Chapter 5

Val briefly inspected the sparse contents of her dresser drawer, then donned khaki shorts and her newest T-shirt.

What does this Carolyn Blake want? She’s an attractive enough person; she shouldn’t have any shortage of friends—or at least acquaintances. She probably thinks you’re weird enough to be interesting. And as for her, she’s neither interesting nor weird, but face it: right now you’re bored.

She followed Carolyn Blake into the living room and condemned the room with a glance as she would a bad painting. How could anyone live in this blue-white glacier? Even green tones, normally warm, were frozen by their isolation.

Carolyn asked, “Would you like more tonic? Or—”

“Tonic is fine.” She examined the contents of the bookcase—hard-cover novels by Roth, Updike, Bellow, Nabokov, Vonnegut, Didion, Pynchon. None had been read, she suspected; the dust jackets looked too uniformly perfect.

“May I sit on the floor?” Val inquired when Carolyn returned from the kitchen. The white sofa and chair repelled her.

“Wherever you like.” Carolyn curled up in a corner of the sofa, feet tucked under her.

A graceful young woman, Val thought, settling herself on the floor, her back against the white armchair. Attractive even in red…but how could anyone under thirty change into a dress to relax? And can’t she see that red’s a completely wrong color for her?

“I understand you’re an artist. Have you been painting long?”

Val sipped her tonic. The question was polite, nothing more. With certain levels of ignorance she was quite willing to divert the conversation; she no longer felt any obligation to defend the history and profession of art. “Years,” she said. “Through two marriages and a pregnancy and two foreign wars and domestic crises too gruesome to describe.”

Carolyn’s voice was soft, shy. “You sound a hundred years old.”

“Thirty-six.”

“You are? So is my husband. You don’t look it. I’m…almost twenty-seven.”

You don’t look it either, Val thought. She smiled. “I don’t care how old anyone is. My son is more interesting than most of the adults I know.”

Carolyn chuckled. “I hope I can compete with Neal.”

Val smiled again, wondering what she was doing here with this vapid woman in her iceberg of a house. “It’s nice to talk to an adult during the week. Have you lived here long?”

“A year and a half. We’re both from Chicago but Paul was transferred to Alabama for a year, then we came out here. He’s district manager for American Tube Supply. They distribute metal tubes in every state in the union.”

God, how dreary. And she looks so proud. “How do you like L.A.?”

Carolyn considered the question. “I like the…differentness, the feeling of…possibility. Yes, I like it. I might be trying not to like it too much because Paul will very likely transfer again. What about you? Where are you from?”

It’s a layer deeper than shyness, Val decided. There may be something in her after all—but she’s like a violet that can’t take the sun. “Connecticut. But I’ve been out here since sixty-eight. Neal was born here.” She sipped her tonic. “It’s so cool and lovely in your house—the first time in days I’ve felt comfortable.”

“You don’t have air-conditioning?” She looked aghast. “How can anyone live here without it?”

“It’s hot for June, but I’ll adjust. Even in the heart of summer the Valley cools off at night.”

“But you must die during the day.”

“You really do get used to it. Like people in the desert. I don’t mind all that much; I love the sun.” She admitted, “But all this smoke and ash in the air is miserable. The fan just blows it all around.”

“We have a portable air conditioner in the storage room. Take it. We had to buy it in Alabama for the bedroom.” She grimaced. “Alabama. I could’ve danced in the streets when Paul was transferred out of there. Do take it, Val. You can keep one room cool. It’s better than nothing.”

“Well…Neal would love it.” She was thinking of increased electrical bills. But maybe once in a while when it got really oppressive… “Let me think about it.” She changed the subject. “What do you do that you work such odd hours?”

“I’m a personnel assistant at Everest Electronics, over near Glassell Park. Microcomputers. The office and plant are together. My boss decided he should make himself accessible to the night shift plant personnel for at least part of the day.”

“Seems a good idea,” Val commented.

“He’s very creative and bright,” Carolyn said with animation. “I love him. I mean, he approaches things with a...” She fumbled for a word. “He lost his hand two years ago in an accident, he wears a prosthetic. He’s a firebrand liberal; he understands being handicapped in this world. He...” The next words were blurted: “Paul hates my new hours.”

Val smothered a yawn. “Prefers you in bed in the morning, does he?”

Carolyn answered soberly, “I was stupid enough to take the job without asking him. It’s a promotion—not much of one, only a few more dollars—but it meant working directly with Bob Simpson and I was so delighted to be asked I just went ahead and said yes, not thinking how Paul would react.”

Another Diary of a Mad Housewife. God, spare me. “Maybe you assumed he’d be just as happy as you.” Refraining from inquiring how much consultation had gone into either of Paul Blake’s transfers, she said instead, “He took you out of Chicago into the middle of nowhere, then out here. You had to quit jobs both times, I assume?”

“I really didn’t mind. Well, the one in Chicago I did mind,” she amended. “It was my first job with responsibility. But—”

“This job doesn’t keep you overtime. You don’t have a child you’re quote selfishly neglecting for a career unquote—that was Richard’s big beef. He was my second husband—” She broke off, seeing Carolyn’s fascinated stare. “Don’t mind me. I have strong opinions on everything. Your marriage is your own very private affair.”

“Is Val Hunter your own name?”

She was startled by the question. “My own name is Carlson, but Neal’s father and I were never divorced, only separated. He was killed in an accident two years ago. I decided it was easier all around to keep the name Hunter.” She chuckled. “I’ve always thought Val Hunter sounds predatory.”

Carolyn shook her head. “I think Val Hunter is a perfect name for an artist. It has a…clean sound.”

Val glanced at a clock over a fireplace laid with three perfect logs and lined with white brick surely not meant ever to be exposed to flame. “I’m afraid it’s almost time for Neal to come home and criticize my choice for dinner.” She had fifteen more minutes—but why remain here with this young and very married woman?

“Take the air conditioner.”

Val reflected. “Only if you let me do what I can to repay you. Let me teach you to swim, to gain a little enjoyment from your own pool. I absolutely guarantee you won’t drown.”

“I’ll think about it,” Carolyn said after a moment. Her face was closed in refusal.

Val’s interest was piqued. “There’s a problem,” she said gently. “Obviously there’s a problem.”

“When I was seven, one of the girls I played with pushed me into a park swimming pool. The lifeguard fished me right out but I got a lungful of water and apparently permanent terror.” Carolyn had placed her hands on her knees as if to use them for support. “I’ve never told anyone this, not even Paul. I really don’t know why; it’s not such an uncommon thing. You—you swim so beautifully; you make it look so easy.”

Val watched the hand that smoothed the fabric of the red dress, the face that held a childlike vulnerability reminding her of Neal. “Carolyn,” she began, then stopped. “May I call you Carrie? To me it suits you more.”

The hand relaxed. Carolyn smiled. “I’ve always liked Carrie better than Carolyn but no one’s ever called me that.”

“Carrie, if that had happened to me I’d feel exactly the same as you.”

Carolyn’s eyes traversed the length of Val’s body. “It wouldn’t happen to you.” She smiled again, an impish smile that struck Val with its attractiveness. “No one would push you into a pool.”

“When I was growing up, it would’ve made so many things easier to be a regulation-size woman like you—I’d have given my soul.” She added, “I still would.”

“Why? It’s so different today. Today you’re just a tall, strong woman. What’s wrong with that?”

“Our culture. It’s fine to be a very tall, thin fashion model—a decorative woman. Otherwise you’re abnormal, bizarre. Height’s a competitive advantage men still claim as solely their own. I got married when I was seventeen. I needed to prove I wasn’t too tall to get married. Poor Andy was nineteen, he thought marrying me would prove he was a man. If he wasn’t too sure about it before, he was less sure afterward. You can’t imagine how it feels to hear laughter directed at you. And neither of us with the ego strength to withstand those stares, the derision. We were married seven weeks.”

“That’s terrible, Val. Those were awful times. But now you’re accomplishing something of value. Many people never do anything with their lives. You have a talent.”

Val looked at her sharply. This conventional woman sitting on her white sofa in her secure, affluent world could have no concept of how much that talent had been the saving presence in her life. “How would you know?” she said good-naturedly. “You’ve never seen my work.”

The voice was shy: “I can tell. You have substance. And your work must, too. Could I ask what kind of things you paint?”

Val was touched, and pleased. “I think my work is generally expressionist, although that’s not inclusive.” Carolyn looked attentive but blank, and Val changed the subject. “I have an idea how you can enjoy your pool without feeling nervous at all—without even getting your hair damp. Will you be here tomorrow?”

Carolyn took a strand of hair, sliding her fingers along it. “I was going to get my hair cut tomorrow.”

“You really are petrified of water,” Val said sympathetically.

“No, I really do need to get my hair cut.”

“You do? Why? It would look wonderful to your shoulders or below.”

“You think so? I’ve worn it this way for years. Paul…maybe I’ll think about it. Anyway, it can wait, I’ll be here tomorrow. What do you have in mind?”

Val grinned. “Wear your bathing suit. And trust me.”

Carolyn looked at her with eyes that were wholly green. “I do trust you. Do we have it settled about the air conditioner? You’ll take it?”

“Thanks. You’re a godsend.”

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 757