coffee to her lips, fearful that they would be-tray her unaccountable agitation. She did not want to go where he was leading her—oh, she did, yes, but this was Monday, remember, and it was all going to be new and right. Desperately, she tried to divert him. How large was his band? Five-piece combination. Where were they playing? On Sunset Strip, placed called Jorrocks' Jollities. When did he perform? Every night, honey, every night.
She knew that she was running dry, and that he was waiting with that mocking smile. She was silent.
"Like I said, honey, I had a hunch you were divorced.”
“You did?" Wearily, letting go.
"You can always tell when there's been no man around.”
“Can you?" Goodbye Monday.
"The way a woman moves—unsettled."
"Your girl friend teach you that?" A last try.
"Sa-ay now, sharp. No, honey, my women don't move like that. My women don't move at all."
"You're pretty cocky." Goodbye job.
"Got a right to be. Never had a complaint."
"I don't like this talk!" Goddam him.
Abruptly, Naomi rose, determined to lock herself in her bedroom or have a drink first or have happen what would next happen. She started past his sprawled legs, and he reached out and took her by the waist. She tried to draw away, but his hands were big and his forearm muscular. Almost without effort, he pulled her down upon his lap. She felt him beneath her and weakly tried to free herself.
"Why did you bring that post card?" she said tearfully. "You could have—"
He loosened her peignoir. "I saw you a couple days ago, honey, in that sweater. Now, why would you wear a sweater like that?"
"Don't, Wash—don't, please—"
He laughed, and she shut her eyes while she fought his hands. The chimes above the kitchen door intruded.
Startled, Wash looked off, and in that moment Naomi tore free of him and staggered to her feet.
"Honey, wait now—"
"It's someone at the door," she said savagely.
"Let them be."
She saw the tear in her peignoir and hastened out of the kitchen through the dining room to the front door. She didn't care about her hair, or the tear, or anything, only that she wanted the door wide open. She yanked it open.
A skinny, sallow boy of about twelve stood against the screen. "My father came here—"
Wash appeared behind Naomi.
"Pop," the boy said, "Ma says to come home—" Wash's smile was gone. "I'll be along. Beat it now—"
"She says I ain't to come home without you, or she'll come and get you."
Trembling, Naomi looked up at Wash. His smile was back, less mocking than brazen. "That's the way the cookie crumbles," he said. He nodded to the boy. "Okay, Johnny." He stared at Naomi again, then shrugged and started out.
"You son-of-a-bitch," she said.
He paused, turned his head, and considered her. "You look awful hungry, honey," he said. "Come over to Jorrocks' some night—if you want to be fed."
She slammed the door after him and hit the wood with her fists, and after a while, after she had ceased her sobbing, she composed herself and started back into the kitchen toward the liquor cabinet. Well, there was always Tuesday.