An Emergence of Green (15 page)

“Jerry,” Paul said, making rings with his beer mug on a table shiny with varnish, “you mind me asking what you’re getting for that guest house?”

Jerry blinked at Paul. “I don’t mind, Brother. Three hundred is what.”

Jerry addressed any man he liked as Brother. Paul detested the habit. But he smiled and nodded. “I figured you wouldn’t ask what it’s worth, Jerry. You’ve got a good heart. That Hunter woman, she a good tenant?”

“Keeps to herself.”

“That only lasts so long. You know women.” He chuckled along with Jerry and then asked, “What about the kid? He bother you or Dorothy?”

“Nah. I was worried at first to tell you the truth. Me and the wife don’t like being bothered, you know. But it was Dorothy that said to let them rent. They’ve been okay. He’s a good boy. Quiet, good manners. You don’t see much of that in kids today.”

“It’s a wonder.” Paul’s eyes were caught by the glint of silver, a religious medal visible in Jerry’s open-throat Hawaiian shirt. He emphasized his next words: “With a weirdo like that for a mother.”

“Weirdo?” Jerry looked at him in rheumy-eyed alarm.

“Well, we had them over for dinner—”

“Dorothy mentioned she’s seen Carolyn coming over quite a bit in the evenings.”

“Carolyn’s very fond of the boy.” With effort, he kept the defensiveness out of his voice. “I’m sure he could use some mothering.”

Jerry was looking at him, his watery blue eyes sympathetic; and with a rush of rage Paul realized that Jerry assumed he and Carolyn could not have children. He opened his mouth, then clamped his jaw shut.

Jerry said, “You don’t think he gets much mothering from Miz Hunter? She seems to take real good care of him.”

“Some people can put on a good show, I don’t have to tell you that. She says she’s been married but Carolyn—” He broke off and glanced apologetically at Jerry as if he had caught himself before revealing a confidence. He continued, “These artist types, well…”

Jerry nodded sagely.

“Even if she did have the kid under a mulberry bush, it doesn’t make him any less a good kid, right? But that Hunter woman, she’s full of strange ideas, Jerry. The night she was over to our house she said right in front of her son she didn’t believe in much of anything. Hardly a God-fearing woman, would you say? Ever see her take her kid to church on a Sunday morning?”

As Jerry gaped at him, Paul pressed his advantage. “She doesn’t need a man’s presence around for her son, she said that, too. God knows what kind of sissy that boy might grow into with a mother who thinks like that. A lot of these women nowadays, they think they don’t need men at all.”

Jerry nodded. “The wife and I were talking about that just the other night.”

“I’m glad Dorothy still agrees with you about things, Jerry. That Hunter woman gets hold of Dorothy, God knows what kind of stuff she’ll pump into her. It’d be terrible after all these years if Dorothy got dissatisfied with everything you’ve both had together.”

Jerry gaped at him again. “The wife—I know Dorothy, she could never feel like that.”

“Every day on my job I see women out to convert any woman they can get their hands on. More so now that we’ve got Reagan in and some sanity back in this country. But they’ve got this Ferraro woman up for vice president now. You sure as hell can’t keep Dorothy chained up while you’re here or gone fishing, now can you?”

Jerry swallowed beer and swirled his mug, agitating the remnants. Paul signaled the waitress, a hard-faced bleached blonde, for another round. They drank in silence, Jerry contemplating his beer, Paul content to let his words ferment. He felt heavy-headed from the beer.

“Wish I could think of a way to get rid of her,” Jerry finally said.

“Well,” Paul said carefully, hiding his elation, “there’s always a way. You need the house for some reason. Maybe a relative?”

“We don’t have any relatives, not close by.”

Paul smothered a snort of disgust. “She doesn’t need to know that.”

“I’m no good at making stuff up, lying to people, you know. They know it when I do.”

“Look, Jerry. Why do you need a reason? You’re just making one up to spare her feelings. It’s your house, man. Don’t we still have property rights in this country?”

“By God you’re right, Brother!” Jerry clinked Paul’s mug with his own and took a deep draught.

“You get three hundred for the place,” Paul said, his head thick from the beer, trying to sift through his thoughts and gauge Jerry. “Tell you what. You’re getting her out of my hair as well as yours—before she hurts either Carolyn or Dorothy. When the Hunter woman moves out I’ll give you a hundred for your trouble, pay the rent till you rent it again.”

“That’s crazy.” Jerry shook his head vigorously. “No way I need you to do that, Brother.”

They argued good-naturedly—comrades now—before Jerry agreed he would accept a case of Moosehead beer for his trouble, that Paul would take him to the next Raiders game. They sealed their bargain with a handshake and another round of beer.

“I really think you could get three-fifty for the place,” Paul told him. “I know you could get it.”

“I dunno. It’s awful small, Brother. No bathtub, carpets only so-so. And the kitchen—”

“Three and a quarter, then. Ask that much. You can always come down.”

“You’re one mighty smart fellow. Always told the wife that.”

Paul suggested, “I don’t think you ought to go into much detail about this with Dorothy.”

“Don’t worry about that. The Hunter woman doesn’t have much to do with Dorothy. Anyway, the wife always goes along with what I do.” Jerry rose, and with a belligerent swagger made his way to the men’s room.

Paul contemplated his wavery reflection in the shiny surface of the table. He raised his beer mug. He murmured, “Congratulations, Brother.”

Astounded, Carolyn was staring at Val.

Val chuckled dryly. “I must’ve looked just like you do when Jerry Robinson told me. He wouldn’t look at me, Carrie. I asked if Neal had done anything, and he acted like he wanted to crawl into a hole. Everything I said, he repeated that business about wanting the house for a relative.”

“I’ll talk to him. Better yet, I’ll ask Paul to. They talk out in the yard, they—”

“No.” Val’s tone was decisive. “I don’t care about his reasons. I don’t want to be anywhere I’m not wanted. He told me to take all the time I need to find another place. I intend to. Will you help me?”

“Of course. But this is ridiculous. I don’t understand—”

“There’s nothing to be done. Put it down as one of life’s little X factors.”

* * *

Ignoring Paul’s indifference, his increasing irritation, she insisted on talking about Jerry Robinson.

“In the year and a half we’ve lived here the only relative who visited them was that brother from Hawaii, remember? The Robinsons insisted we come over and meet him. He won’t rent to any relative—”

“How do we know? There may be another relative.” His voice was sharp, exasperated. “What the hell do I care?”

She said coldly, “I’ll be spending a lot of time helping her. It won’t be easy finding the right place for an artist.”

“I’m sure,” he said with heavy sarcasm.

But it was only ten days later when Val said, “This is it, Carrie. Look at the light in here, all these big windows. A little ramshackle but it’s cheap compared to what we’ve been looking at and it’ll clean up, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Carolyn said, her throat thick with misery at the three shabby rooms converted from previous office space above a down at-the-heels drugstore, with noisy traffic below them on heavily traveled Magnolia Boulevard. She had loved the tiny yellow house… “We can fix it up, Val, make it comfortable.”

With Carolyn helping, Val moved in at the end of the month, the last Sunday in September. After Neal went to bed that night, Val flung herself onto the sofa. “Carrie, if I’m this tired you must be exhausted.”

“I’m fine.” She would not admit that she had never worked so hard, had never been more tired in her life. “You did four times as much as me. You’ll be sore tomorrow…Come over,” she urged. “The pool will be good—”

“Too much to do. Why don’t you come here? I’m on your way home now. I promise not to make you work. We’ll have more time together.”

“You’re right,” Carolyn said thoughtfully, happy with the idea of more time with Val. “There’s usually some advantage in any change—even if it doesn’t seem like it at the time.”

“This place is brighter, more open,” Val said tiredly. “To tell you the truth, I was having occasional attacks of claustrophobia in that little house.”

When Carolyn returned from getting a drink of water, Val was slumped down in a corner of the sofa, asleep. It wouldn’t hurt, Carolyn decided, for her to sleep in her cutoffs. She lifted Val’s feet; Val curled her length into the short sofa. Carolyn found a blanket in the big box of linens, covered her gently, and let herself out of the flat.

Monday, after visiting Val, Carolyn slowed her car as she recognized the orange and white polyester pants of Dorothy Robinson; she was carrying two bags of groceries. Carolyn regarded her pensively. If the Robinsons did not actually intend to rent their place to a relative, then why had they evicted Val? She pulled over and picked up Dorothy Robinson.

When Paul arrived home she was standing in the living room, arms crossed. He did not appear to notice that she had not answered his greeting; he folded his jacket carefully across the back of the white armchair and came toward her. “Lenny was telling me today about a house,” he was saying, “three blocks from him in Encino, the owner’s desperate. We might—”

“You rotten son of a bitch.”

He halted in midstride.

“
You
did it to Val.
You.
”

“What are you talking about?”

His blue eyes were calm, but she had heard all she needed to know in his voice. She had irrationally hoped that Dorothy Robinson was somehow wrong.

“Is this how you look when you’re screwing somebody in a business deal? This cool and innocent?” She could not control the trembling of her body nor the reflection of it in her voice. “Jerry Robinson lied to Val Hunter but he doesn’t lie to his wife. Dorothy Robinson didn’t know about it until after it was done. She thinks it’s dreadful how you and Jerry got rid of a woman who hadn’t done anyone any harm.”

He did not reply. The remoteness of his eyes reminded her of a science fiction movie she had seen the night before, with people whose eyes were blank, their bodies taken over by aliens.

She said, “I see now how it’s been. It’s not only my friends or the hours I work, it’s my entire life. It always has been. You own me. I didn’t really know it before because it never really mattered before.”

“That’s not true. Everything we had together before was wonderful. We were happy before, remember? I don’t know what crazy things she’s put in your head.” His voice was sure, held conviction. “I have every right to protect you from her.”

“Protect?
Protect?
You’re crazy.”

“That Amazon’s turned you against me. Put nothing but garbage in your head.”

“How could she possibly threaten you? We’re married. You’re my husband. She’s another woman. I’m not your slave, I—”

“Just listen to me, Carolyn. She’s not just another woman. She wants you for herself. I know you don’t believe this, but that female Paul Bunyan is a dyke. She’s trying to get you into
bed
with her.”

“She’s never done anything, she’s—” For a moment her jaw worked in soundless outrage. “I’ve never been unfaithful to you; it’s never even occurred to me. Obviously you think I’m capable of screwing anything, man, woman, or child.”

His mouth was a thin white line. “All I know is ever since that Amazon came along we’ve had half a marriage.”

“Half a marriage?” she said grimly. “I’ll show you what half a marriage really is.”

She marched into the bedroom. It took three trips to move her clothes into the guest room.

Clouds of cottony mist swirled around them as Carolyn turned to Val, her green eyes wide and needful, her bikini-clad body glowing. Carolyn lowered her head to Val’s shoulder, her hair cascading silk. Carolyn’s arms held her, Carolyn clung to her; marble-cold flesh warmed under Val’s hands. Carolyn raised her face to her…

Awake, Val pushed the blanket aside, welcoming the morning air on her heated body.

Only in dreams did she have such images, she reminded herself, her pulse slowing; never in her waking hours did she have such thoughts…Undoubtedly these dreams were the result of the power of suggestion planted by Alix. Or simply misplaced guilt over Alix.

She addressed Alix sternly:
Not all love is sex, not all touching is sex. I have all the touching from her I want or need. I have her warmth, her affection, her trust. You were a phase, Alix. These dreams are a phase.

In the gray of the room she picked up her watch. Six-thirty. She rose and shrugged into her old woolen robe, grateful for cold mornings and mild days after the searing heat of September. It was early but she had work to do preparing the paintings for travel. And what should she wear? Her newest jeans and the good white blouse, she decided. She was selling her work, not her body. Carolyn would be dressed well enough for both of them; they wouldn’t be thrown out of the snooty city of Santa Barbara...