An Emergence of Green (3 page)

He rolled carefully from her, gathering her into his arms. Yes, he reassured himself, he was good for her; he knew that from how she was when he was inside her. He did make her happy.

“I love you, Princess,” he murmured sleepily, nuzzling her, her delicate fingers soothing on the back of his neck. His contentment was disturbed by the knowledge that tomorrow morning she would rise several hours before he did, and tomorrow night she would begin going to bed early as well. But not for long; he would simply wage guerrilla warfare until she quit that stupid job for one with regular hours. Other men might want novelty in their lives, but he did not. He wanted only her. All the change and challenge he needed he could find in his work. He would soon have her in his bed when he wanted her there, just as he had for the past eight years.

Like a warm shroud, sleep descended.

Stealthily, Carolyn rose. She closed the bathroom door before turning on the light, and with swift automatic skill administered a douche, absently considering that she had not mentioned to Paul the extraordinary presence of Val Hunter in their pool. There was no reason to mention it—no reason to further upset him. She tossed the empty disposable douche into the wastebasket and turned out the light.

She curled up close to him, against the solid comforting breadth of his back, feeling vague arousal as she sometimes did after they had made love. His unhappiness over her work hours could not continue, she decided. A two week trial—then if he was still unhappy she would have to quit.

Quit
, she thought wrenchingly. Maybe he would come around...

***

Four-fifteen. She looked at the digital clock with a surge of gladness. She did not have to get ready for work till four-thirty; she would spend this extra fifteen minutes dawdling over coffee and the paper. Paul muttered a sound of protest as she took her warmth from him, then rolled over and sank back into sleep.

The coffeepot was attached to a timer set for seven o’clock when Paul got up. She drank instant coffee and gazed at the darkened shadows of the house in contentment, leafing through the
Times
that had arrived faithfully at some mysterious earlier hour.

At five-twenty she let herself out of the house, pulling a sweater around her shoulders. An awakening pale light, concealing any threat of heat, lay over the Valley, over the joggers androgynous in their sweatsuits in the misty overcast. She drove the Sunbird slowly down Verdugo Road, loving the empty streets, the silence.

That afternoon she arrived home after work wilted by the brief walk to her car in the supermarket parking lot, depressed by reports on the radio of brush fires and first-stage smog alerts. The heat that had arrived that week had settled in, rising in waves from roof and pavement, creating erratic winds that scoured the tinder-dry hills.

She was surprised to hear the sounds from the pool. It was too hot, she thought, to move, much less swim, and the pool would be dirty from the wind, from the ash of fires on the nearby hills.

She drew the drapes aside. The pool looked clean enough; bare of twigs and leaves, but of course Val Hunter was every bit as capable as Paul of handling a skimmer. Carolyn watched her swim, a simple crawl stroke, the head position stationary even during the rotation to breathe, two waves flaring out from the top of the head, both small, one just in advance of the other and slightly the larger. The energy and drive of the body were compelling—the smooth propulsion, the completion of each arm stroke economical and unvarying, each hand entering the water cleanly, coming out cleanly. Powerful thighs generated a rhythmic kick, minimizing body roll, stabilizing the body perfectly. In only eight strokes Val Hunter traversed the forty-five-foot length of the pool and then flip-turned; Carolyn counted again and again.

Val Hunter hoisted herself out of the water at the shaded deep end, dragged a chaise out of the sun and under thick overhanging low fronds of the palm tree. She dabbed at her hair with her towel, then dropped exhaustedly onto the chaise, shoulders heaving.

After a moment’s hesitation Carolyn drew open the drapes, slid back the glass door, and stepped down into the heat.

“Hi,” she said awkwardly. “It occurred to me it’s hard to leap over the fence with a cold glass of something in your hand. Would you like a drink?”

Val Hunter took a deep breath. “You’re wonderfully kind to trespassers. Something cold would be great. Anything.”

“I’m having vodka and tonic. Would you like that?”

“Just tonic would be fine.”

She returned to the pool carrying her own drink and a tall glass of tonic with a slice of lime in it. Val Hunter raised herself on an elbow and drained half the glass. “Oh God that’s good.” She placed the glass on the cement beneath the chaise. “Neal insists soft drinks will eventually shred my kidneys,” she said cheerfully. “Ten-year-olds should be put in camps till they get over that sanctimonious stage.”

Carolyn chuckled, then looked away, into the pool. Drifts of silt had formed patterns on the bottom. “The water’s dirty,” she said.

Val shrugged. “I skimmed out the worst of it. It’s still cleaner than the ocean.”

“I need to change my clothes,” Carolyn said softly. “Would you…like to come in out of the heat for a while?”

Val drained her drink. “I’d love to be where it’s cool. I’ll get out of these wet clothes. Be over in five minutes, okay?”

Before Carolyn could respond Val Hunter had risen, towel in hand, had taken several loping strides to the fence and leaped, grasped the flat top, pulled herself up to hang poised for an instant, then disappeared.

Val briefly inspected the sparse contents of her dresser drawer, then donned khaki shorts and her newest T-shirt.

What does this Carolyn Blake want? She’s an attractive enough person; she shouldn’t have any shortage of friends—or at least acquaintances. She probably thinks you’re weird enough to be interesting. And as for her, she’s neither interesting nor weird, but face it: right now you’re bored.

She followed Carolyn Blake into the living room and condemned the room with a glance as she would a bad painting. How could anyone live in this blue-white glacier? Even green tones, normally warm, were frozen by their isolation.

Carolyn asked, “Would you like more tonic? Or—”

“Tonic is fine.” She examined the contents of the bookcase—hard-cover novels by Roth, Updike, Bellow, Nabokov, Vonnegut, Didion, Pynchon. None had been read, she suspected; the dust jackets looked too uniformly perfect.

“May I sit on the floor?” Val inquired when Carolyn returned from the kitchen. The white sofa and chair repelled her.

“Wherever you like.” Carolyn curled up in a corner of the sofa, feet tucked under her.

A graceful young woman
, Val thought, settling herself on the floor, her back against the white armchair.
Attractive even in red…but how could anyone under thirty change into a dress to relax? And can’t she see that red’s a completely wrong color for her?

“I understand you’re an artist. Have you been painting long?”

Val sipped her tonic. The question was polite, nothing more. With certain levels of ignorance she was quite willing to divert the conversation; she no longer felt any obligation to defend the history and profession of art. “Years,” she said. “Through two marriages and a pregnancy and two foreign wars and domestic crises too gruesome to describe.”

Carolyn’s voice was soft, shy. “You sound a hundred years old.”

“Thirty-six.”

“You are? So is my husband. You don’t look it. I’m…almost twenty-seven.”

You don’t look it either
, Val thought. She smiled. “I don’t care how old anyone is. My son is more interesting than most of the adults I know.”

Carolyn chuckled. “I hope I can compete with Neal.”

Val smiled again, wondering what she was doing here with this vapid woman in her iceberg of a house. “It’s nice to talk to an adult during the week. Have you lived here long?”

“A year and a half. We’re both from Chicago but Paul was transferred to Alabama for a year, then we came out here. He’s district manager for American Tube Supply. They distribute metal tubes in every state in the union.”

God, how dreary. And she looks so proud.
“How do you like L.A.?”

Carolyn considered the question. “I like the…differentness, the feeling of…possibility. Yes, I like it. I might be trying not to like it too much because Paul will very likely transfer again. What about you? Where are you from?”

It’s a layer deeper than shyness,
Val decided.
There may be something in her after all—but she’s like a violet that can’t take the sun.
“Connecticut. But I’ve been out here since sixty-eight. Neal was born here.” She sipped her tonic. “It’s so cool and lovely in your house—the first time in days I’ve felt comfortable.”

“You don’t have air-conditioning?” She looked aghast. “How can anyone live here without it?”

“It’s hot for June, but I’ll adjust. Even in the heart of summer the Valley cools off at night.”

“But you must
die
during the day.”

“You really do get used to it. Like people in the desert. I don’t mind all that much; I love the sun.” She admitted, “But all this smoke and ash in the air is miserable. The fan just blows it all around.”

“We have a portable air conditioner in the storage room. Take it. We had to buy it in Alabama for the bedroom.” She grimaced. “Alabama. I could’ve danced in the streets when Paul was transferred out of there. Do take it, Val. You can keep one room cool. It’s better than nothing.”

“Well…Neal would love it.” She was thinking of increased electrical bills. But maybe once in a while when it got really oppressive… “Let me think about it.” She changed the subject. “What do you do that you work such odd hours?”

“I’m a personnel assistant at Everest Electronics, over near Glassell Park. Microcomputers. The office and plant are together. My boss decided he should make himself accessible to the night shift plant personnel for at least part of the day.”

“Seems a good idea,” Val commented.

“He’s very creative and bright,” Carolyn said with animation. “I love him. I mean, he approaches things with a...” She fumbled for a word. “He lost his hand two years ago in an accident, he wears a prosthetic. He’s a firebrand liberal; he understands being handicapped in this world. He...” The next words were blurted: “Paul hates my new hours.”

Val smothered a yawn. “Prefers you in bed in the morning, does he?”

Carolyn answered soberly, “I was stupid enough to take the job without asking him. It’s a promotion—not much of one, only a few more dollars—but it meant working directly with Bob Simpson and I was so delighted to be asked I just went ahead and said yes, not thinking how Paul would react.”

Another
Diary of a Mad Housewife.
God, spare me.
“Maybe you assumed he’d be just as happy as you.” Refraining from inquiring how much consultation had gone into either of Paul Blake’s transfers, she said instead, “He took you out of Chicago into the middle of nowhere, then out here. You had to quit jobs both times, I assume?”

“I really didn’t mind. Well, the one in Chicago I did mind,” she amended. “It was my first job with responsibility. But—”

“This job doesn’t keep you overtime. You don’t have a child you’re quote selfishly neglecting for a career unquote—that was Richard’s big beef. He was my second husband—” She broke off, seeing Carolyn’s fascinated stare. “Don’t mind me. I have strong opinions on everything. Your marriage is your own very private affair.”

“Is Val Hunter your own name?”

She was startled by the question. “My own name is Carlson, but Neal’s father and I were never divorced, only separated. He was killed in an accident two years ago. I decided it was easier all around to keep the name Hunter.” She chuckled. “I’ve always thought Val Hunter sounds predatory.”

Carolyn shook her head. “I think Val Hunter is a perfect name for an artist. It has a…clean sound.”

Val glanced at a clock over a fireplace laid with three perfect logs and lined with white brick surely not meant ever to be exposed to flame. “I’m afraid it’s almost time for Neal to come home and criticize my choice for dinner.” She had fifteen more minutes—but why remain here with this young and very married woman?

“Take the air conditioner.”

Val reflected. “Only if you let me do what I can to repay you. Let me teach you to swim, to gain a little enjoyment from your own pool. I absolutely guarantee you won’t drown.”

“I’ll think about it,” Carolyn said after a moment. Her face was closed in refusal.

Val’s interest was piqued. “There’s a problem,” she said gently. “Obviously there’s a problem.”

“When I was seven, one of the girls I played with pushed me into a park swimming pool. The lifeguard fished me right out but I got a lungful of water and apparently permanent terror.” Carolyn had placed her hands on her knees as if to use them for support. “I’ve never told anyone this, not even Paul. I really don’t know why; it’s not such an uncommon thing. You—you swim so beautifully; you make it look so easy.”

Val watched the hand that smoothed the fabric of the red dress, the face that held a childlike vulnerability reminding her of Neal. “Carolyn,” she began, then stopped. “May I call you Carrie? To me it suits you more.”