hitting the rim of the sink, shattering, and showering planter’s mix
onto the floor.
She was down on all fours in an instant, scooping and collecting Dirt
crusted her hands and streaked her shorts. I got up but before I could
help her, she bounded to her feet, hurried to a utility closet and øøi
retrieved a broom. Her sweeping was hard and angry. I tore a paper
square off the roller and handed it to her after she put the broom
away.
She was flushed now, and her eyes were wet. She took the towel without
looking at me. Wiping her hands, she said, “I’m sorry-I have to go
change.
She left the kitchen through a side door. I used the time to walk
around the room, opening drawers and doors and feeling like an
imbecile. Nothing more ominous in the cupboards than housekee~ ing
aids and convenience foods. I looked out the door through which she’d
left, found a small bathroom and service porch, and checked them out
too. Washer and dryer, cabinets choked with detergents and cleansers,
softeners and brighteners-a treasury of things promising to make life
shiny and sweet-smelling. Most of them toxic, but what did that
prove?
I heard footsteps and hurried back to the table. She came in wearing a
loose yellow blouse, baggy jeans, sandals-her hospital uniform. Her
hair was loosely braided and her face looked scrubbed.
“Sorry. What a klutz,” she said.
She walked to the refrigerator. No independent movement from her chest
region, no nipples.
“More iced tea?”
“No, thanks.”
She took a can of Pepsi, popped it open, and sat down facing me.
“Did you have a nice ride over?”
“Very nice.”
“It’s good when there’s no traffic.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I forgot to tell you, they closed off the pass to widen the road She
continued to talk. About the weather and gardening, creasing her
forehead.
Working hard at being casual.
But she seemed a stranger in her home. Talking stiffly, as if she’d
rehearsed her lines but had no confidence in her memory.
Out the big window, the view was static as death.
Why were they living here? Why would ChuckJones’s only son choose
exurban quarantine in his own faltering housing development when he
could have afforded to live anywhere?
Proximity to the junior college didn’t explain it. Gorgeous ranchland
and plenty of country-club communities dotted the west end of the
Valley. And funk-chic was still alive in Topanga Canyon.
Some kind of rebellion? A bit of ideology on Chip’s partwanting to be
part of the community he planned to build? Just the kind of thing a
rebel might use to dampen any guilt over making big profits. Though,
from the looks of it, profits were a long way off.
Another scenario fit, too: abusive parents often secreted their
families from the prying eyes of potential rescuers I became aware of
Cindy’s voice. Talking about her dishwasher, letting out words in a
nervous stream. Saying she rarely used it, preferred gloving up and
using steaming water so that the dishes dried almost instantly.
Getting animated, as if she hadn’t talked to anyone in a long TIME
She probably hadn’t. I couldn’t imagine Chip sitting around for
chitchat about housework.
I wondered how many of the books in the living room were hers.
Wondered what the two of them had in common.
When she paused for breath, I said, “It really is a nice house.”
Out of context, but it perked her up.
She gave a big smile, sloe-eyed, lips moist. I realized how
good-looking she could be when she was happy.
“Would you like to see the rest of it?” she said.
“Sure.”
We retraced our steps to the dining room and she pulled pieces of
wedding silver out of a hutch and showed them to me, one by one.
Next came the book-lined living room, where she talked about how hard
it had been to find skilled carpenters to build solid shelving, no
plywood. “Plywood gasses out-we want the house to be as clean as
possible.”
I pretended to listen while inspecting the books’ spines.
Academic texts: sociology, psychology, political science. A bit of
fiction, but none of it dated after Hemingway.