Warpaint (14 page)

“Yes, sir, Mr., I mean Dr. Davis.”

He shook her hand. “Tom, please. My daughter's in the can, I take it. She never could hold it. Made car trips loads of fun. These yours?” He reached down for the duffel.

“That's all right,” said Quiola hastily snatching the duffel before he could.

“I won't hear of it, young lady. Hand it over.”

“Dad!” cried C.C. as the bathroom swung closed behind her. “Dad for gracious sake, we can carry our own.”

He turned and held open his arms and C.C. walked across the station, into the hug, kissing her father on both cheeks. “It's good to see you.”

“And you, darling. You see I've met Quiola. Shall we? Mother's waiting, and you know how she gets.”

Tom's 1965 VW Beetle was parked at the corner. Stowing the bags inside the hood, he unlocked the doors for the two women. Once they were well on their way home, and smaller inquiries asked and answered, C.C. said “So, is Ted home yet?”

“Not yet. But Karen's here. Ted couldn't get away until tomorrow.”

“Karen drove herself, in her condition?”

“No, Charlie. I went and picked her up.”

“Dad, you spoil Ted rotten.”

“I spoil both my children. Besides, he's got a busy practice. You know that. I don't see how he handles it, quite frankly. How is your job going?”

“I don't like teaching.”

“You don't?” said Quiola, from the back seat. “I thought you did.”

“And you, Quiola?” asked Tom, glancing up into the rearview. “Do you like being a student?”

“I did. But I was ready to graduate.”

“And you work, Charlie told me, at Riverbed Press?

“It's an internship, and it's almost over.”

“We have a plan for after, don't we?” said C.C.

“Oh?” said Dr. Davis as he pulled into the blind driveway, hidden behind a wall of bushes too high to see over. Having moved to Madison, Connecticut, from Montauk in 1971, the Davises lived in a house they dubbed Gardencourt. “What kind of a plan?”

“An escape plan. We're leaving for Paris. Lizzie gave me the keys to Paul's studio. I figure we can live cheaply there for a couple years, really paint.”

“And just what about your work, Charlie? I haven't heard or seen anything for months on end.”

“Oh, Dad, you don't expect to read about me in the
Times
or anything, I hope.”

“I read about Lizzie,” he said.

“Of course you do.” C.C. opened the door. “And I expect to wait as long as Liz has for anyone to notice. It's still a boy's club, you know. Art. It still belongs to the boys.”

“Isn't that the truth,” said Quiola.

Dr. Davis looked puzzled. “A boy's club?”

“Come on, Dad,” said C.C. popping the front end for the suitcases. “Art has been a boy's club for a long time now. The girls make coffee and the boys make art, with a capital A.”

“But I thought you girls were all liberated now. Gloria Steinem and all –”

“Huh. I've been told and more than once a serious artist has to be big, bold and brash, which means a guy.”

“Nonsense,” said Dr. Davis. “Oh, here's Mother.”

Walking down the slate path from the house to the detached garage, Nancy waved and called out, “Charlotte!”

“Mom –” and C.C. left her bags to dash up the path for a hug.

“Honey,” said Nancy, taking her daughter's face by the chin. “You look lovely.”

“Even without a stitch of make-up?”

“Well, I always say a little lipstick wouldn't hurt.”

“You don't give up, do you?”

Nancy put her arm around her daughter's waist, and beamed at both her guests. “Of course not. Now, are you going to introduce me to your new friend?”

“Mrs. Davis, thank you for inviting me,” said Quiola politely, and she remained polite while meeting Karen Davis, C.C.'s sister-in-law, and Anne, her niece; remained polite throughout dinner, polite over coffee, polite about retiring to her guest bedroom, polite until C.C. snuck out of a second guestroom to join her, which is when Quiola, already in bed with a book, let go with “I thought you said they
knew
.”

C.C. sat cross-legged on the white-flocked bedspread, her back against the baseboard. “They do. But we don't talk about it. Never. They accept me, they love me, and they will love you, too. But they're also old-fashioned. They knew all sorts of artists and such, but they're conservative. Surely you can see that?”

“And which part do they disapprove of most? The painter, the lezzie or the dirty half-breed?”

“That's not nice.”

“This situation is not nice. I don't feel comfortable.”

“Why? They've been nothing but sweet. Even Karen has been a honey.”

“Sure, because we're
friends
. That's what you told them, isn't it, that we're just close friends?”

“Mom and Dad know perfectly well that any woman I bring home is my lover. I don't know what Karen knows, and I'm not about to rock that boat.”

“So why the separate bedrooms?”

C.C. burst into laughter.

“What's so funny?”

“How sweet!”

“What is?”

“You,” said C.C. “Goodness, Quiola, if either of us were a man, we'd sure as hell have separate bedrooms. We're not married, are we? No. Now, if I brought home a boyfriend, do you think my parents would let me share his bed? Of course not! Like I said, they're old-fashioned and they aren't about to change.”

 

♦

 

C.C. walked down the gravel drive away from the house with more spring in her step that Quiola had seen in many months. “It is, of course, perfect,” she said, stopping to gaze back at the rambling home that the realtor named The Carriage House. “Four bedrooms, two full baths and it looks so humble from here.”

“Yes,” said C.C. rubbing her hands together. “I hope they'll jump for it. If not, I'll just give them the full asking price.”

“Stone in the kitchen, pot-bellied stove, airy bedrooms – everything perfect, except for the wall to wall shag rug in the family room.”

“I'll rip it up. Put in hardwood.” C.C. had reached the road. She could just see the driveway of the “shed” from there. She turned to face Quiola and asked, “What the hell have you done to yourself?”

Quiola lifted her arm to look at that morning's bruising. The purpled pattern in one soft place under her forearm replicated the shape of a flattened buckle. “Nothing serious,” she said, lowering her arm. “A bruise.”

“That's more than just a bruise. You fell off the damn horse, didn't you?”

“I fell. Not far.” She gazed back at the white house with its black shudders and trim. “It is perfect – except for the rug. I wish someone knew more about the history. The whole place must have been really big, if the ‘shed' was for the gardener, and that was only the carriage house. I wonder if the real main house is still standing?”

C.C started up the country road again with Quiola behind, her gaze resting for a moment on C.C.'s hair, thick now, and styled once again. The spring air, as the afternoon waned, began to chill, bringing goose bumps up on C.C.'s neck. She shivered a little, and coughed.

“Have you talked to Dr. Shea about that cough?”

“It's nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.” At the shed's mailbox, C.C. put down the flag and took her mail, then let them in to the house “When do you think I'll hear from the realtor?”

“Not now. It's nearly six.”

“Not tonight, then. You're sure you're all right?”

“Me?”

“You fell. Off the horse.” C.C. sat down at the dining table, her mail still in hand. “I said you'd get hurt.”

“It's just a bruise. I'm fine.”

“And you've started smoking, haven't you? Quiola? Haven't you? I can smell it through the mint. I was a smoker. I know all the moves. And it's a devil of a thing to quit. I've been wondering, too, what's gotten into you? Ever since you took up with this riding business, you've been, I don't know, distant. Different.”

“No I haven't.”

“Yes you have. Do you have to ride? Why? And why are you smoking? It's not good for Amelia, quite apart from everyone else.”

“I don't smoke a lot, and riding takes my mind off other things. I like to learn something new. It's a challenge.”

“You mean you like having a teacher, that's what you mean. You've always liked having a teacher. What's her name again?”

“Meg White. She's great. Patient, smart – I like her.”

“Oh, I bet you do.”

“What does that mean?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh for chrissake! Meg's married and has two kids. You want to come out to the farm and see?”

C.C. hung her head. “No.”

“Good. I ride because I want to.”

“What if I don't want you to?”

“Don't ask me to stop, C.C. just don't. I need to do this – for me.”

“It's dangerous.”

“No more dangerous than driving Moby.”

“I'm a good driver.”

“So am I. But who knows about the guy on the other side?”

“All right. All right. But why smoke? You can't tell me smoking and riding go together like a horse and carriage?”

Quiola fidgeted with the string ties on her jacket, and didn't say anything.

“Hmm?”

“No, not exactly. I – ” she shook her head. “You're right. I should quit.”

“Why in heaven's name did you start?”

“I don't know. It just happened.”

“Oh, bullshit,” said C.C., slamming an open hand down on the mail she'd just placed on the table. “I see what you're doing, and I don't like it one bit. Courting death. That's what it is. I've had my brush, and now you're courting it. Of all the crazy idiot things to do to me, Quiola.”

“Courting death? No I'm not.”

“Riding. Smoking. What'll it be next, sky-diving?”

“I'll stop.”

“Which? Riding or smoking?”

Quiola glared. “Smoking, all right? Smoking.”

C.C. closed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead. “Go home, Quiola. Please. Just go on home.”

 

♦

 

When the Christmas holidays of 1944 had passed, and the children went back to school, Ted Davis's teacher became so concerned about the boy's behavior, he asked to meet with Dr. and Mrs. Davis.

C.C., only seven, didn't quite understand and she told Liz that she was –

“– scared.” It was a cold, cold February morning. Liz was still dozing in the guestroom, having come out the night before from the city after she and Paul had quarreled so she'd asked Nancy, you know, with the new baby and all, if she might need any help around the house?

C.C. climbed up on the bed, and Liz rolled over. “What are you scared about?” she said, turning back the quilt so C.C. could crawl in.

“Everything.”

“Oh, no, not everything!”

C.C. nodded. Her unbraided hair, wild, stood out like a blond halo around her head. “Everything's so hard.”

“School?”

“Yeah.”

“What grade are you in?”

“Aunt Liz, why do you keep forgetting?”

Liz laughed. “Because I'm old.”

“Oh, well. Second grade.”

“I see. Reading? Math?”

“I like reading. Math is yucky, and I can't tell time. I just can't.”

Liz patted her arm. “You will. Just give yourself a break.”

C.C. made a face, then said, “I'll tell you a secret. A secret secret.”

“Ah.” Liz folded her hands under her head. “I'm ready.”

C.C. elbowed up to look into Liz's face. “You promise not to tell?”

“That's our deal, isn't it? With secret secrets.”

C.C. flopped back down. “Okay. I was mean to Tucker, when Mom first brought him home. I didn't want another brother. I have one.”

“I know. But he's a cutie, isn't he?”

“Now he is. When he was littler, he was all red and scrunched up.”

“All babies are like that. You were red and scrunched up.”

“No I wasn't.”

“Yep.” Liz rolled a curl of C.C.'s hair around her finger letting her finger slide through the curl. “I hope you weren't too mean?”

“I pinched him. Hard. When nobody was looking. I made him cry.”

“Did you stop?”

“Yeah. I got used to him, and then I felt bad 'cause I was so mean.”

“Ah, you weren't
too
mean. Besides, you said you stopped. He's so little, he won't ever remember.”

“I know. But I still feel bad.”

“Well, you told me, didn't you? So you don't have to keep your secret-secret all bottled up.”

“I guess.”

“That's not the problem, is it?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged, staring at the quilt's pattern. “Aunt Liz? What would be really mean, to do to a baby? Pinching's not so bad. What would be really bad?”

“A lot of things. Babies depend on us. You see how your Mom and Dad take care of Tucker – or me, if I'm holding him we are, all of us, very gentle, very careful. Why? C.C.? Come on. What's the real secret-secret you haven't told me yet?”

“I'm scared,” she said, her voice down to a whisper.

“Of everything, you said so three minutes ago. Everything and what else?”

“Ted.”

“Ted? Why?”

“He hates Tucker.”

“No he doesn't. I'm sure.”

“Yes he does. He told me. He told me he was going to get rid of him. He said Tucker had an evil eye, and we had to protect Mom.”

“Oh, bother,” said Liz, more to herself than to C.C. “And just how was he going to get rid of Tuck?”