An Emergence of Green (22 page)

Carolyn passed her cool hands over her face; she knew she was flushing in her pride for Val.

“This painting of the sunrise is a particular favorite of mine—how she builds up the color effects. And it has such optimism.”

“Yes, yes it does,” Carolyn said, her gaze again captured by it. The woman left, and Carolyn’s contemplation of the paintings continued until a glance at her watch told her she scarcely had time in rush-hour traffic to arrive home before Paul.

She found the woman seated at a small desk making notations in a ledger. “The sunrise painting,” Carolyn said, “how much is that?”

The woman smiled. “Obviously I think that’s a fine choice.” She consulted a chart. “Five-fifty.”

Carolyn wrote a check. She thought:
Paul will go berserk.

In traffic that inched along the San Diego Freeway she made her way out to the Valley, penetrated by her awareness of the landscape beside the freeway, watching soft hills dense with foliage darken and deepen in their greenness as dusk descended. Taking her exit from the Ventura Freeway she gazed at distant palm trees black against the horizon, their bushy heads swaying in the slight evening breeze. She remembered films she had seen of palms bent parallel to the ground in hurricanes, their suppleness granting survival.

Palm trees are odd compared to most trees, she reflected; they’re like people who lack conventional beauty yet possess strong individuality. All things have beauty—that’s what Val celebrates in her art.

She drove slowly down her block looking at the houses. Like the vast majority of structures in Los Angeles, they were stucco or frame or both. This great city has no fear, she thought; it lies so fragile in the sun, confident that nothing will ever happen to it…Only the palm trees really know about living in sunlit cities.

Paul had arrived home before her. When he saw the wrapped painting in her arms his face darkened; he looked away from her and his shoulders adjusted, as if he were squaring them. He said, “One of hers?”

That name is never mentioned in this house,
Carolyn thought. She nodded.

“I thought—I got the idea when you were sick that you two were on the outs more or less.” His voice came from deep in his chest, heavy with a resonance that seemed almost menacing.

“Not on the outs. But she’s finally settled into her new place,” she said smoothly. “She has things going on in her life right now.” She placed the painting on the bar. “This is from the gallery, I went there just on impulse. I was curious,” she added truthfully. “I didn’t intend to buy a thing. You may even like this—it’s quite different from the one we have.”

“How much?”

“Five-fifty.”

He heaved a sigh. “We’re spending money like drunken sailors, Princess. The trip, this party—”

No longer listening to his words she stripped the paper off and propped the painting on the bar for him. He stood back, arms crossed, in lengthy appraisal.

“I do prefer it to the one in here,” he said. “The brightness will be good and—”

“I want it in the guest room,” she stated.

He flicked a surprised glance at her. “If it’s in there you’ll hardly ever see it.” His tone was not argumentative, and he added, grinning, his hands raised in mock-terror, “Will you?”

She chuckled. “I expect I won’t see it very often. But that’s where I want it.”

He said promptly, “Let’s hang it.”

She carried the painting toward the guest room. “Not now. I don’t feel like it,” she improvised. She did not want him touching, handling it.

She leaned the painting against the wall. After the party she would hang it. Sunday, when Paul was at the Raider game. When she was alone in the house.

Early Saturday afternoon, while Carolyn showered and dressed, he roamed the house and yard on a final inspection tour. Soon his office staff and their wives and children would arrive. And Will—later of course, after the sales staff.

All was in readiness. Flowers everywhere. The bar stocked, the refrigerator stuffed with prepared food, the meat ready for the barbecue. Ample towels in both bathrooms, a dozen extra laid out in the backyard for swimmers. Nice. Everything perfect. Carolyn always did this kind of thing so well.

He whistled his admiration as she came out of the bedroom in her new dark green pants and emerald shirt. He took her silken shoulders caressingly in his hands. “Princess, you look absolutely gorgeous.”

She smiled, pecked his cheek. “For what this outfit cost I should.” She moved past him, toward the kitchen. “Time to put ice on the bar.”

At two-thirty the five salesmen and their families began to arrive, all of them assembling within a five-minute period; soon afterward all seven children were shrieking in the pool, the wives taking up position in lawn chairs along the decking. At three, Will and Annie Trask arrived. Annie, fiftyish, earth-motherly, and bossy, immediately tucked a kitchen towel in the band of her broad white pants and took charge of the barbecue, cooking hotdogs for the kids. Paul assisted, teasing and flirting with her; Annie liked him and he knew it. He was watchful of the scene in his yard, and of Will, who finally left his seat among the women to join the salesmen on the patio.

The wives changed from sports clothes into bathing suits and brief terry robes, and posed self-consciously on towels, drinking mai tais, applying Coppertone and chattering among themselves with birdlike animation, admonishing their children whenever the decibel level in the pool rose. The men, wearing college T-shirts over their shorts or cotton pants, sat around the picnic table playing poker. Percussive music pulsed from stereo speakers on either side of the patio.

Refilling wine glasses, emptying ashtrays, offering snacks, Carolyn circulated continuously, stopping occasionally and briefly to chat. Paul sipped a martini and glanced at her often and proudly.

Carrying a weak scotch and water, Will finally strolled over to him. Will’s paunch, usually minimized by good tailoring and dark colors, bulged under gray sweatpants and a USC T-shirt. Paul knew that Will’s clothes today were as much for effect as when he was in the office. He was here to set the company’s seal of approval on the men who had exceeded the company’s objectives, and on Paul, who had gotten it done with his leadership. Will must mix with his subordinates, look casual, be relaxed, comfortable, democratic.

“Fine party, my boy,” Will said, shaking his hand.

Paul basked in the approval. He knew he already stood in high favor with Will; this party could only enhance him.

“You know how to do things right. You and Carolyn,” Will said, his eyes darting over the yard and coming to rest on her as she brought a carafe of wine to the wives beside the pool. He winked at Paul and clapped him on the shoulder. “Whatever you do, my boy, don’t get old.” He strolled off toward the poker game as Paul laughed loudly.

Someone had turned the stereo up, and the general noise level gradually rose as the afternoon wore into early evening. Paul congratulated himself that he had thought to warn the Robinsons. Jerry was not pleased with him these days; Dorothy still would not forgive him for evicting the Hunter woman. The older couple who had rented the guest house had turned out to be indefatigable complainers. He would smooth all this over tomorrow; he was taking Jerry to the Raider game as final payment in the deal to evict Val Hunter.

He began cooking steak and chicken on skewers, the smell of barbecue smoke and teriyaki permeating the evening air. By seven-thirty dinner was over. Under patio lights the poker game resumed, more boisterous than ever. Several wives, apparently grown bold from the consumption of mai tais and wine, heedless of hairdos and makeup, splashed in the pool, its night lights turning the water milky aquamarine. He helped Carolyn carry stacks of paper plates and plastic glasses into the kitchen.

“Everything’s terrific, Princess.” Heady with vodka and his jubilation, he kissed the top of her head. “Will’s impressed.”

She rinsed a casserole, poking baked beans down the disposal with a serving spoon. “I’m truly thrilled that Will’s impressed.”

His euphoria vanished as a clear warning sounded. He glanced at his watch. It would be ten-thirty, eleven before the party broke up. “Tell you what,” he said lightly, “stick it out a few more hours and I promise never to win a sales contest again.”

“Paul,” she said, “why do you love me?”

He stared at her. Her tone had seemed normal, even conversational. She was working efficiently, picking silverware out of paper plates, discarding the plates into a plastic trash bag. “You need to know that right now?”

“Right now. It’s important.”

He heard a woman shriek, “Jimmy don’t
do
that!” Had one of those brats done something to the yard? He said as patiently as he could, “You’re my Princess. You’re sweet…”

He suddenly realized that she had not looked at him since he came into the kitchen. “And you’re so beautiful…” She hadn’t been drinking, of that he was certain. Could it be her period? They hadn’t had sex for so long he’d lost track.

“Princess,” he said, “what’s this all about?” He dumped the contents of half-consumed drinks into the sink and tossed the plastic cups into the trash bag. “A party’s no place for this, to discuss—”

“What else?” she asked. “Besides sweet and beautiful.”

Anger flared. He was tired, goddamn sick and tired of putting up with all this crap. Weeks, months of it from her. Nothing but crap from her. “We used to have good sex. We even used to be able to talk about things, to—”

“What things?”

An idiot, she was acting like a neurotic
idiot
. “Carolyn, for chrissake—everything,” he said in exasperation. “About our jobs, about—”

“You talk about where you went for lunch, office gossip. Not about your work.” She scraped potato salad down the disposal.

“I don’t even know exactly what contest you won to have us deserve this wonderful party.” She flipped the disposal switch.

The alcohol he had consumed seemed to burn along his veins, up through his head. A cupboard door was slightly ajar and he slammed it, wanting to beat on it with his fists. She switched off the disposal.

“If we ever have to do this again, my dear and loyal wife,” he grated, “you can spend the day at a fucking hotel.”

She looked at him then, and her eyes were opaque, as if his words had deflected off her, had not registered. That remoteness, he had seen it before…He pushed the thought away before it was completed.

She said, “You like sports, you like cards and games. I don’t. I like movies and dancing, other people, going out. You don’t. You like—”

Another shriek rose from the backyard. “Stop it,” he said. “Jesus Christ, my wits are floating in booze, we have a houseful of people, and you pick this time for a dissection of our marriage. Three more hours, they’ll all be gone. Three hours, then we’ll talk. We’ve got to get back out there, Carolyn. These people work for me, Carolyn…”

She leaned against the sink, her body slack, her shoulders slumped.

“You’re just tired,” he said in sudden understanding. “It’s not that long since you were sick, it’s been a long day. Princess, don’t worry, we’ll—”

Will Trask walked into the kitchen. “You and Carolyn get out there, enjoy yourselves, relax. You’ve worked hard enough.” He clapped Paul on the shoulder. “Get some of those wives out there to clean this up.”

“I don’t want any help from the wives,” Carolyn said, and turned on the disposal—unnecessarily, Paul knew. He managed a grin and a shrug, as if saying to Will,
Who can understand women?

“Paul my boy,” Will said when it was finally quiet, “why don’t you get the wives more wine and leave your lovely wife to me?”

It was the last thing he wanted to do. He looked apprehensively at Carolyn who was swabbing the counter with paper towels. What could he say to Will—that his wife was having a momentary break down? He winced as Will unexpectedly clapped him on the shoulder again. If the day ever came when this old fart worked for him, the next time he laid a hand on him would be his last.

“Right, Will,” he said with forced heartiness. “See if you can talk her into leaving this mess till later.”

With a final glance at Carolyn he went to the bar to get the wine, his chest constricted. Somehow, in a way he did not understand, everything had again gone out of control.

 “Been a long day for you,” Will Trask said. “Shouldn’t have to clean up all this mess besides.”

She said sarcastically, knowing he would not hear the sarcasm, “You know how we wives hate a messy kitchen.”

“Some of the wives’ve gone in swimming,” he said. “How about you joining them? I remember that little bikini you had on, what was it, a year ago?”

She looked at him. Arms crossed above his stomach, he was regarding her complacently, half-smiling and impervious, certain she would not react in any way disadvantageous to Paul.

She turned her back squarely on him and walked from the kitchen. In the bathroom she brushed her hair and stared into the mirror for long minutes.

She went out toward the bar. Two of Paul’s salesmen, their backs to her, sauntered toward the door to the backyard carrying fresh scotches.