Puttering About In a Small Land, page 20
15
They got back to San Fernando after sundown. The streetlights had been put on, and the neon signs; the streets were dark as Roger searched for the house.
“It’s in the next block,” Liz said. “What time is it?”
“Six-forty,” he said.
“Its not very late. I usually get home this late. If he says anything I’ll tell him about Mr. and Mrs. Mines and Mrs. Alt asking me to tell them about the school so they’d put their daughter in it.” Beside him, she withdrew to study; she pressed her hands to her face, squinted, and then said to him, “I think you better come in with me. It would be natural, wouldn’t it? Just for a second. Then say something about having to get right home for dinner. But don’t stay.”
From the time they had left the motel, Liz had churned the difficulties into every combination. She had insisted that they work out a complete account together, covering the interval from the moment they left the school to this moment, when they drove up before her house.
But she was animated and cheerful; she fidgeted about in the car, clung to him as he drove, commented on everything they saw along the road, asked him questions about himself, how many girls he had been in love with, how long he and Virginia had been married, was this the first time he had done a thing like this. . . .
“Roger,” she said, “you know what this is? Adultery!” She clapped her hands to her cheeks in horror.
“Take it easy,” he said, feeling deep affection for her, even for her confusion and fragmented recall.
“Isn’t it?” she demanded, sitting up on her knees so that she was above him. “It’s a crime; it’s against the law. Oh my God, suppose people found out—like Edna Alt. Everybody up at the school.” She really did look stricken; her face was pale and her eyes grew larger and darker.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “They won’t know unless one of us tells them.”
“I might blurt it out!”
He had to concede, to himself at least, that she might very well. “You won’t,” he said, however. But the idea did not increase his own sense of security. He could imagine her suddenly, on the spur of the moment, declaring to Chic, “I have to tell you—on the trip back from Ojai, Roger and I stopped at a motel and went to bed together.”
“I feel so wicked,” Liz said. “I feel as if I’ve betrayed my two boys and Chic and Edna and everybody. How do you feel?”
“I feel swell,” he said, truthfully.
“You don’t regret it?”
“No,” he said.
“Neither do I.” She subsided beside him, pressing against him, her arms around him. Then she leaped back. “We’re almost there. It’s past that telephone pole. Where’s the station wagon?” At once she was alert. “It’s gone. And I don’t see any lights. Something’s happened. Maybe he drove out looking for us. Do you suppose? My God, could he have followed us or something? It’s possible; he might do that.”
Roger parked the car across the street from the Bonner house. It did look dark and deserted.
“Come in with me,” Liz said, clutching at him. “I’m scared. If anything happens I don’t want to have to face it alone.”
He opened the car door and assisted her out.
“Don’t say anything to me,” she said in a low voice. “Or look at me—you know. Don’t make any signs or anything. You understand, don’t you?”
Closing the car door he walked with Liz across the street to her house. Pinned on the front door was a typewritten note; she tore it down, then got her key from her purse, unlocked and opened the door, and switched on the porch light in order to see.
“Shit,” she said.
“What is it?”
“He’s over at your place.” She handed him the note, groaning. “Now what? Oh God, let’s not go there. See, he wants you to drive me over there. I’m not going over there; I’m not going to face your wife. All she’ll have to do is take one look at me; she’ll know.”
“We better go over,” he said. “You better come along.”
“Can’t you go and tell them I have a headache or something?”
He considered. “That might make them wonder.”
Suddenly Liz bolted into the house. From the depths of the darkness she called back urgently, “I’m going to take a bath and change my clothes. No, I can’t take a bath; it has to stay in at least six hours. Anyhow I’m going to change my clothes. Come on inside. Do you think we ought to telephone them? Oh Christ, suppose he comes back and finds you in here and me in the bedroom changing my clothes—” From the bedroom she burst forth; she had already taken off her shirt. “What’ll he think? He’ll kill both of us, me first.” Buttoning her shirt around her as fast as possible, she said, “Let’s go; let’s get out of here. It’d be the end if he found us here together.”
Roger put her into the car and drove to his own house.
“Roger,” she said, as they made the last turn before his street, “are you in love with me, do you think? What a problem it is. Fourteen years . . . how long have you been married? You told me, but I forget what you said.”
“A little under nine years,” he answered.
“Chic and I were married five years before you and Virginia had even got married. We were married before you even met her, weren’t we?”
“I guess so,” he said.
“Jerry and Walter were in kindergarten when you got married. They were born before you met Virginia.” She sighed. “What a mess. How’ll we ever get it straightened out? No wonder people are against adultery; look at all the complications. Maybe we should just walk in there and tell them. You tell Virginia and I’ll tell Chic.” She began to laugh. “Or you can tell Chic and I’ll take Virginia aside and say to her, ‘Virginia, I have something to tell you. Your husband and I stopped off at a motel and went to bed together. What do you think of that?’ How would you put it to Chic? What would you say?”
“I don’t know,” he said, wishing she would stop talking about it.
“It’s sort of funny,” Liz said. As he parked the car before his house—the living room lights were on and the red Ford station wagon was parked in front—she said, “Let’s walk in there and hand them a note. Here, I’ll write it out.” She dug into her purse, but he stopped her hand. “No?” she said. “It would be sort of funny, in a way. Announce it like that... I guess not.”
They got out of the car and walked up the path.
“Look,” Liz said. “Your car parked right behind ours. It makes me feel funny.” In the darkness she reached out, caught hold of his arm, and squeezed him. Then she let him go and skipped on, up the steps, onto the porch. Without knocking or ringing the bell, or waiting for him, she opened the door and flung herself into the house.
“Hi,” she called merrily. “Hello, Mrs. Watson. How are you? What’s going on?”
Virginia, hearing the front door open, looked up expecting to see Roger; instead, Liz Bonner burst into the house crying in a sharp, gay tone to each of them in the room, to her, to Chic Bonner, to her mother. Then, after Liz, came Roger, looking tired. Liz rushed about the room, her eyes shining; she seemed to be in a kind of trance.
“Whats all this?” Liz demanded, seeing the sketches on the table “Oh my God, did you bring them over? I thought you were kidding She dropped her coat and purse into an empty chair and then ran over to Virginia, so close to her that her collarbone and breasts bumped against Virginias arm. “Do you have an aspirin I can take? I have an awful headache. Thank God I didn’t have to drive back.” To everyone in the room, she said, “It sure was lucky Roger was along. Even so we had to pull off the road awhile. The traffic was terrible.”
Virginia went into the kitchen for the Anacin. Liz came right along with her, staying close to her.
“I just love your kitchen,” Liz said. “Don’t go to any trouble; I don’t even need water with it.”
“What do you mean? You can’t take it without water.” She filled a tumbler with water and presented it to Liz, along with the Anacin tin.
“Thanks,” Liz said, turning aside to gulp down the tablet. “Ugh,” she said. “I can’t swallow a pill sometimes when people are watching.” Putting the tumbler of water and the tin on the drain-board she seized hold of Virginia. “You’re always so good to me,” she said, with an imploring expression that Virginia did not see the need for.
“It’s just an Anacin,” Virginia said, wondering what had got Liz so animated. Her face was strained and she had on no makeup; her hair was disarranged, probably by the wind, and she had about her a dark, musky scent, something like that of cigarettes and fabric and perspiration and deodorant. She looked very pretty and round, and Virginia could not help liking her in spite of her meaningless chatter.
“Are you sore at me?” Liz asked, her mouth hanging partly open. Without waiting for an answer she grabbed Virginia and buried her head in Virginia’s neck. “I think so much of you and Roger,” she said. “Listen, what is all that stuff Chic’s got spread out there in the living room? Is that those drawings for the store? Tell him to go to hell.” She broke away from Virginia. “Don’t pay any attention to him.”
Virginia said, “Liz, you really are a screwball.” She did not know whether to laugh or be disgusted.
“Why?” Liz said. “What’d I say?” Then she shrugged and wandered back toward the living room. “I don’t think I am. Is that your opinion?”
Virginia said, “Liz, I can’t any more follow your thought-processes than I can—” She gestured. “Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll fix you some coffee? Have you and Roger had anything to eat?”
“No,” Liz said, remaining in the hall. She drooped wearily.
“What about some food, then? Come on back in the kitchen.”
“No thanks,” Liz said. “You’re very kind to me. I don’t deserve it.”
Coming toward them from the living room, Roger said to his wife, “Did you say something about food? We were going to stop and have something to eat, but we got involved in the heavy traffic.”
“You look tired,” she said. “You both look worn-out.”
“What’s there to eat?” he said. “What’s going on? What’s all the pictures?” He had a haggard, rumpled look; his eyes were red-rimmed, probably from the glare. “How come your mother’s over?”
“We went and got her,” Virginia said. She felt a little in the wrong at having done so; she knew how little her husband liked to come home and find Marion there. “You and Liz sit down here in the kitchen and I’ll fix you some soup or something. Liz, look in the refrigerator and the pantry and see what you want; I don’t know how hungry you are.” To Roger, she said, “Suppose I heat up one of those frozen chicken pies for you?”
“Anything’s okay,” he said. “Anything hot.”
Liz said, “Can I use your bathroom? It’s just down here, isn’t it?” She disappeared; the bathroom door closed.
Sitting down at the kitchen table, Roger said, “It’s good to be home.”
“Did she talk the whole way, both ways?”
He gave her an odd look.
“Never mind,” Virginia said. She knew what it was like; she had made the trip with Liz, herself.
In the doorway, Chic Bonner materialized with some of his notepads. “Excuse me,” he said to Virginia. “Hi, there, Lindahl. Virginia, where did Liz go?”
“She went in the bathroom,” Virginia said. “She’ll be right out.”
“Thanks,” Chic said. He lingered in the kitchen, regarding Roger with his thorough gaze. “We got kind of worried about you.”
“It’s a grind,” Roger said. “Be glad you don’t have a license.”
From the bathroom came sounds of moving around. Then the bathroom door was unlocked and opened. “Virginia,” Liz called.
Virginia went to the bathroom door. “Are you okay?”
“Come on in.” Liz sat on the closed toilet, gazing up at her wanly. “What’s all that stuff he’s doing?” Liz said. “Is he going to talk to Roger about buying into the store?” She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “You know, Virginia, I really do feel sick. Can I ask you a favor? Can I go lie down for a while?”
“Sure you can,” Virginia said. “That’s a good idea.”
“Thanks,” Liz said, coming along with her, from the bathroom and into the bedroom. “Oh,” she said, “not on your bed.”
“Where, then?” Virginia said.
“I don’t know. Whatever you say.” Liz sank down on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap. “Gregg’s bed? No, I guess that wouldn’t do.”
“I’ll close the door,” Virginia said. “If you need me or Chic, call.” She started out of the bedroom.
Liz kicked off her shoes and then lay back with her head against the pillow. “Virginia,” she said, “I hope you and I will always be good friends. Do you think we will?”
“Why not?” Virginia said, thinking to herself that it was a dismal prospect. And yet, there was that appealing quality in Liz; she showed it especially when she was with her children. It made her feel a little tender toward her. “You go to sleep,” she said, and shut the door after her.
“What’s the matter with Liz?” Roger said, when she reentered the kitchen.
“Just tired,” Virginia said. “Car sick. She’ll be okay.”
Scowling, he said, “I’m probably responsible.” He eyed Chic Bonner.
“No, I don’t think so,” Chic said. “She has moods like this. After we fight. She’s trying to get sympathy from me for the long hard drive. Show me how she’s suffered. She just wants somebody to hold her hand.”
To Virginia that sounded likely. “How long does it last?” she asked Chic. It fitted Liz.
“Not long. She’ll realize I’m not coming in, and she’ll get up out of it.”
Slumped over in his chair, Roger said nothing. She hadn’t seen him so tired in months; he barely followed what was going on around him.
“Did Gregg act glad to get back to the school?” she asked him.
“He showed me his room,” Roger said. His response came tardily and it was so vague that she repeated her question, knowing that he had not actually heard. “Yeah,” he said. “He was glad. He likes it up there.”
Chic said, “Say, Lindahl, come on in the living room for a minute.”
Opening his eyes, Roger said, “Why?”
“I’ve got a few things here I’ve been showing your wife and mother-in-law Mrs. Watson. I wanted to get their opinion on them, too. They gave me some valuable pointers. I think your reaction was favorable, wasn’t it, Virginia?”
“Yes,” she said. “In the main it was.”
After a pause, Roger said, “What have you got? Pictures?”
“It’s about the store,” Virginia said.
From the living room, Mrs. Watson said, “Roger, you come on in here, now. We have something to show you.”
“What do you mean,” Roger said, “it’s about the store?”
“I have a few ideas,” Chic said, smiling at Virginia, “that I want to discuss with you.” Catching the excitement, she smiled back. “Let’s all go in there,” Chic said.
Roger said, “Look, Chic, Sunday’s the only day I have off.”
From the living room, Mrs. Watson said, “Roger! Mr. Bonner wants to show you his plans for the store.”
“I’m too tired to care,” Roger said. “Use your common sense. I have to think about the store six days a week and that’s plenty.” Removing his glasses, he stuck them in his shirt pocket. He rubbed his eyes, grimaced, and then got up and walked over to the sink.
“I’m sorry,” Chic said, looking at Virginia with injury. “I guess I should have realized. I didn’t mean to offend him.”
Virginia said, “Roger, I’m surprised at you.”
“What do you want to do,” Roger said, his back to them, “buy into my store?”
“Something like that,” Chic said. “But we can talk about it some other time.”
“You don’t know anything about my store.”
“Does he always get mad like this?” Chic asked Virginia. “Lindahl, I really beg your pardon.” With dignity, he returned to the living room, and when she looked in she saw him gathering up his designs.
“Don’t put them away,” her mother said. “Leave them out. If I have to I’ll show them to him myself.”
“No, mother,” Virginia said. “You stay out of this.” To her husband she said, “Sit down at the table again and I’ll fix the soup for you. Both you and Liz—you’re like a couple of children home from an all-day hike.”
“I’m tired,” he murmured, at the sink.
“I know you are.” She kissed him on the cheek; his skin was dry, rough with beard.
At the doorway, Chic said, “We’ll be going, Virginia.” He had his packet of designs with him, and his coat over his arm.
She made him go back into the living room where she could talk to him. “You can see he’s tired. Tomorrow he’ll be wondering why he was so cross. Don’t think he isn’t interested.”
“I guess I got carried away,” Chic said. He had a diminished manner, now; his voice had ebbed and his enthusiasm was gone. “Should I telephone him or what?” He allowed her to put a sketch into the packet that he had overlooked. “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate your help, Virginia.” He gave her that humble look, his look of deflation. Almost whispering, he said, “He carries a lot of weight on his shoulders, doesn’t he? You know, sometimes I have to go around to supermarkets and chainstores and talk to them about handling our bread . . . I’ve had my share of dealings with the public. He isn’t the only one who gets tired. Of course he’s had more of it than I.”
Virginia said, “Chic, I have a favor to ask.”
“What is it?” he said, large and tame, but conscious that he had been ill-treated.
“Before you and Liz go, I wish you’d drive my mother home—so Roger won’t have to. I don’t want him to do any more driving tonight.”
“Certainly,” Chic said, recovering some of his sense of worth. He set his packet down again. “Is she ready to go, though?”
Virginia turned to her mother. “Do you want Chic to drive you home before he leaves? I’m going to fix Roger something to eat and then we’ll probably go to bed early.”
