Puttering About In a Small Land, page 19
Liz, in a low voice, said in Rogers ear, “How would you like to be sent up here to this penal institution?”
“Depends,” he said.
“You wouldn’t like it.”
Roger said, “You talked me into this thing, for Gregg.”
“I did?” She stared at him.
“When you cornered me down in Ojai.”
“O-hy,” she corrected.
“You persuaded me to do it.” He saw what Virginia meant, all right.
Her forehead wrinkled. “I thought you were mad at us; I was trying to apologize.”
Mrs. Alt and the couple and the rabbity-looking child moved along the terrace in their direction. Seeing them, Mrs. Alt paused in her conversation and nodded. “Hello, Liz. Hello, Mr. Lindahl.”
Gregg said, “Hello, Mrs. Ant.”
The young couple smiled. They looked worn out by the ordeal of putting their child into a new school.
“Mr. and Mrs. Mines,” Mrs. Alt said, “I’d like you to meet Mr.—” The slightest hestitation, a narrowing of her brows so that her eyes became brighter, and then she finished, “Mr. Lindahl and Mrs. Bonner. And this young man is Gregg Lindahl, Mr. Lindahl’s son. I think Gregg and Joanne might very well be in several classes together.”
They all said hello and shook hands. The two groups commingled for an interval.
Gregg said to the Mines, “One day I fell out of the window where I was; everybody ran to see if I hurt myself. I think that was just yesterday.”
Cordially, Mrs. Mines said, “Were you hurt?”
“No,” Gregg said. “But everybody thought I was hurt.”
To Liz, Mrs. Mines said, “How long has your little boy been in school up here?”
“He’s not my little boy,” Liz said. “I never saw him before in my life.”
For some obscure reason, that struck Mr. Mines as funny. Laughing, he said, “I know just how you feel.”
“Its true,” Liz protested, to everyone in general. “I’m no relation to him. I have two boys—where the hell did they go?” To Roger, she said, “Did you see where Jerry and Walter went?” She seemed absolutely unable to cope with the situation.
Mrs. Alt, in her energetic fashion, said to Liz, “Come on now, Liz. You know perfectly well you have seen Gregg before in your life. You drove up here with him.” To the Mines, Mrs. Alt explained, “With Liz we sometimes wonder who’s the parent and who’s the child.”
The Mines smiled, and then they and their child and Mrs. Alt continued on, along the terrace^and into the building.
With gloom, Liz said to Roger, “Why did I say that? Do you know?”
“It’s okay,” he said. Like Mr. Mines, he, too, saw it as funny.
“I must be crazy,” Liz said in a despairing voice. She put her arm around Gregg and patted him. “I mean—well, look at how awkward it was. Those people—what was their name?—naturally thought we were married and Gregg was my son. It got me upset as hell. Even Edna Alt started to introduce us as Mr. and Mrs. something.”
“She salvaged the situation,” Roger said.
“I guess now she’s sore at me.”
“Nobody’s sore at you,” Roger said.
“I get so mad at myself,” Liz said. “Gregg,” she said, “I didn’t mean that.”
Obviously, Gregg had not followed the interchange. He knew Liz was not his mother; he had paid no attention.
“Gregg hates me,” Liz said. Suddenly she leaned against Roger and rested her head against his shoulder. Her hair brushed his face; it scratched at him, and he smelled the warm, fragrant presence of the woman. “Can I rest on your shoulder?” she asked him.
“Sure,” he said.
Then, just as suddenly, she whisked herself away and started off along the terrace. “We better get started back to town. It’s worse going back; the traffic is enough to kill you. I forgot about that, or I wouldn’t have asked you to drive going back. I can drive both ways, if you want; I don’t feel tired.”
“You didn’t drive up,” he said. “I did; remember?”
“No,” she said, “I think I drove up.” All at once she was indignant. “I know I did; you’re supposed to drive back. Wasn’t that the agreement?”
“I’m happy to do it,” he said. At that she subsided and became doubtful. “It’s okay,” he said. He did not want to leave the school; that was what he was thinking of. But he realized that she was right about one thing; the longer they waited the worse the road conditions would be.
“I’ll go inside to the powder room,” Liz said, “while you’re saying good-bye to Gregg.” She turned back towards the doorway and then halted, saying, “Suppose I meet Mrs. Alt and those people again.”
“Go on,” he said. “Don’t worry about that.”
She looked at him uncertainly, depending on him.
“Honest,” he said.
“Okay.” She nodded and continued on into the lobby.
On the drive back through the Ojai Valley, Liz said, “Your wife is a wonderful woman. Really extraordinary. We talked and talked; I don’t know when I’ve ever been so conscious of being in contact with a person who seemed so aware of what’s going on in the world.” She glanced at him.
“That’s true,” he said.
“She told me about her dancing. She’s going to let me watch one of her lessons she gives. She explained about the therapy part... I don’t understand that—I told her I didn’t. She’s very patient. I mean, it didn’t seem to bother her that I didn’t have the background to follow it. It seems to me she likes me. I had that feeling. When I called her Saturday morning she got all enthusiastic about going shopping; when Chic said something about wanting to see your store sometime, Virginia right away said we should go down and drop in for a couple of minutes. Mrs. Watson is her mother, isn’t she? Not your mother. I like her, too. I really think you’re very lucky to have a wife like that. She has the most beautiful muscular legs. Is that because of her dancing? She dresses a lot better than most of the women I know. When we were shopping I got her to pick out a couple of dresses for me.”
“Good,” he said.
“And Gregg is darling. You’re really lucky, Roger. To have a wife and a child like that, and a store like you have. Even your mother-in-law is nice. You ought to be glad. Are you glad? Do you appreciate what sort of wonderful woman Virginia is? Even Edna Alt likes her. That’s something.”
Roger said, “I don’t think Mrs. Alt likes Virginia. They tangled the minute they met.”
“No,” Liz said, with insistence. “I know Edna likes her. Where would you get an idea like that? What do you mean, they tangled?”
“That’s what Virginia said.”
“I can’t imagine Virginia quarrelling with anybody. She’s so bright and merry; she’s always in a good mood, isn’t she? Is that because she comes from Washington, D.C.? She told me about meeting you there during the war. She was working as a nurse and you had been discharged because of your wounds.” Swiveling around beside him, she rested her arms on the back of the seat and stared exhaustively at him. “Where were you wounded? Did she take care of you? I can see Virginia as a nurse—she’s just the type to care for the wounded soldiers. I remember during the war—you know what I did? You won’t believe it. All I contributed to the war effort was that during the war I worked as a stenographer at the Bonny Bonner Bread plant, in Los Angeles, California. I met Chic before that—we were already married. What I mean is, when the men all got drafted I went to work to help out. Jerry was born in 1940 and Walter was born in 1941, in the middle of the summer. I met Chic in 1938. We had moved to L.A. My father was a doctor. He still is . . . only he’s retired now. We’ve been married fourteen years. God, it doesn’t seem possible.”
To himself, Roger thought, This is another now-or-never moment.
“Doesn’t it feel strange?” Liz said. “Without the boys? The car’s so empty.”
“Yes,” he said. He could feel his hands sweating on the steering wheel; the surface beneath his fingers felt like glass. His nervous tension had increased, and as a result he found himself driving too fast. Liz noticed.
“You really drive this car,” she said.
“I better slow down.” He took his foot off the gas; the car lost momentum and began to glide.
“Now we’re just coasting,” Liz said.
He said in as clear a voice as possible, “How late is it? Do we really have to hurry?”
Liz did not appear to hear him. Leaning against the back of the seat, she had turned her attention on something behind him. “Look,” she said. “Walter left his pocket telescope in the car; it must have fallen out of his pocket.”
“Want me to stop?”
“Why?”
“So you can go around and get it.”
“I’ll get it later,” she said. “Remind me. I sent away for that, for him. You know what it cost? Fifty cents and some Swan soap wrappers or something; I forget. It works pretty well.”
“How late is it?” he said.
“I don’t know. Don’t you have a watch?”
“Do we have time to stop anywhere?”
“Why? What for?”
“Just stop,” he said, feeling himself to be clumsy and foundering. Her absentness made him irritable.
“I don’t want to stop.”
He said, “I do.”
“Suit yourself.” She settled back, away from him, and seemed to be thinking. “You’re driving,” she said vaguely. “It’s your car.”
Ahead of them the road started up into the mountains. The land on each side was overgrown and poor. No houses or signs could be seen anywhere.
“There’s a man hitchhiking,” Liz said. At the side of the road a Mexican, a farm laborer with his coat draped over his back, a straw hat on his head, stuck his thumb toward them and smiled hopefully. “Give him a ride,” Liz said. “I always give them a ride over the mountain range; otherwise they have to walk all the way back—they’re going to Santa Paula.”
He did not stop. The Mexican dwindled behind them; in the rear-view mirror Roger saw the man’s face sag and became hostile. Then the rocky slope and heaped bushes interfered with the image.
“Don’t you give people who’re hitchhiking rides?” Liz asked, not accusingly, but with concern.
“Too risky,” he said.
“Is it? Maybe you’re right. But I feel so sinful shooting by without picking them up—they don’t have anything but what they’re wearing, and here we are with money to send our kids to a private boarding school, and you own a store, and Chic has stock in the bread company, and we both have houses and everything we want. It doesn’t seem fair. But maybe you’re right.” She made herself comfortable, her knees drawn up, her elbows stuck out so that her thumbs supported her chin.
At each turn in the road a shoulder had been cleared overlooking the Valley; he saw cars that had pulled off the road to take advantage of the rutted, bumpy parking areas.
“Not here,” Liz said.
By that, she could have meant anything. “Why not?” he said, wanting to know, determined to pin her down.
She said, in a tight, agonized voice, “Listen, I’m not a teenager.”
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“I mean—I think you’re thinking something dumb. Parking on the shoulder and smooching. Roger, I’m thirty-four years old, I’ve been married fourteen years. And you’re married. Don’t you think in fourteen years I’ve had enough—sex? I can’t be tempted with that; I’m not going to sneak off with you to a motel or something.” She gazed at him starkly.
At last he managed to say, “Of course not.”
Neither of them said anything, then, until they had come out of the mountains on the Santa Paula side. Liz put on the car radio and tuned in a string orchestra.
“Do you like classical music?” she said. “Chic hates it.”
He kept his eyes on the road. Trees grew on both sides. The car passed houses and narrow side roads. The countryside was fertile, flat, and well-tended.
“Don’t be sore at me,” Liz said.
“I’m not.” But even to him, in his own ears, he sounded as sore and disappointed as a child. As a teenager.
Liz said, “I won’t deny it would be nice to get off somewhere and make mad, passionate love. But I’m not going to do it. I find you very attractive. I have from the start, since I first saw you. You were up on the hill by the football field and we saw you and Mrs. McGivern wondered who you were. But—for one thing I’m scared of Virginia and your mother.”
“Mother-in-law,” he said.
“And I’m scared of Chic.”
“So am I,” he agreed.
“I wanted to make this drive with you. I came along on purpose: I told Chic I was worried about the boys. All the way up I thought about the drive back, after we left off the boys, your boy and my boys.”
He said nothing.
“What time is it?” Shivering, she took hold of his sleeve and drew it back to see his wristwatch. “Four-thirty. We could pull off the road for about an hour. No longer, though.”
“And do what?”
Liz said, “I’ll let you buy me a drink.”
“Okay,” he said.
“When we get to Santa Paula, turn right. There’s a café and bar along the road. It’s quiet. Nobody would know us, there. It’s back from the road . . . not one of those highway places.” Suddenly she scrambled around on the seat; her fingers dug behind him and she wrapped her arm around him. “Can you drive like this?” she said.
“Maybe I better not.”
She drew away. “Roger,” she said, “you don’t tell everything to your wife, do you? You can keep some things secret if they’re important ... if they ought to be kept secret.”
“Sure,” he said.
On her face was concern, an ambivalent pall. “This could be a hell of a mistake I’m making. Isn’t this what you’ve had on your mind? I want to be positive. Isn’t this why you came over to the house the other night? You fixed this up on purpose, didn’t you? Tell me; I want to hear you say it.”
“Yes,” he said. He put it as it was: a commitment.
“I feel nervous,” she said. “And it seems hopeless when you start thinking about it. Maybe I can see you an hour or so, now and then . . . what good is that?”
“It’s something.”
“God,” she said, with a sigh. “You know, my kids won’t have anything to do with your little boy; he’s too young for them. It’s sort of strange. Here you and I are. We both have kids; they know one another. What were you doing fourteen years ago, in 1938?”
“I was on WPA.” Roger said.
Liz laughed. “No kidding. That seems funny to me. So bizarre.” Pulling back from him, she shaded her eyes to peer ahead down the road. “You know, I really want a drink. That’s how I discovered this place. I stopped by myself a couple of times. I get lonely. All Chic does is sit around preparing his business charts. You’re not like that, are you? You care about something besides your business. He reads those business trade journals—in college he had a business ad major. I majored in French.”
He drove on, looking for the cut-off that led to the bar.
“Slow down,” Liz said. “It’s pretty soon.”
He reached the intersection of the two highways and made a right turn, toward the Coast. Presently they drove by a gas station and stores.
A motel appeared ahead, modern and attractive. Both she and Roger watched the motel.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Liz said suddenly. “Stop. Why can’t we go in there? Who would know?”
“Nobody,” he said, trying to see what was really there and not what crowded up into his mind from his own thoughts, hopes, imagination. But it all had gone in the direction of reality. It was not his imagination. Not any longer.
“It looks clean,” Liz said, shading her eyes with her hand. “Doesn’t it? Not run-down. Don’t you think so?”
He brought the car up onto the gravel and stopped, with the motor running. “Whatever you want,” he said. They both sat. He rubbed the perspiration from his hands. “Well?” he said.
“Lets go in,” Liz decided. She opened the car door and hopped out, onto the gravel. The late-afternoon wind fluttered her long skirt about her; she held onto it and reached up to protect her hair. “Will you talk to them?” she said. “I’m scared to. I’ll leave it up to you. I just want to get indoors where I can throw myself down and rest and be with you.”
While he made the arrangements at the motel office, she drove the car through the ivy and lattice arch, into the court where the cabins were.
“You open the door,” she said, when they had gone up onto the porch of their cabin. Without warning she put her arms around him and kissed him; she pressed her mouth against his with such force that he felt the impact of her teeth. “I’m really scared, Roger,” she said, lifting her face up with her mouth at his ear. “But I want to do it. How long do we have? An hour? That’s not very long.”
An unromantic notion appeared in the uppermost part of his mind. “What about precautions?”
Liz said, “I put on my diaphragm back at the school.” She passed on indoors, ahead of him, and tossed her purse down in a chair. “Remember, when I left you, just before we got into the car. Its good for a couple of hours yet.”
Reaching behind her, she unhooked the snaps of her skirt. He saw, with surprise, that she had on nothing under it, and when she took off her striped shirt he saw that she had on nothing under that, either.
“I never wear underclothes,” she explained. She glided toward him and put her cool, small hands to his shoulders. “I don’t know why. I just don’t like to. I want to be able to feel the sun.”
In proof of that, she insisted on having the shades of the cabin up; she even had him move the bed so that the dimming sunlight streamed down on them. It warmed both of them as long as they were there.
