TERESA HARNISH had just swung the convertible to the curbing, preparatory to delivering Geoffrey to the art shop, when the announcer on the car radio began the weather forecast.
Geoffrey had opened the door to leave, but now, one foot still on the convertible floor board, he listened to the forecast. ". . . although today, Friday, June fifth, promises to be the hottest June fifth in twenty years, with the temperature reaching a high of ninety-five or thereabouts, there is every likelihood that by nightfall the temperature will drop to the low seventies."
Teresa turned off the radio, impatient for Geoffrey to leave. The forecast had made her aware of her discomfort. The boiling air had the consistency of an updraft from a blast furnace, dry and scorching. Geoffrey stepped out of the car and squinted toward the sun.
"A real sizzler," he said. "Thank God, it'll cool down tonight. Maybe we should serve drinks and the buffet in the patio?" Teresa's head jerked toward him, revealing an expression of surprise.
The expression on his wife's face puzzled Geoffrey. "Anything the matter, Teresa?" he asked.
What had astounded Teresa was Geoffrey's sudden reminder that they were giving a large party this evening. Since the day before yesterday, the event had left her mind completely. Even since breakfast, an hour ago, she had been preoccupied with the greater event eight hours off. Yet, suddenly, at almost the same time, she was expected to perform as wife and hostess.
Geoffrey was still gazing at her curiously. Quickly, danger signals blinked red warnings across her mind. In the recent past, the Dark Ages, parties and dinners had been her most devoted activity and favorite social pleasure. To have forgotten this would invite grave suspicion.
Don't just sit, she told herself; say something, anything. She said something, anything. "There's nothing the matter," she said, "except I've been so busy arranging the dinner, I completely forgot to rent a costume."
"Didn't you decide to cancel the costume part of it?"
She remembered that she had, indeed, decided just that, but had neglected to inform her guests of it. "No, I changed my mind again. I decided it would be more fun to keep the status quo—women in costume, men optional."
"Well, fine. You've got the whole day to find something. What do you intend to wear?"
"I haven't had a moment till now to think about it."
"What about the get-up you wore at that Waterton supper party—you know, New Year's Eve—three years ago?”
“George Sand?"
"Absolutely. It was most becoming. Isn't she the person you wish you had been when Dr. Chapman interviewed you?"
"Of course not. She's too masculine. Still, it's an idea. The only thing that bothers me is that I'll be repeating myself; it won't seem very imaginative."
"Oh, hell, half the crowd hasn't seen it before." He dug the shop keys out of his linen jacket. "Do as you wish. I suppose you'll want me home early?"
"No," Teresa answered quickly, "that won't be necessary.”
“Well, scoop me up no later than six, anyway. I'll want time to shower and dress."
As he turned toward the shop, she called out after him. "Dearest, is it dreadful of me to ask you to take a taxi home tonight? I'm so afraid I'll be up to my ears in Mrs. Symonds and Mr. Jefferson." Mrs. Symonds was the German cateress who prepared the hors d'oeuvres and dinner for a fee of twenty-five dollars, and Mr. Jefferson was the elderly, solemn, colored bartender.
"Very well," said Geoffrey. "Don't forget the cigar.”
“Cigar?"
"George Sand."
"Oh, yes."
After Geoffrey had unlocked the front door of the shop and disappeared inside, Teresa remained a minute longer before the yellow curb, trying to gather her wits about her. She had promised to meet Ed Krasowski, in his beach apartment, at five-thirty. She had invited ten couples to come to drinks and dinner at seven. That meant the first arrivals would appear at seven-fifteen. The Goldsmiths were always early.
Teresa calculated the time. Between five-thirty and seven-fifteen lay—lay, now wasn't that clever of her?—one hour and forty-five minutes. Subtracting the thirty minutes it would take her to drive back to The Briars from the beach, there was left one hour and fifteen minutes. This was insufficient for what she had to offer, and for what Ed would give her. Grand romance could not be constricted by the clock. What to do? Common sense dictated that she should call him at once and postpone the assignation for another day—tomorrow or—no, that would be Sunday, and Geoffrey would be home—tomorrow or the beginning of next week. But now the ardor that burned within, across her chest, across her loins, was too demanding, too insistent, too immediate. Common sense was decimated and routed. And at once she was happy again.
It would be today, this afternoon, exactly as planned, she decided. She would simply be late to her own party. It was even amusing. George Sand had not been without similar audacity. But a foolproof excuse must be invented. What, possibly? She recalled that at the time she had conceived the party, she had considered as the piece de resistance of her dinner buffet a Danish ham baked inside a bread. She had featured this gourmet's delight once before, and it had been a gastronomic sensation and earned her gratifying compliments, but this time she had rejected it finally because the bakery was a forty-minute drive out Ventura Boulevard in the horrible valley. The valley would be an oven today, but the exotic Danish ham seemed to make Ed Krasowski possible.
Now, then, the modus operandi. She would telephone the bakery, place a rush order, and pick the ham up before noon. She would smuggle it into the house, to preserve it from the heat, and then return it to the luggage compartment of her car before going to Ed's. At five o'clock, departing for the beach, she would leave a note for Geoffrey: Have decided on Danish ham in bread and gone to valley to pick it up. Will be back shortly. Everything under control. In haste, Teresa.
Then, thinking, more modus, more operandi. She and Ed would have consummated their love—it was now "their" love —by seven-thirty. It would probably be difficult parting from Ed, she recognized that; he would want her to stay the night, the evening, anyway, and she would want it, too, but she would be firm. Poor dear boy. Well, there was a life of nights ahead. She would assure him. Anyway, anyway, seven-thirty, yes. She would drive to the first public phone. By then there would be guests, and Geoffrey would be worried ill. She would inform him that, returning with the ham in bread, the car had stalled in the middle of nowhere and was this moment being repaired by the nearest gas station. Carburetor trouble sounded the right note. She knew nothing about what made vehicles go, but Geoffrey knew less. She would reassure Geoffrey of her return within a half hour and promise to be on the receiving line, in costume (with cigar), within fifteen minutes of her return. There, now. Easy?
Teresa shifted the gear, and the idling convertible was propelled forward into the day, as was Teresa herself. As the day grew older, Teresa was never unmindful of the oppressive sun. Everywhere she went, an afternoon newspaper met her with the boldfaced streamer: ANGELENOS SWELTER IN RECORD HEAT WAVE. There was a large photograph, beneath, of a leggy model, generally unsheathed, dancing gratefully beneath a hose of water applied by two briefly clad starlets, their latest motion-picture credits advertised in the caption. Teresa disliked heat because it undid neatness of person. But this day, she resented it less. Somehow, tropical weather seemed appropriate for her passion, although, most likely, Ed's lovely beach place would be cooled by the nearness of the lapping waves.
Teresa moved steadily, efficiently, toward five o'clock. From a stifling glass booth beside the filling station, she telephoned the valley bakery and ordered the ham in bread for one o'clock. Then she telephoned Mrs. Symonds to advise her to include the ham in bread on her menu and ignore the cold cuts. Leaving the booth, she remembered the original purpose of her meeting with Ed. She located an art-supply store, intending to purchase easel, canvas, and paints, and then thought this camouflage too elaborate and foolish, and settled for charcoal and pad.
Going back to The Briars, she tried to remember where she had stored the George Sand costume, and then remembered. She found it in the large bottom drawer built into the bedroom wall. The outfit, inspired by Delacroix's portrait of Sand done in 1830, consisted of a top hat, now somewhat bent, a dark stock, loose coat, and men's slacks, all badly creased. She telephoned Mr. Jefferson, who was out on his day job, and left word with his landlady that he remember to bring ice cubes and one cigar; yes, one, no particular brand.
She braved the suffocating heat again to drive to a cleaning shop in The Village Green, and there deposit her Sand costume to be brushed and pressed. She then steered her car eastward, past the atrocious Villa Neapolis, past the university, through Beverly Hills, into Hollywood, where she turned north on Cahuenga.
She fought the freeway traffic, feeling the wheel flaming under her tight grip, until she reached Studio City, where she made the turn-off to the bakery. The eighteen-inch ham in bread, still warm, was ready. She wrote a check for twenty dollars, carefully placed the box in her luggage compartment, and then completed the circle by driving on Ventura to Sepulveda Boulevard, and thence to Sunset and The Briars. She double-parked at the cleaners, where the Sand costume waited, neatly pressed, and then hastened back to the house, where Mrs. Symonds, mopping her chins with a white handkerchief, impatiently waited in her vintage coupe.
In the kitchen, Teresa briskly reviewed the hors d'oeuvre list and dinner menu with Mrs. Symonds, then got out the good silver, dishes, and platters, finished the floral arrangement for the buffet (green Bells of Ireland and white Agapanthus resting on a glass-covered Miro collage), rearranged the seating in the studio modem living room, and then retired to the master bedroom.
She removed five outfits from her closet, hung them in a row, and stepped back to study them for utility as well as beauty. At last, she selected the Parma-blue silk dress, because it did wonders for her bosom and hips, and because the long zipper in back made it easy to put on and remove. She examined her underwear with care, settling finally on the sheer black brassiere and nylon crepe panties; then returned the brassiere to the drawer, settling for the black panties and a half-slip. She considered stockings, but the necessity of a garter belt was a nuisance, and she decided that she would remain provocatively bare-legged, and wear the high-heeled blue leather pumps that complemented the dress. She opened the jewel box, removed her wedding band and deposited it, leaving only the diamond engagement ring on her finger. She poked through her accessories, held up the fragile necklace with the small gold cross, and liked it.
She filled the tub, added several drops of a French bath oil, and then immersed herself in the fragrant water and soaked. She thought about the last year in Vassar, and the Greenwich Village period with the poet who never bathed (what had happened to him?), and she tried to picture Ed's apartment overlooking the ocean. She thought about the interview with Dr. Chapman, and all she could remember of it were those questions about the exhibits. She had, she remembered, given her reactions to a half-dozen photographs, and to a passage from Casanova, and then she had been offered the option to read or refuse to read a passage from Fanny Hill. She had read the passage, of course. "My bosom was now bare, and rising in the warmest throbs, presented to his sight and feeling the firm hard swell of a pair of young breasts. . . ." What had she answered? Yes, somewhat aroused. Perhaps she should have answered strongly aroused. No, somewhat was more accurate. She tried to picture Ed's apartment again. At last, an eye on the clock, she stepped out of the tub, dried herself, touched up her well-formed figure with cologne, inserted the diaphragm, and then slowly garmented herself with the attire selected.
At ten minutes to five, she wrote the note to Geoffrey about going to pick up the ham in bread, and reminded Mrs. Symonds to be sure to see that Mr. Harnish received the note so that he would not be concerned with her absence. At five o'clock, precisely, she settled behind the wheel of the convertible and prepared to leave for the beach.
The address that Ed Krasowski had given her, she was surprised to learn, was not in Malibu as she had expected, but much before Malibu and closer to the widely patronized Santa Monica pier. There was a large dirt parking area, and the soiled gray wood building, a dozen units perhaps, was of indifferent clapboard construction, and rose in humpty-dumpty fashion above a cliff that hung over the beach. It was flanked by a cheap hotel and a hamburger shanty. Teresa told herself that this was Bohemia, such as she had left behind in Greenwich Village, but this was better, and it was good to be back among teeming and vital life.
Ed's apartment proved to be on the second floor. Carrying pad and charcoal and her white summer purse, Teresa climbed the slippery, creaking steps to the outer veranda above. Two dirty, tanned, sopping children, possibly female, brushed past her, one chasing the other down the stairs, and Teresa saw that her dress was only slightly spotted. She continued along the veranda, side-stepping several pools of water and a hole where the planks had broken or rotted apart, and at last she reached the sanctuary of Ed's apartment.
She rapped.
"Come in!"
She opened the door, a chipped green, and entered. For a moment, she stood inside the door, closing it behind her and trying to accustom her eyes to the shade. Ed sat in a big over-stuffed chair, one leg thrown over the side, sucking beer from a can and listening to a blaring baseball broadcast on the portable radio. He was wearing a T-shirt again emblazoned with the legend Paradise Park, and white shorts, wrinkled, the stripes faded along the sides. Although his face seemed puffier than she had remembered, the shirt and shorts wonderfully pointed up his bursting strength and manliness. His biceps were incredible, still, and the thighs grew out of his shorts like barkless tree trunks.
"Hiya," he said, waving. He indicated the radio with a nod. "They're in Philly, all tied up in the third."
Teresa bobbed her head as if she understood. Ed finished his beer and then, remembering manners, lifted his enormous bulk to his feet. "Well, make yourself at home," he said.
"Yes, thank you, Ed."
She placed her sketch equipment on a table.
"See you came prepared," he said.
"That's right."
"What about a beer? Set you up."
"If you'll have one with me." She had never had domestic beer in her life. It was a day of adventures.
"I've had three already, but I'm not the one to say no. Excuse me."
He went into what appeared to be a kitchenette. For the first time, she surveyed their Charterhouse of Valdemosa, their Palma, their Majorca. A large oval, braided, early-American rug, its ancestry traceable to Sears, Roebuck, covered a worn floor speckled with sand. Besides the overstuffed chair and raucous radio, the remaining furniture consisted of a green divan with broken springs and several fraying rattan chairs. There were two intensely modern reflector lamps. On the walls hung a reproduction of Millet's The Angelus, probably the landlord's, and a reproduction of Bellows' A night at Sharkey's, probably inherited from a previous and more pugilistic tenant. There were three magazine pages of nude females with abnormal bosoms and buttocks, taken from a publication unknown to her—Playboy—tacked to the wall. There was an autographed photograph of someone who signed himself Harold "Red" Grange. There were two photographs, happily framed, one of Ed in football togs, crouched and ferocious, and the other of the person she remembered as Jackie.
Teresa moved to the windows—the soiled mesh drapes were parted—and regarded the rocky beach below. There was a fat woman seated cross-legged on an army blanket slicing a sausage. There was a skin diver adjusting his Martian headgear, with a thin rail of a peroxide blonde assisting him. There were armies of screaming wet children.
Discreetly, Teresa shut the open window, but still the noise came through the glass and thin walls. She moved on to the black hole of a bedroom, crowded with two twin beds without headboards and both halfheartedly made up, and two more rattan chairs and a secondhand peeling brown bureau.
"Not bad, eh?" she heard Ed call out.
She pirouetted in time to accept her beer, which was in a glass, and to notice that he preferred his own directly from the can. If he was devoted to beer, she decided, she would surprise him with a case of imported German lager. It would make a splendid little gift.
"Well," he said, holding up his can, "here's to lots of famous pictures."
"I hope so," she said.
She swallowed a great gulp of beer, and although it was malty, she drank again, and smiled at him.
"Why don't you sit down?" he said.
She nodded, then frowned at the frenzied radio. He saw her disapproval. "Bother you? Here, let me lower it." He turned it down, and now the children's voices, from below, were louder.
He sat heavily on the divan and indicated that she could have the favored overstuffed chair. But, impetuously, she sat on the divan several feet from him.
"It's not so comfortable," he said. "The springs—'
"It's all right."
"That's the way it was when Jackie and I moved in. The landlord's strictly do-nothing."
"Where's your roommate?"
"I kicked him out for now."
Her heart hammered. Had there ever been a greater show of love? He was trying to demonstrate that he had need to be alone with her.
"I ain't letting that bench jockey heckle me," he went on, "while I'm being painted."
Somewhat taken aback, she finished the horrid beer. "You like the beach, don't you, Ed?"
"Sure do. Nothing like doing a workout in the sand every morning to build those leg muscles. And I like the surfing.
Besides, it's the only place where a man can live like a mil-lionaire at these prices."
"I can understand that. I suppose, in your profession, you must take care of your body."
"Like a baby," said Ed solemnly. Then he shook the can, and his Slavic face broke into a grin. "'Course, man's got to have one vice." He brought the can to his mouth and drank.
"You mean to tell me that's your only vice?"
"Depends what you call vice."
"Well, female companionship—"
"That's more necessity. If you'll pardon the expression—a man's got to have an outlet."
"Oh, I agree with you," she said quickly. "It's a part of normal good health."
He grinned at some remembrance. "'Course, you wouldn't think that if you met some of the fiipperoos that come around.”
“Women, you mean?"
"It takes all kinds to make a world, and all kinds sort of wash up on the beach."
The thought struck her: Could Isadora's Essinine be a puritan at heart? She dismissed it: Aren't all men?
"I suppose you're popular," she said.
"Well, I don't know," he said modestly.
"I don't mind confessing that it was seeing you on the beach, in your natural element, observing your bodily grace, the freedom of your limbs, that first attracted me to you." She watched him. "You have a perfectly symmetrical body," she added.
He did not disagree. "Yeah, I guess so," he said. "Like I said before, I baby it. I got good development—smooth, no knots. I don't go for that weight-lifter bit—you know, over-development. It's no good, ties you up. I like to keep it well proportioned." He spoke of his body as if it were an entity apart from himself.
She was intrigued. She had discovered a subject that interested both of them.
"I think you're far better looking than most of the motion-picture stars. You look more manly."
"That doesn't take much doing," he said. "Those queers—if you'll pardon me."
"I think that's why I wanted to sketch you first as a Grecian Olympic hero--to contrast your basic virility with the pallid men who surround us today." The points of her breasts, her legs, ached with desire. "Have you ever seen the classical statue of the discus thrower?"
"Inspired by your body, I feel I can surpass Myron the Greek. He did the discus thrower. He also did Lais, the courtesan. I'd like to do you in exactly the same way. In fact, I'd like to start right now."
"Sure. What do I do?"
"Well, the discus thrower was nude, of course, like all Greek Olympians. I would want you to pose that way."
He straightened his bulk on the sofa. "With nothing on?" She tried to assume an unemotional, businesslike tone.
"Yes, in the classical tradition. If you'll just disrobe while I get ready—"
"Hey, wait a minute, lady. You don't expect me to take off all my clothes in front of a woman?"
"Why not? Do you suffer false modesty? I'm sure you've done it a hundred times before—in front of women."
"But not to be looked at. When I strip down, it's for different reasons. And then, the dame's always naked, too."
"Is that what's bothering you, Ed? That I'll be dressed, and you won't? Very well. I'll gladly take off my clothes, too."
He was certain that he had not heard her right. "What did you say?"
"You heard me correctly, Ed. If it'll make you happier, I'll undress right now."
His face was all confusion. "Just to paint me?"
She heard her heart, and wanted to be buried in his arms forever. Her voice, when she found it, was foreign to her ears. "Of course not, silly boy. I can paint the next time. I want you to do to me what you do to those other girls."
He sat gaping. She jumped to her feet and stood before him, legs apart, her knees touching his, her hands clasped behind her back so that her breasts were distended.
"Ed, don't you even want to touch me?"
The turn of events anchored him in bewilderment. "Sure, but—"
"But what, Ed? You think I'm too much of a lady to behave like this? Well, I am a lady, but I'm also a woman. From the moment I first saw you on the beach, I fought the feeling inside me. I knew I was becoming enamored of you—foolishly so—but women in love are foolish, and now, all I want is your love." She stared down at him, too aroused to smile or make light of it. "Touch me, Ed. You might enjoy it."
He grabbed out at her and roughly yanked her down to his lap. Her hands were in his hair, and her mouth met his, pressing so hard that her teeth hurt. Gasping, they were apart.
"Holy geez," he said.
"Those others—what do you do with them?"
"Those broads are different—run-of-the-mill snatch—but you—"
"What about me?"
"I should've known. I just didn't figure you—like Jackie, when he brought me your message—ol' Jackie said, `Ed, you should've seen her in that swim suit—built like a—' And then, he said, `I gotta hunch you can maybe make time there—there's a lotta pepper in that tomato.' But I told him he was nuts."
"You see, Ed? Even he could tell how I wanted you." She placed her face against his. "Aren't you going to undress me?”
“You bet your lifel"
Awkwardly, he fumbled at her dress.
"The zipper's in back," she whispered.
He found it, and suddenly he remembered something. "In the bedroom," he said. "Get in there."
He pushed her to her feet and stood up. She started for the bedroom, watching him as he strode to the door, locked it, then hurried to the windows and drew the drapes closed.
In the darkened bedroom, she kicked off her pumps and felt the chill of the carpetless floor on her soles. She had released the dress to her waist when he returned, breathing audibly. She wriggled, letting it drop, then stepped out of it. She stood barefooted, very small in her half-slip, naked from the waist up, shoulders drawn back.
"Holy geez," he said admiringly.
"Should I undress you?"
"No, I'll do it. You lie down and wait."
He hastened into the bathroom. She removed slip and pants, threw back the blanket, and stretched herself on the bed. She gazed into the living room, listening to the screams on the beach, the wet feet on the veranda, the humming voice on the radio. The room was close and tepid. And there was some gritty discomfort beneath her. She ran her fingers across the bed sheet: sand.
"You ready?" he called from the bathroom.
"Yes, darling."
He appeared wearing only an elastic athletic supporter. It accentuated the muscular layers of his stomach and torso. He pulled down the supporter and kicked it away, and faced her fully. The discus thrower, she thought, and then she observed his total nudity for the first time, and for a moment she was nudged by surprise. The surprise was that he was, in one way, no more extraordinary than Geoffrey—in fact, far less so. He advanced toward her, and the surprise was forgotten. The appeal of his towering frame was Godlike. He had come to her, from Olympus, at last.
She held out her arms. "Come to me."
She tingled in anticipation of the long, excruciating feast of love that would now begin. Every inch of her being waited to be brought to the peak of desire. The bed trembled as he knelt on it, and, as she waited to accept his kisses and caresses, she was suddenly shocked to find him directly atop her, pinning her shoulders, crushing her beneath his terrible weight. And then she cried out, not with pain but with outrage, when she realized that he was making love to her.
She twisted her head aside, protesting this madness. "Ed, not yet, not yet—you haven't—I'm not—"
Ignoring all but her body, he went on, frenzied. She reached to push him away, but she might as well have tried to move the Empire State building. She closed her eyes and made an effort to understand: He's treating me like one of those Japanese rubber torsos sailors buy in Kobe—he hasn't kissed me but once, not even touched my breasts, not my body, not whispered a single endearment.
She opened her eyes. He was performing quite apart from her, like a senseless animal. She felt nothing, no connection with him, beyond the ridiculous pressure, that and the irritating sand on her bottom, that and the stale beery breath above, the panting harmonizing with the yelling children beneath the room. She smelled his sweat, and the smell of kelp and seaweed, and the horrible fish market smell of the public beach. And she hated the lumpy mattress that hurt, and the uncoiled springs, and his monstrous weight.
"Ed, listen—will you—listen—"
She tried to free herself of the tiresome burden, but when she did so, he frightened her by squealing like a pig and exhaling an explosion of breath. And then, after a moment, he disengaged himself and fell on his side.
She sat up the instant that she was free and regarded the fleshy mountain incredulously. He lay biting the air for oxygen, and finally he opened his eyes and met her gaze. He smiled and winked at her. "Holy geez, honey, that was great.
You can put your shoes under my bed any day of the week."
She continued to stare at him, too stunned to articulate a word. This . . . this orangutan. He had treated love like football practice. Several lunges, and a day's work done. This was primitive man? My God, she thought, my God, maybe it was like this, really like this, when you clubbed a woman and dragged her to the hole in the hill and employed her as a handy receptacle. God, oh, God, Isadora, Isadora, this is funny.
She remained sitting, immobilized by the wonder of it. Great expectations. Says who? Dickens. She felt as unmoved, as uninvaded, as untouched, in fact, as the moment before she entered this cheap little hovel. Yet, this had been love, too. Who on earth would know this besides herself? Dr. Chapman, of course. No, not Dr. Chapman. He had no chart of statistics to measure great expectations. Who then would understand? Stendhal, yes, he alone. Inevitably, the line, following his first sex act, came to mind: Quoi, n'est-ce que pa? She stared at the filthy, unkempt cell that was a bedroom, saw the nails in the wall that held no art, and the plasterless portions of the ceiling, and a football in the corner.
She worked her way to the edge of the bed.
"How was it, honey?" he asked.
My God, she thought, he wanted her gratefulness. "Great," she said.
"Well—any time."
She dressed quickly, not looking at him.
"Hey, you're not going already?" he asked.
"I'm afraid I have to."
"When's our next date? Remember, you're painting me." He laughed with child's delight.
"I'll let you know."
She zippered her dress and stepped into her pumps. She picked up her purse and started into the living room.
"Wait a minute," he called out. "I don't even know your name."
She kept going, as fast as she could, through the living room, abandoning the sketch materials, fairly fleeing through the door. On the veranda, a wet child stamped past. She drew aside, then made her way over the slippery surface to the stairs. Descending, she glanced at her watch. She had come to this place, she recalled, at five thirty-five. Now her watch told her it was five fifty-two.
She would be home in plenty of time to greet the first guests.
Although dinner was still a half hour from being served—Mr. Jefferson was on his third round through the living room and patio, delivering highballs from his tray, taking new orders —the Danish ham baked in the bread, sliced in two, centered on the buffet before the floral arrangement, was the major success of the evening.
Already Teresa, on her husband's arm, had received four compliments.
"Clever of you, dearest," Geoffrey whispered with pride.
Teresa snuggled closer to him. "I love you." Her top hat was askew. She corrected it and waved her cigar at the clusters of friends. "Isn't this fun?" she exclaimed gaily. Not in months had she so savored the pleasures of her richly appointed home, the riot of lovely paintings on every burlap wall, her distinguished husband, her intelligent friends, as she did this night.
"Oh, look," she cried, pointing to the front door that Mr. Jefferson had just opened. "There's Kathleen! Isn't she lovely?"
Kathleen Ballard had slipped the mink stole from her shoulders, and Paul took it and handed it to Mr. Jefferson. Kathleen was swathed in clouds of filmy white, full and Grecian and of daring décolletage. After making the garment, she had been embarrassed by it but, in the end, had determined to wear it unafraid. After all, this was the woman she would have wished to have been the day Paul interviewed her, and perhaps it would help him appreciate her subconscious self.
Teresa, followed by Geoffrey, was upon her. "Kathleen, you are divine. Whatever are you—a Vestal Virgin?"
"Lady Emma Hamilton, I hope," said Kathleen. "This was the way she dressed."
"Of course!" said Teresa, standing back, framing Kathleen with her hands. She turned to Geoffrey. "Romney's Lady Hamilton."
Geoffrey nodded sagely. "National Gallery. London."
"I suppose that was the picture I saw in the book," said Kathleen.
"The most innocent, fawnlike, beautiful portrait of a woman ever put to canvas," said Geoffrey. "Romney surpassed himself."
"God was the artist," Teresa said to Geoffrey.
"Ole," said Geoffrey, pleased.
Kathleen had Paul's hand. "This is Mr. Paul Radford; our host and hostess, Teresa and Geoffrey Harnish." As the introduction was acknowledged, Kathleen remembered that she and Paul had agreed not to mention his connection with Dr. Chap.. man. "Paul's a writer," Kathleen added vaguely.
Kathleen and Paul, fortified by a second serving of Scotch and soda, were conversing with Mary and Norman McManus. Originally, Mary had intended to appear as Florence Nightingale, doer of good works, her father's suggestion. But this morning, after breakfast, she had decided that the lady with the lamp was too saccharine. She had felt as reckless and independent as any pioneer woman who had ever trod the uncouth West. After careful consideration, she had rejected Jessie Fremont for Belle Starr, and now wore cowboy hat, black shirt, holster and pearl six-shooter, and a leather skirt, all rented from a costume house on Melrose.
"I'm truly sorry Naomi couldn't make it," she was saying to Kathleen. "But she is better?"
"Much better," said Kathleen. "You know how these colds hang on. I believe she's planning a trip East, the moment she's strong enough."
"How wonderful. She was raised there, wasn't she?”
“Yes, I believe so."
"Well," said Mary, taking Norman's hand and beaming up at him, "Norman and I are taking a trip, too—in a way.”
“Really?" said Kathleen conversationally.
"Not really," said Norman. "But we're looking for a house of our own."
"That's the smart thing to do," said Kathleen. "If you run into any trouble, you should speak to Grace Waterton. She knows every realtor in The Briars."
"Thank you, Mrs. Ballard," said Norman, "but I'm afraid it won't be The Briars. You see, I'm going on my own—that is, I'm forming a partnership with a friend of mine who has offices downtown."
"What profession are you in?" asked Paul.
"Law," said Norman. "It'll take time to get a foothold" He turned to Kathleen. "Anyway, if you hear of anything reasonable in the valley, let us know." He examined his highball glass. "Excuse me. I think I want a refill."
He went off toward the bar. Mary lingered a moment. She moved her face close to Kathleen's ear. "We're going to have a baby," she whispered.
"Oh, Mary—When?"
Mary winked. "Soon. It's in the works." She hurried off after Norman.
Mary and Norman McManus had accepted their refills from Mr. Jefferson in the dining room, and now they were chatting with Ursula and Harold Palmer. Ursula, after considerable soul-searching, had attired herself as a modernized version of Lucrezia Borgia. She wore a jeweled cap on her freshly coiffured hair, which was circled by a dramatic braid, a gauzy veil about her throat, a full-length gown of emerald-green satin, a silver girdle, and sandals studded with costumed stones.
"I couldn't stand that damn magazine another day," Ursula was telling Mary and Norman. "That nauseating motto, `The magazine of companionship—serving your heart and hearth.' Enough to make you upchuck."
Mary did not know what to say in reply. She had subscribed to Houseday since her marriage and had assigned it a place of authority beside Harry Ewing, Hannah and Abraham Stone, the New Testament, and Dr. Norman Vincent Peale. Now she would not admit to being Constant Reader, and secretly decided to relegate the publication to a lesser position, like the recently demoted Harry Ewing.
"I don't blame you, Ursula," she said lamely. And then she added with more reassurance, "People grow."
"Exactly," said Ursula, who was beginning to feel the liquor. "The publisher had grand plans for me, an executive position in New York, the works, but I couldn't see Harold and me becoming ensnared by the Madison Avenue bit, the commuter bit—" this had been the expurgated official version released to Harold after the shameful session with Foster—especially since Harold is doing so marvelously in his new business."
"I got the Berrey account," Harold explained to Norman. "He's drugstores."
"Oh, yes," said Norman. "I'm very interested in knowing what it's like to be on your own. You see, a friend of mine, Chris Shearer—we were in law school together—we're opening offices--"
"It's not all caviar," said Harold expansively. "You've got to expect to struggle a little."
"Oh, I do," said Norman.
"But before long you'll be right up there," continued Harold. "'Specially if you have the little woman behind you." Ursula turned the full glow of her drunken smile on her husband. "Might as well tell you," said Harold, "Ursula's moved into the office to lend a hand. I had a girl, but Ursula's ten girls in one, and that's what a man needs." He wagged his finger at Mary. "You just stay behind him, Mary. Look behind every great man, and you find a greater woman. Richelieu." He understood that this made no sense, and that he should have allowed the bartender to put some vermouth in the martinis. "Mrs. Roosevelt," he amended. "After a while it's peaches and cream."
Mary's hand moved inside Norman's hand. Her forefinger tickled his palm. Harold was still speaking. "A little nerve is all you need. Take the time I went after Berrey—"
Mrs. Symonds, in her white kitchen uniform, offered the tray of crab meat in canapé shells and hot curried meat balls to Ursula and Harold Palmer, who were in the patio holding a discussion with Sarah and Sam Goldsmith.
Harold absently accepted the canapé his wife had passed him and continued to stare woozily at the exposed expanse of Sarah's belly. Sarah had defied Sam's conventionality, to convert halter and tights, once used in a class of the modem dance, into the costume of Mata Hari. Four beaded scarves now modified the tights, and a larger scarf was wound around the halter, but her belly was still bare, to Sam's acute discomfort.
Earlier, to gain Sam's affection and perhaps acquire his clothing-store account, Harold had questioned Sam about his business. Sam, his worried eyes shifting constantly from his wife's indecent costume (what gets into these women—a mother of two, yet?) to the glances of other males in the patio, and back to Harold, discoursed in a steady, complaining drone on the rising cost of merchandise, the perfidy of hired help, the sales tax, the property tax, the income tax, and the trickery of monopolistic chain establishments.
Ursula, tranquilized by alcohol and half listening, murmured agreement and assent from time to time, instinctively understanding that the speaker's business could enrich their business.
Sarah, not listening at all, fiddled with the bun of her hair and then rearranged her scarves, finding little enjoyment in the brevity of her costume, yet not regretting any gesture that might distress Sam. Observing Sam's profile, the heavy jowls shimmying like a mastiff's jaw, she thought of those Semitic caricatures once fostered by Streicher in Der Stürmer. But the comparison was not fair, she acknowledged, and the jowls weren't what actually aggravated her. It was the oppressiveness of his private, and now social, banality that embarrassed the most. The frustration of being among people like these, who mattered, with a mate who was a dolt, who in no way represented her mature taste in men, instead of with the mate whom she truly loved, who would have reflected her fine judgment and her own desirability, was what she could not bear.
She saw Grace Waterton enter the patio, and she signaled to capture Grace's attention. Anything, she felt, to interrupt Sam's boring monologue on small business. Grace responded with her handkerchief and hastened forward, rustling loudly in her unbecoming Tudor dress that was meant to be a representation of Anne Boleyn.
"Sarah, I've been looking everywhere for you," Grace said rapidly. "Actually, I was just looking for Mr. Waterton—" she always referred to him thus, and she scanned the patio quickly—"but I did want to have a talk with you."
Sarah saw that neither sleet nor storm nor Waterton would halt the forensic Sam, and so she turned her back on Sam and the Palmers and confronted Grace.
"Aren't you divine?" said Grace, surveying the tights and scarves. "How do you manage that schoolgirl figure?"
Sarah was pleased. "No lunches and no desserts," she said simply.
"Sarah, we've been talking seriously about doing another fund-raising play this summer. The other was such a success." Sarah's heart stood still. She said nothing. Grace was going on. "You were such a hit in it. We're trying to get the same cast back. Perhaps do Lady Windermere's Fan. You'd be the perfect Lady Windermere—you have just the bearing—though, of course, you could do Mrs. Erlynne, if you preferred. We've just begun to make inquiries."
"I. . . I'm afraid I couldn't manage it, Grace. It's been so hectic. The children—"
"But we wouldn't do it before August. You'd have the kids in camp."
"I don't think so, Grace. Anyway, Sam and I might be away."
Grace sighed. "Oh dear, everyone traveling. That makes my second turn-down in a row, and for the same reason."
Some intuition restrained the question on the tip of Sarah's tongue, but she forced it out anyway. "Who was the other to turn you down?"
Grace's gaze had wandered in search of her husband. She returned it now to Sarah. "Fred Tauber," she said. "Remember him?"
"Yes, I do."
"I figured, let's start with the director. After all, the big job is his. I phoned him this morning."
Sarah's cheeks were warm. It was odd listening to someone else bandying Fred's name, invading the secret preserve of her life, where she was hidden with Fred. She remembered—at no time this evening had she forgotten—that she had telephoned Fred from a booth in The Village Green late yesterday afternoon. She had found him in, at last, but disturbingly remote. She had telephoned him innumerable times, with no answer, she had said. He had been out on a series of business meetings, he had said. She had come to see him in desperation, because of the man in the Dodge, she had said. He had been to his attorney, he had said. Then, hopefully, she had wondered about the attorney—was anything wrong? No, he had replied impatiently, it was a contract matter—in fact, he was in the midst of a conference that moment—and she had been relieved to have this explain his remoteness and impatience. She had wanted to know when they could meet, reminding him they had not seen each other for four days, and he had explained that he would be out tomorrow morning but that he might be in Saturday morning. He had advised her to contact him then.
"... and we had a brief talk," Grace was saying. "You phoned him this morning?"
"Why, of course. Why not?"
"I ... I should suppose he's working."
"Oh. Well. I'll tell you all about that, my dear. But the point is, I told him how everyone adored his work on the last show, how charitable and gracious it had been of him, and how we needed him again. Of course, I thought I had him in the bag, because of what I'd heard."
"What did you hear, Grace?"
"He's a has-been. No one would touch him with a ten-foot pole. He makes a big show of disdaining television, of turning down everything but the best—hell, he hasn't been offered even a puppet show in two years."
Sarah felt her nails in the palms of her hands. She wanted to scratch Grace's eyes out. With difficulty, she restrained her voice. "I don't believe that cheap gossip. He's a genius. All of us thought so who worked with him."
"Don't take it to heart. What did you do, transfer to your director or something? So he's a genius—a genius who can't buy a job. Anyway, I'm only repeating. At any rate, back to that phone call. I thought we had him, but, by God, our luck, he just did get a job a couple of days ago."
"Really? What?"
"A television series they're going to shoot down in Mexico and Central America. 'The Filibusters,' I think he said it was called you know, William Walker, soldiers of fortune, adventurers. Not a bad idea. Maybe some banana company will sponsor it. Anyway, he's leaving for Mexico City tomorrow to shoot the pilot film. Isn't that the damnedest luck?"
"Tomorrow?" said Sarah dully. Every organ inside her body had given way.
Grace seemed not to have heard her. `But that's not the juicy part. Even that job's a fluke. I had to call Helen Fleming this morning—she's on the play committee—with the bad news. Well, her husband's in the studios, and a friend of his, someone named Reggie Hooper, created the series. Well, it seems that Fred Tauber's wife—did you know he had a wife?"
Sarah shook her head.
"His wife is the daughter of one of those Hollywood big shots. She's society and loaded with gilt-edged and quite a bit older. I suppose Tauber married her because he expected it would help. Well, it helped a little, I'm sure, but not enough, and he got bored and began pinching starlets, and she found out. There was some kind of noisy showdown in Romanoff's, and he left her. So she went to big-shot Daddy, and Daddy got Tauber blacklisted until he came around. But Tauber wouldn't come around, jobs or no jobs—he didn't have enough talent to get anyone to defy his father-in-law—so he just sat in limbo, reading Hedda Hopper and pinching starlets. But here's the pay-off. Apparently, his wife really loved him—either that or she didn't want her name dragged into the divorce courts—there's a kid somewhere around—so at last she was the one to come around. I think she helped him a little with money for a couple of independent projects that fell through. Anyway, lately, she got wind that was he going hot and heavy for someone, an actress, I think, and she decided to put a stop to that. She bought this television property and offered Tauber a partnership if he would take it down to Mexico and produce and direct it. I don't think she gives a damn about anything, except getting him away from here. So who suffers in the end? We suffer. If anyone knew what the Association goes through ..."
An unfamiliar voice, male, answered the phone, and Sarah asked for Mr. Tauber.
"Just a moment, please," said the voice.
She sat on the edge of the hassock, in the study, telephone in her lap, rocking to and fro and wanting to wail. Her temples throbbed, and the back of her neck was agonizing.
Minutes before, she had pleaded the powder room and escaped Grace, who had moved on to Sam and the Fanners, and stumbled into the dining room where Geoffrey was showing off the ham baked in bread to a professorial guest. She had whispered to Geoffrey that she must make a phone call in privacy, and he had cheerfully placed an arm around her bare back and led her to the study. Inside, he had nuzzled her neck with his mustache and told her that no one would disturb her if she pressed the lock from the inside. He had left, reluctantly, and she had shut the door and pressed the lock.
"Yes?" It was Fred's busy voice.
"This is Sarah."
"Look, I'm tied up right now."
"They can wait. You listen to me."
Her tone of voice had given him pause. "All right," he said slowly. "What is it?"
"I know all about your damn television series, and Mexico, and going tomorrow. I'm at a party, and I overheard it. I just want you to tell me if it's true. I just want to know it's true. I want to hear it from you."
"Look, let me explain—one second—" He had apparently partially covered the mouthpiece with his hand. She tried to visualize what he was doing. He was explaining to the others that it was something private. They could stay put, and he would let out the extension cord and carry the phone into the bathroom behind the living room.
He came on again. "All right, now I can talk. Look, Sarah, I didn't dare call you—I was going to write you a note after tonight's meeting—"
"A note?" She knew that her voice was shrill and didn't give a damn.
"A letter, explaining—"
"You knew this yesterday when I called. Why didn't you tell me then?"
"There were people in the room."
"Your wife, you mean."
"All right. Yes."
"You should hear what I heard. It's all over the place. She knows about us. She got you this series to get you out of town."
"Who told you that crap?" His voice was furious. "Nobody's spending fifty thou on a pilot to get me out of town, not even my wife."
"Are you going to tell me she isn't putting up a dime?"
"I'm saying nothing of the sort. She's one of the backers, of course. She's a businesswoman. She knows what I can do. But there are others, too."
"She wants to break us up, and you're letting her—for a lousy job."
"It's got nothing to do with her. Sarah, be reasonable. I'm a man. I'm a director. I've got work to do. This is something that's come up that I like, and I want to do it."
She rocked on the hassock, blind with hurt, wanting only to lash out, to hurt him. "All the time, your arty talk, looking down your nose at television, and the first piece of junk that comes along—"
"Sarah, what's got into you? I can't believe this is you. Knowing me as you do, do you think I'd do anything I didn't believe in? You're just upset because you heard about it this way."
"I am, I want to cry."
"I told you I was going to explain. I was planning to leave time for it tonight. You mean a good deal to me. You're the most important thing in my life—except for my work, I'm a man—I've got to work—but you're everything else—"
She loved him so, that broken face, that tender touch and voice, her life, her entire life.
". . and I'll be back in six weeks," he went on. "We'll be together as before."
"I can't live six weeks without you. I'll die."
"I'll be back, Sarah."
"And after that? More trips? No—no, Fred, listen—we can't go on like this. I've made up my mind. Nothing will change it." Overlapping her words was the memory: she had made up her mind during the interview, or right after, discussing her life with Sam, then Fred, and bringing everything into clear focus. What had deterred her from acting at once had been the children, the children and the wave of scandal that would wash her away from relatives and friends. But then she had determined to live her life as it must be lived. Eventually, she would have the children again. Eventually, she would regain the regard of relatives and friends. People remarried every day, and it was acceptable. Sam had the store and the twenty-one-inch screen. To hell with Sam. Because he was dead, must she also be entombed? "I'm going with you," she heard herself say. "I'll meet you at the airport in the morning."
"Sarah, you can't mean that? You're not making sense."
"I'm making sense—for the first time, yes—I'll meet you."
"Your family—"
"I don't care. You're my family?'
"Sarah, I'm going down with a crew. There'll be no women. I couldn't—"
"I'll take the next flight, then. Where will you be?”
“All over the place. I'll be busy every minute."
"Where will you be? There's got to be one place."
"The Reforma Hotel," he said unhappily. "I wish you wouldn't, Sarah. I wish you'd sleep on it, think about it.”
“No."
"I can't keep you from coming to Mexico, of course not—”
“You can keep me from coming. Tell me you don't love me. Tell me you don't want me, ever again. Tell me that." There was a momentary silence. "I can't tell you that, but—" Someone was knocking at the study door.
"I have to hang up now," she whispered. "I'll see you."
She returned the receiver to the cradle, set down the telephone, straightened the scarves so that they covered her tights, and opened the study door. It was Geoffrey holding up two drinks.
"Scotch or bourbon? Your choice of weapons."
"Bourbon."
He extended the glass in his left hand, and she accepted the drink.
"I thought you needed it," he said.
She smiled wanly. "Mata Hari doesn't," she said. "But I do."
The first guests had begun to depart at twelve-thirty, and by twelve forty-five Kathleen and Paul had taken their leave of the Harnishes and were headed toward Kathleen's house a dozen blocks away.
Kathleen had enjoyed the dinner, and so had Paul, both fully aware that this had been their formal social debut as partners. Now, remembering incidents at the party, they laughed, and Paul hardest at the memory of the Palmers so drunk, enacting an impromptu playlet of Dr. Chapman interviewing Lucrezia Borgia on her sexual behavior.
Kathleen shook her head. "Imagine, if they had known you were one of the interviewers."
"She would have gone ahead anyway. She was tanked." Kathleen looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "You weren't offended?"
Paul chuckled. "I wish I'd written that skit. . . . Hell, no. We're fair game."
Turning into Kathleen's street, they both fell silent as if by mutual consent. The thinnest slice of moon hung high above the street lights, circled by dots that were stars sparkling on and off. On either side of the thoroughfare, casting weird silhouettes on the street, the rows of eucalyptus bowed respectfully, like ancient retainers. In the unstirred air remained the faint exotic odor of gardenia bushes.
Paul bent the car into Kathleen's driveway, and in a moment they were before her entrance. He turned the ignition key, and the motor lost its voice to the cadence of the crickets in the grass.
Kathleen pulled her mink stole about her, then folded her hands in her lap, and turned to face Paul. "I'd ask you in, but it's so late."
Paul's eyes watched her face. "What did our host say? Romney's portrait—the most beautiful face ever put to canvas? Someday, we'll see, and then I'll show you—not half as beautiful as you, Kathleen."
"Don't say things like that, Paul, unless you mean them."
"I love you, Kathleen."
"Paul . . . I—"
She closed her eyes, red lips trembling, and he embraced her and kissed her. After a while, as he kissed her cheeks, and eyes and forehead, and hair, and found her mouth again, she took his hand in her own and brought it to her chest, and then pressed it down beneath the veiled bodice and inside her brassiere. Gently, he caressed the soft breast, then withdrew his hand and touched her hot cheek with his fingertips.
"Kathleen, I love you. I want to marry you."
Her eyes were open, and, suddenly, she sat up, staring wordlessly at him. Her eyes were odd, almost frightened.
"I'm supposed to leave Sunday," he said, "but Dr. Chapman owes us vacations. I could ask to stay. We could fly to Las Vegas—or a church, if you like—"
"No," she said.
Paul did not conceal his astonishment. "I thought—I'm trying to say I love you, all the way—and I thought—it seemed to me that you felt—"
"I do, I do—but not now."
"I don't understand you, Kathleen."
Her head was bowed. She did not speak.
"Kathleen, I've been a bachelor a long time. I knew that when it finally happened, it would be right. I knew it—and I know it now, this moment here. You're right, and I'm right, and I think we should be together for the rest of our lives."
She looked up. There was a secret misery in her face that he had not seen before. "I can't now—I want you, but not now —and don't ask me to explain."
"But this makes no sense. Is it your first husband?”
“No."
"Then what is it, Kathleen? This is the most important moment in our lives. There can be no secrets. Tell me what's bothering you, just tell me—get it over with—and then we can have each other."
"I'm too tired, Paul." She opened the car door, and before he could speak again, she was standing in the driveway. "I can't answer you, because I can't. Don't ask for logic. I'm too tired now to talk—just too tired."
She turned and went swiftly to the door. She inserted the key, and hurried inside, and closed it against him, not once looking back.
Paul sat behind the wheel, unmoving, for many minutes. He tried to understand, but without information, without logic, without communication, there was no understanding. The incredibility of the situation overwhelmed him. For most of thirty-five years, he had sought this woman, this delicate, ethereal Romney portrait, and after the endless odyssey, the trial by loneliness, he had found her. Yet, he had found no one, no person, but an image that had neither substance nor reality. He could not possess, he realized, what did not exist. The weight of the disappointment crushed him.
He turned the ignition key and started the car. Sick at heart, sick beyond breathing, he drove through The Briars toward the refuge of the only reality that held back no secrets, offered no disappointments—the refuge of numbers, cold and clear, even welcoming warm in their calm and orderly array.