An Emergence of Green (12 page)

“Fine, Princess,” he said calmly. “See you later.”

Three years into their marriage, when Carolyn was twenty-two, she had become less communicative. She would not—or could not—explain other than, “I just feel like being quiet.”

He suspected an affair. There seemed little opportunity, but he knew from a few joyless liaisons during his first marriage how easily such things could be managed. As her moodiness persisted his suspicion grew into obsession, culminating with the hiring of a detective agency. Reassured about her fidelity, remorseful over the waste of money, he called himself ridiculous for his suspicions; and as her periods of quiet continued, he gradually became used to them.

At this moment he could better understand an affair; it would be easier to contend with than this Val Hunter business. And he could find ways to make a male rival sorry he was ever born.

He excoriated himself for scuttling the best chance to solve the Val Hunter problem. If he hadn’t had so much to drink, hadn’t let his contempt for the woman lead to loss of self-control, he could have befriended her; then it was only a matter of applying a tactic from the world of business: finding the right buttons to push. Little by little he would have stripped the ground out from under her. Often the simple use of caricature laid all the groundwork. Gargantua, he would have called her—smiling of course, as if he meant the nickname to be affectionate. Paula Bunyan.

He put aside the sales forecast he was reviewing and studied his desk calendar. July 23—nineteen days since the Fourth of July, since this whole mess started. Twice a week without fail she was going over to that house in the evening. For just an hour, she said each time. But it was usually an hour and a half; and last Thursday it had been two hours. She had explained: “Val and I want to listen to Geraldine Ferraro’s acceptance speech.” 

“I know it’s a historic moment for women,” he had replied, “and I want to hear it too. With you, Princess.”

She shook her head. “You don’t feel the way I do, the way most women feel right now. If you could hear the women at work—” She added with finality, “You wouldn’t vote Democratic unless Reagan switched parties.”

“You’ve never even cared enough to vote,” he pointed out.

“This time I do,” she had said softly, and left the house.

He picked up the report again, and once more laid it aside. What did she want from that woman? What did she need? Why these evening visits, why couldn’t they talk over the back fence? To spend time with Neal, she had said, because I love him and I can’t invite either one of them over here. And Val is working. But artists could work anytime, midnight if they wanted to. Carolyn had said something about her own housework. But how much time did cleaning and cooking actually take? Not long, with just two people and every labor-saving device money could buy. How much dust could two people create? And Carolyn was spending more leisure time in the sun. She was tanned, and getting darker all the time.

There was no escaping the fact that Carolyn wanted to be with her. No rationalizing the issue. Why? What did they talk about? Carolyn was still checking out those scruffy library books—how much was there to learn about art, or to talk about? Certainly he was as intelligent as the Hunter woman, his job was easily as interesting—and paid a hell of a lot more besides. He did not talk about his work much, but Carolyn did not seem that interested.

He slammed a palm on his desk, scattering the pages of the report. He didn’t need any more of this, goddammit. He needed calm in his life, to feel comfortable again with his own wife. To have things the way they were before. Hard enough to stay on top of things in his work without this, and everybody knew the next territorial manager would be himself or Dick Jensen; Will Trask was watching them both with those gimlet eyes of his.

There had to be a solution—there always was. Wait it out? He could do that, but for how long? These nineteen days had been interminable; the thought of that Amazon bitch laughing at him excruciating. And he was by no means blessed with patience.

What did people do to bring more glow into their marriages? Inject some element of change, that was what.

Ludicrous as it might seem, he probably should start thinking of Val Hunter as if she were a man. Grit his teeth and act as if he were competing for Carolyn again, just as he’d had to do before he married her. Distasteful as it might be, there were advantages in approaching the problem this way. He could do things for Carolyn that Val Hunter could not hope to match.

Again he looked at his calendar. In sinking realization he saw that he was trapped, for at least three more weeks. The Olympic Games began this coming weekend; the athletes were already arriving. From all reports traffic would be horrendous. His own company had made contingency plans for bus and carpooling, had encouraged all employees to go on vacation. You wouldn’t be able to get anywhere in town, get a restaurant reservation, anything. His shoulders sagged.

Still, it never hurt to check around, to ask. Never automatically accept things as they appear, he reminded himself—that basic rule of sales also applied to life. You never knew when you might find that unexpected chink in a piece of armor that appeared impervious…

He reached for his intercom, then changed his mind. Margie couldn’t be trusted with this. She was too passive, too willing to take no for an answer, which was why she was a secretary and not in sales where she wanted to be—and why most women couldn’t make it in business. Most of them were like that.

No, he would make a few inquiries himself, see how hopeless the situation really was.

Carolyn and Val had not spoken for a long, comfortable time. In the water between their rafts Val’s fingers slowly traced the entire shape of Carolyn’s hand, front and back, between her fingers, over her fingernails. Val’s eyes were closed; her face, turned toward Carolyn, was still and peaceful.

Carolyn studied the wide forehead, the thick dark eyebrows and lashes, the generous beak of nose with its slightly flared nostrils, the full mouth. Most people, Carolyn reflected, would say that the sensual mouth was her best feature, and it might well be her own favorite. The lips were expressive, like the big soft hand which held hers. She loved Val’s hands, hands that were always confident and sure, whether they were stacking dishes or folding clothes, stretching canvas or constructing frames, delicately cleaning brushes or sketching in one of the numerous pads Val kept in easy reach around the house. Val had not allowed her to see those hands in the actual process of painting: “Carrie, I can’t have you see my unfinished work…”

Carolyn took her hand out of Val’s to turn over onto her back, luxuriating in the sun as the raft floated out of the shady end of the pool. Feeling a strong sense of well-being, she stretched, gazing down at herself in satisfaction. Tanned to deep gold, she felt buoyant pleasure in her body, a recent and altogether new pride. Wanting Val’s hand again, to feel its large softness enclosing her, she reached to her. For some time longer she dozed, aware only of the soothing drone of an aircraft, and the hand that clasped hers. She opened her eyes to see Val looking at her.

Val smiled. “Your hair’s growing.”

“Is it too long yet?”

“Not nearly.” Val released Carolyn’s hand and shook water from her own before picking up a strand. “There’s more curl on the ends now. You’re young, you should look young. Don’t be in such a hurry to catch up to Paul, to anyone around you.” She rolled the strand in her fingers. “Your hair’s the color of drying sand.”

Val rarely commented on her appearance, and Carolyn was reluctant to let the moment go. She murmured, “Wet sand doesn’t sound very appealing.”

“Not wet sand, drying sand. Meaning sand with sun on it. It’s a color so difficult to get right…”

They floated in silence again. But Val’s fingers continued to move slowly in Carolyn’s hair. Carolyn said lazily, eyes closed again, “Neal’s so excited about the Olympics.”

Val chuckled. “We’ll see two events. I’m taking him to the women’s marathon, he’s taking me to the men’s. The price for both is exactly right—free.” Still chuckling, she propelled their rafts to the shallow end of the pool. “Will you be over tonight, Carrie?”

“Sure thing.”

Paul arrived home on time—an unusual occurrence—and after kissing her, placed his briefcase ceremoniously on the sofa. “Let me get our drinks, Princess. We have something to celebrate. I have a wonderful surprise, I’ve been working on it all day…”

She arrived at Val’s at eight-thirty. “I couldn’t come any sooner,” she said disconsolately, walking into the tiny cluttered living room. “Where’s Neal?”

“At the corner buying milk. We ran out.” She was frowning at the package in Carolyn’s hands. “Not something else for him.”

“Just another puzzle—”

“On top of the one the both of you are putting together, on top of the Monopoly game you bought last week, and the baseball glove, the airplane assembly kit—”

“Oh stop.” She was moving around the house in her agitation, picking up newspapers, tidying.

“You stop. Friends do not come to my house and clean. What’s gotten into you?”

Carolyn dropped the newspapers she had gathered up. “Oh God, Val, I’ve got to go to the Bahamas.”

Val threw back her head and laughed. “Let me get you an aspirin.”

“I don’t want to go,” Carolyn said vehemently. “I don’t
feel
like going. But if you could’ve seen him. A whole briefcase loaded with brochures. He’s planned everything—hotels, side trips, a night in Miami, even our clothes. He called my boss to make sure I could take the time off.”

Val was grinning. “So, when do you go?”

“Friday!”

“Friday?”

Carolyn flung herself down on the sofa. “I can’t stay over here very long, he’ll be too hurt. He’s like a little boy over this trip.” She admitted sheepishly, “I couldn’t have come over at all except I told him I wanted to brag a little.” She saw a gratifying soberness on Val’s face.

“How can you leave Friday?” Val said. “That’s when the Olympics begin. How could he—”

“His travel agency told him they have all kinds of space on flights out of L.A. People aren’t flocking into town nearly like anyone expected. And we’re going to some island, I don’t remember the name, it’s not as big a tourist draw as Nassau. The only problem was the hotel in Miami, but he has a business connection down there, so—”

“Hi, Carolyn!” Neal slammed the door in his exuberance, gave his paper bag to his mother, and hugged Carolyn. “Where’ve you been? Hey, is this a present for me? Did Ma tell you we saw the Olympic torch?”

“Yes,” Carolyn said, hugging him back, “but tell me all about it anyway; she probably left out something good.” She grinned at Val, happy to be here.

Val smiled. “Carrie, stay a few more minutes,” she coaxed. “He’ll soon have you all to himself.”

Val pulled a sketch pad from under a stack. The pad was nearly full, and she leafed through it slowly: Carolyn, in a sundress, walking toward the pool carrying drinks. Carolyn, wearing shorts, sitting in a deck chair, legs gracefully crossed, applying suntan lotion to her arms. Carolyn on a raft, lying on her stomach, an arm under her head, dozing; then lying on her back, a hand shading her eyes from the sun; leaning on an elbow toward the artist, smiling,

Val selected a number one pencil, refined lines in Carolyn’s body on earlier sketches; she knew how to draw that body now. On a fresh page Carolyn’s face took shape again, this time with an expression of pouting gloom. Val smiled as she sketched.

Later in her narrow bed, she assessed what had occurred in the now-silent war between her and Paul Blake. If he had been playing a waiting game, he had lost patience. Carolyn lacked full knowledge of their unbridgeable mutual hatred, but even so, continuing this friendship in spite of her husband’s displeasure was surprising. She seemed to be gaining in resolve, assertiveness. At twenty-six, part of that might be simply the maturing process…After all, Val reflected, while she herself had always stood out in her differentness, she had not actually emerged as an individual nor gained any control of her life until she was Carolyn’s age…

But now Paul Blake was definitely laying claim to his wife. Taking her away for two weeks of tropical moonlight and romance, where he would wine and dine and fuck her into submission. And probably it would work. Val turned over and stared into the dark shadows of her room.

The black ocean was rimmed with a profusion of lights, the shoreline of a tropical island. Carolyn’s arm was around her; her head rested on Val’s shoulder as they stood on the deck of the ship and gazed at the lights. Val’s hands circled Carolyn’s waist. Wordlessly, Carolyn turned. Val drew Carolyn to her, caressed down over the curve of hip…

Val sat up in bed. Her body was heated, her pulse swift. Her first conscious thought was of Alix: Thank God Alix was in Houston. If she were here, could somehow know about this dream, she would laugh her head off.

Val looked at the clock: five-thirty. It seemed somehow perilous to remain in bed. She rose and glided silently into the shadowy grayness of her living room. There was a suggestion of dawn in the lightening sky, and she sat on her sofa to stare out the window at the inky shapes of leaves, and at the fence separating her from Paul and Carolyn Blake.