I Will Fear No Evil (55 page)

“Well, yes, I did think I might have to sit it out quite a while. But I got in to see the Chief Justice the second day and he assured me that he would put it at the top of the calendar . . . and that he had seen—unofficially—an advance transcript of the record. And that was that.”

“Hm! Campaign contributions are sometimes worthwhile.”

“Joan Eunice, don’t
ever
talk that way. Especially in reference to the Chief Justice of the United States. Yes, this is your house. Nevertheless it might be bugged.”

“I’m sorry, Jake. It was a thoughtless remark. My appreciation really goes where it belongs. To
you.
”

“To Mac more than to me, my dear; that boy has been on the ball. How he got an advance copy to, uh, the right man so quickly is something I don’t want to inquire into.”

“I appreciate Mac’s efforts, I appreciate Alec’s efforts—but mostly I appreciate my darling, always dependable, utterly wonderful Jake.” (Is that too thick, Eunice?) (Boss, I keep telling you: it’s
impossible
for a woman to lay it on too thick with a man. If you tell a man he’s eight feet tall and say it often enough, with your eyes wide and a throb in your voice, he’ll start stooping to go through seven-foot doors.)

Jake looked pleased, so Joan went on: “I suppose it will all be settled soon, then?”

“Little one, don’t you ever listen to the news?”

“Not if I can avoid it.”

“Well, you should. It is over. You’ve won, finally and completely.”

“Really? I never doubted that we would win, Jake, the wonderful way you’ve handled everything. My surprise is solely that it has happened so fast. Yes, I suppose I should follow the news. But I haven’t been able to, these last few days. Had this difficult job to do—Joe, I mean—and while you were away seemed the best time . . . so I gritted my teeth and tackled it.”

“Joan Eunice, I told you never to go near Joe. I
told
you. If this new marriage of his ever stood a chance—yes, intellectually I know that a man should remarry—if it ever
did
stand a chance, you must have put a horrible strain on it. Too much strain, probably. Uh . . . how did he take it? Badly?”

“Jake, I stayed five days. If it had gone badly, would I have been there even
one
day? I accomplished the mission; everything is all right.”

Jake looked surprised, then thoughtful. “Hmmm! That’s a one-room studio . . . and if I follow your meaning, you stayed right there the whole five days. My dear, just
how
did you ‘accomplish your mission’? Or have I no right to ask?”

She looked up at him and spoke seriously. “Jake, I owe you so much that you will always have the right to ask me anything. Including my comings and goings and I should not have given you a snippy answer.” (Didn’t quite tell him he had a right to a
truthful
answer, did you, Boss honey? Devious little bitch.) (Eunice, I don’t lie to Jake—) (Oh, what a
whopper
!) (—more than is necessary to his happiness.)

“Jake, I accomplished my mission—I set Joe’s mind at rest about Eunice—through a ‘prayer meeting.’ With Gigi’s utterly necessary help, which is only part of why I feel sure that she’s good for him. But if you mean I offered him a zombie—his dead wife’s reanimated body—I knew that was not the way to do it. Joe hasn’t touched me. Oh, he does touch me now, easily and without strain, the way he might touch his sister.” (Any incest in Joe’s family, twin? I’ve never been sure.) (Oh, shut up!) “He even kisses me the same way. But, Jake—”

“Eh? What, dear?”

“If Joe
wanted
this body I’m wearing, of
course
he could have it; I owe him anything I can give him. You see that, don’t you? You agree? Or am I wrong?”

“Uh . . . yes, I agree. But I think it’s well that Joe does not want to. It could be disaster for him . . . and a terrible strain for you.”

“I know it would be a strain for me. But I would do my best to smile and never let him guess. As it is, I am honored—and relieved—and deeply grateful that Joe has given me his loving friendship instead.” (Okay, Eunice?) (Okay. Now get him off that subject.)

“I’m glad, Eunice.”

“Jake, do we have to stand here, me still in street clothes? I have presents for you—welcome-home presents.” She smiled her best happy-little-girl smile. “Want to see them?”

“Of course I want to see them! And where are my manners, letting you stand? Here, let me seat you and take your cloak. Sherry?”

“Later. Or champagne, to welcome you home. To welcome us both home.” She turned and let him take her cape. He turned to lay it aside and turned back just as she did so, too.

“Holy
Cow!
”

“Didn’t know you were a Hindu, Jake.” She posed, in graceful and calculated display.

“You wore
that
all the way across the city? Just paint?”

“Why not, dear? It’s your first present—from Joe to you, sent with his love. I had my cape over it before I left Joe and Gigi’s studio, and then kept it on when I got home—until you unwrapped your ‘present.’ Didn’t want my mobiles to see it, of course.” (Oh, of
course
, twin—except that Joe let them watch every brush stroke, once Gigi was sure you didn’t mind. Say, Joan, Gigi would go for a Texas Star with Anton and Fred, I feel certain. And Joe would go along; he likes them. What do you think? Easy way to keep your promise to them, huh?)

(Eunice, we’ve got
this
man on our hands now.) (Oh, poor you. Best way in the world to work up steam with
one
man is to let your mind rove about
other
men. You’ve still got some Puritan in you, girl.) (Which Puritan? When? And why didn’t I notice? You can’t mean Jake; he’s Jewish. Speaking of Jake, has he noticed that slight omission in this getup? And why haven’t we been raped?) (I doubt it, his eyeballs are spinning. As for the latter, I have hopes.)

“Joan Eunice, do you realize that that is a reproduction—exact, I think—of a body-paint design Eunice once wore?”

“Of course I realize it; she wore it
here . . .
and I wasn’t so near dead that I didn’t stare. Could never make up my mind whether these were sea shells or paint. Now I know. Joe wanted to be sure that you had seen it that first time, when Eunice wore it. I told him that I was almost certain that you had been here that day.”

“Well, yes, I was. Briefly. That’s why I recognized it.”

“So? It had seemed to me that I recalled that as one of the days you took Eunice home. Hmmm?”

“Joan, are you trying to be snoopy?”

“Yes.”

“Woman, I will not satisfy your prurient curiosity.”

“How do you feel about satisfying prurience itself? Mine, I mean.”

“That’s another matter.”

“I was wondering. So far you haven’t even kissed me. Shall I take a shower first? Or let me put it this way: Did Eunice take time to get the paint off first?”

“Let
me
put it
this
way: Shut up and keep quiet and pipe down and not another damn word out of you until I give permission.”

“Yes, sir.”

She obeyed in essence for a reasonable time.

“May I talk now?”

“Yes, as long as you limit yourself to polite words of endearment. Some of your spontaneous remarks were quite unladylike.”

“That’s because I’m quite unladylike, Jake my only darling. I’m a failure as a lady. But I’ll go on doing my best to simulate one in public—be a credit to Eunice.”

“Joan Eunice—”

“Sir?”

“That’s the way Eunice herself did it. A perfect lady in public . . . utterly uninhibited in private. It was a major part of her great charm. Some of
her
spontaneous expressions at such times were far more ‘unladylike’ than any I’ve heard you use.”

“Really, Jake? Did she know any that I don’t? And do you like them?”

“Hmm, I don’t think she knew any that you don’t know; she was just easier about it once she trusted me. Yes, I do like them. Used spontaneously.”

“Jake, I trust you without limit—and I’ll try not to inhibit any future spontaneity. Haven’t meant to. Still learning.”

“Darling girl, you do just fine when you get your rest. I mean ‘my rest.‘ Now that I’ve got you helpless—and seeing that you trust me ‘without limit’—what
did
happen at Joe’s.”

“Sir, the fact that I trust you—and I do!—does not mean that I’m going to satisfy your prurient curiosity.”

“Hmm—Neither did Eunice, ever.”

“Instead, you tell me what happened to
you—
at Joe’s.”

“We seem to have reached a stalemate. Let’s wash off this paint. I wish I had taken a photograph of our mermaid before I smeared it.”

“No huhu, Jake my beloved; Joe took several and I have them in my purse. For you. And I have two of Eunice in the same getup—one for you, and one for
me
. And besides that Joe gave me a four-by-five Kodachrome of a most incredible trompe-l’oeil painting he did of Eunice as a mermaid diving . . . plus a smaller transparency which shows how he did it. Same getup minus sea shells.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that I’ve seen them both? Just didn’t have the crust to promote Joe for them.”

“No, not surprised, I guess. But I did
not
pressure him, Jake; he said he had a present for me—and these photos turned out to be the present. I should refuse? God forbid. But I’m going to put snoops to work and trace down who bought that painting. I intend to own it. Price no object.”

“Your money won’t help you, Miss Smith. Would it surprise you to know that
I
own that original Branca? It’s at the Gib.”

“I’ll be—dipped! Jake, you’re a dirty old holdout. I take back ten percent of any compliments I’ve handed you.”

“That’s okay; I didn’t believe more than ninety percent. But if you’re a good girl I’ll give you that painting.”

“I accept! But—well, it’s hardly worthwhile opening those packages. They’ll be disappointments.”

“Would you like a spanking?”

“Yes.”

“I’m too tired. Let’s open packages.”

“Well . . . we might open the smaller one. Let you see what Gigi looks like, if you don’t remember. She’s worth looking at.”

“We’ll open both of them.”

“Scrub first?”

“I suppose we should.”

“Well . . . let’s give it a lick and promise, not turn it into a social event.”

Joan Eunice insisted on opening ‘Bilitis Sings’ first. “Well, Jake?”

He gave a respectful wolf whistle. “The boy’s a genius.”

“Yes. I hadn’t suspected. But you already knew it.”

“Well, yes. His decision to use strong sunlight on your two contrasting skin colors was inspired.”

“Especially as he had no sunlight—just smog-filtered north light, soft as old linen. Those highlights come from photographing us under floods the night before. Then he painted from us the next day. Changed the pose, though—and I don’t know how he corrected the highlights. But I’m no genius.”

“What’s in the big package?”

“Open it.”

It was ‘The Three Graces’—and all three were Joan Eunice. “Joe calls this a ‘cheat pic,’ Jake—he photographed me three times—erase and correct—more nearly thirty-three times, against a neutral background, then combined three photos for his cartoon. Had Gigi pose with me each time to get arms-around-waist and so forth, then she would slither out like a snake without disturbing my pose. If he hadn’t used ‘cheat’ the painting would have taken far longer. Aren’t those dimples in my behind cute?”

“Woman, you are conceited enough.”

“I’m not conceited, Jake; I wasn’t handsome even when I was young. I know whose beautiful bottom that is. Well dear? I had intended ‘Bilitis’ for me and the ‘Graces’ for you—but you can have your choice.”

“What a choice to have to make!”

“The one you let me keep will be no farther away than down the hall. If you had married me when you so obviously should have, you lecherous old rapist, you wouldn’t have to make a choice; both would be yours. Jake, what does it cost to buy a job lot of art critics?”

“Well, the present crop ought not to fetch more than ten cents a dozen but everything is higher these days. I take it you have Joe Branca in mind?”

“Of course. He’s selling his paintings at ridiculously low prices and paying an outrageous commission—and sells so few that the kids hardly get enough to eat. While freaks and frauds and sign painters are all the rage. I thought—”

“You can stop thinking; I see the swindle. We’ll get him a good agent, we’ll buy up what he has on the market, using dummies—and keep them ourselves; they’re a surefire investment . . . and we’ll buy art critics here, then elsewhere as he becomes better known. The question is: How much of a success must he be? Do I have to get him into the Metropolitan?”

“Jake, I don’t think Joe
wants
to be famous. And
I
don’t want it to be so conspicuous that he might smell a rat. Or that Gigi might; she’s a little more sophisticated. Not very, that is. I just want his pictures to sell regularly enough that Gigi can buy groceries without worrying and can have enough disposable sheets that she can change them every day if it suits her. The kid is trying to keep house on scraped icebox and boiled dishrag soup. I tried that in the Depression and it’s not funny—and I see no reason why Gigi should have to do it when she’s married to an honest-to-God artist who can
paint—
and works at it. One who doesn’t spend his time sopping up sauce or blowing weed, and talking about the painting he’s going to do. Joe paints. He’s a craftsman as well as an artist. Well, maybe I don’t know what an artist is but I know what a craftsman is and I respect craftsmen. Too few of them in this decadent world.”

“No argument. We’ll do it. Even if we have to go as high as fifteen cents a dozen.”

“Even two-bits. Let’s finish getting paint off—I must send down for olive oil—and you could be a darling and get Winnie to fetch me a heavy robe or get it yourself, pretty please, if she isn’t home—no, I can get back to my room in my street cape, no problem, and—”

“Hrrmph.”