Case of Lucy Bending (27 page)

The body, he acknowledged, was still good. But stiff and unyielding. He remembered when it was supple and eager. She hadn't aged so much as tightened. Flesh had hardened; the spine had frozen.

In their early days together, he had done some charcoal sketches of her. Nudes. Quick drawings that caught her sinuosity. They were the best things he had ever done. About five years ago, she had come across the drawings in an old file and burned them.

"Well!" he said. "Where are the kids?"

"Out," she said. "On the beach, I guess."

"And what are your plans for today?" He was trying very hard to be pleasant.

"What do you care?" she said bitterly.

It always came to this: stinging each other with words.

He tried again:

"Is there anything you want me to do? Uh . . . shopping? Need anything from Publix?"

Finally she looked at him. Turning to face him directly. Wooden stirring spoon in one hand. The other hand a bleak fist.

"Yes," she said loudly, "there is something I want you to do. I'm going to a meeting at noon. I want you to come with me."

"A meeting?" he said cautiously. "What kind of a meeting?"

"A jroup."

"What kind of a group?"

It all came out in a rush. Being Born Again. The Lord Jesus. Whites and blacks together. Saved. Confession and forgiveness. The sympathy and understanding of fellow sinners. Giving and absolution. Repentance and a new life.

"I'll pass," he said blithely. "Not my cup of tea."

"You have sinned," she said darkly.

"Haven't we all?"

"Ronnie, I don't ask much of you, do I?"

"No," he had to admit.

"I'm asking you now. Just this once . . . Come with me. Meet Mr. Fitch. Talk to him."

"Who?"

"Osborn Fitch. Our shepherd. A marvelous man."

"I'm sure he is, Grace. Last year it was that Indian swami, or whatever. And the year before that, the Korean with the gold earring. Look, we've been through this before. Many times. You do what you want to do. But don't expect to drag me into this bullshit."

"You're going to burn in hell!" she screamed at him, so loudly that he started and slopped coffee onto his hand.

"Yes, well," he said, "that's possible. But I'm not going to go through hell while I'm still alive. Not if I can help it."

He slammed the coffee mug into the sink, stalked out. He was convinced she was getting loonier every day, and wondered how much more he could take.

He stripped off jeans and shirt on the terrace, then went trotting down to the sea. Slow rollers were coming in, the

water reasonably clean and cold enough to shock. He ran in determinedly, plunged, and swam out with a strong crawl.

The first five minutes were an ache. But then he slowed, steadied; muscles loosened. He swam far out, turned onto his back. He floated, arms and legs spread wide, chest arched, and let the waves take him. He closed his eyes against the noon glare.

He lay like that, bobbing, melting, until his breathing was back to normal. Then he backstroked to shore, feeling muscles pull as he reached high over his head to row the ocean past.

He waded ashore, palmed water from his hair and face. Born Again: that was the way he felt. Lucy and Gloria Holloway came running up to him.

"Daddy!" Lucy said excitedly. "Look what Gloria's got!"

The nine-year-old Holloway girl who, Turk Bending thought, looked like a young harridan, displayed a brightly colored carton labeled "Kiddie Kosmetics."

"Lipstick, rouge, powder, and eyeshadow," she said authoritatively. "My mother bought it for me."

"Very nice," Bending said, nodding.

"We're going to put it on," Lucy said. "Aren't we, Gloria?"

"Me first," Gloria said coldly. "You can help."

"Then me?"

"If there's enough."

"Beautiful," Bending said. "A couple of glamour girls."

They giggled and ran up the beach to the Holloway home. Ronald watched them go, their brown legs flashing, tight little rumps churning. He thought he could get twenty years for what he was thinking. Not for doing anything, but just for
thinking
it.

He trotted around to the side door of his own home. He used the outside tap to wash sand from his feet. Then he went into the kitchen, leaving wet footprints on the tile. Grace was gone, for which he was thankful.

He took a gallon thermos jug from under the sink, rinsed it out, and dumped in a trayful of ice cubes. Then he padded into the living room for vodka. He opened a fresh bottle and hoped this one would have more kick. The half-filled bottle he had just finished had tasted curiously watery.

He dumped half a liter of vodka into the thermos, then added a generous dollop of Rose's lime juice. He capped the jug and swirled it around and around in both hands. A giant cocktail shaker.

He found some clean plastic glasses in the cupboard, took those and the thermos jug, and started for the beach. But then he had to come back for a big beach towel, cigarettes, lighter, and a white terry cloth hat.

He finally got settled on the beach, on dry sand but near the water. He sat on his beach towel, put on his hat, lighted a cigarette, and drew an icy gimlet into a plastic cup from the little spigot on the thermos jug. He could feel the sun already baking his shoulders and back.

He held his drink up to the ocean, world, life.

"God bless," he said aloud.

The gimlet was tart, bitingly cold, and so good he almost sobbed with delight.

His wants were simple, he assured himself. This was all he needed: hot light, cold drink, a cigarette, and the view. Not so much of the sea, but of the passersby splashing along in the surf.

The creamers! The parade of creamers. All ages, all shapes, all sizes. He loved them all. Some, true, he loved more than others, but his artist's eye saw merit in all. In their maillots, two-piece suits, diapers, bikinis, string bikinis. Patches of white, black, purple, blood red.

Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Strutting, strolling, jogging. Or wandering, prancing, almost dancing across the strand. A frieze of women. And if you couldn't find joy in that, you were one of the breathing dead.

Item:
A twelve-year-old in a black G-string supported by gold chains. A tiny bra covering budding breasts. Blond pigtails braided with black ribbon.

Item:
An older woman, solid and secure, with a zoftig body in a sleek white maillot cut high on the thigh. Hemispherical breasts and artfully coiffed hair piled atop her head like a wedding cake.

Item:
About thirty, tall, rangy, with an athlete's body. A no-nonsense stride, muscles oiled and gleaming. A stern face and eyes blanked with mirrored sunglasses. Calves bulging . . .

Item:
William Jasper Holloway, shuffling barefoot through

the wash, slacks rolled up to his knees. Face vacant and lips moving.

"Hey, Bill," Bending called.

Holloway looked up slowly, features forming. He came over, loomed, stared down. He tried a smile.

"Turk," he said. "What's new?"

"I'm new," Bending said breezily. "Plant your ass and have a shot from this wonderful pot."

Holloway sat down clumsily on the corner of Bending's beach towel. He accepted the plastic cup of gimlet in a trembling hand. He took a deep swallow, closed his eyes, drew a heavy breath, opened his eyes.

"Yes," he said. "Thank you. I should have done that two hours ago. I thought a walk would help, but it didn't. Gimlet?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Just fine. How are you, Turk?"

He held out his empty cup, and Bending filled it again.

"I'm surviving," Ronald said. "Putting in my usual Saturday afternoon of bikini-watching."

"Anything good?" Holloway asked without interest.

"It's all good. All of it."

They were silent, watching three young girls saunter by, kicking through the surf. One of the three had a marvelous suntan: golden, glowing, burnished.

"I love you," Bending said softly. "Marry me."

Bill Holloway turned to look at him.

"You never get tired of it, do you?"

"No," Bending said. "Never." Then, as if he felt the need to explain: "I know that everyone thinks I'm a clown and a womanizer."

Holloway made a gesture, a wave of his hand.

"It's not that at all," Bending said. "Not the sex thing. I don't walk around with a constant hard-on. That's not it. I used to be an artist, you know. Fine arts. Painting. Oil and watercolors. Studied at Brown and at the Art Students League in New York."

"I know. You told me."

"Well, I'm not an artist now; I admit it. But some things stick. A way of looking at things. Line. Color. Mass and composition. Tension.''

^{4 4}
Sure,'' Holloway said.

They sat in silence awhile. Then Bending offered another gimlet, but Holloway refused. He thanked Turk for the drinks, struggled to his feet, went shambling off to his own home.

Bending lighted another cigarette, tilted the thermos to draw another drink. He watched the women. Hel-/o there. I love you. Marry me. Oh sweetheart. Aren't you the chubby one? Swing it, baby. Come live with me and be my love.

It wasn't sex. He repeated to himself:
it was not sex.
It was the artist's eye. Love of grace. It was line, curve, color, mass, hue, proportion, tension, composition. It was perfection that turned his stomach.

The platinum haze hugged the sea. Frothy rollers made their own music. Far out, white sails etched against blurred blue. And close, the glitter of the sand. A kissing breeze. Vaporous sky with a haloed sun. The world perfumed with light.

Hi darling, he said silently to the passing parade. You're beautiful. Love that suit, sweetheart. My, what have we here? Oh God, I can't stand it. Yes, you have a right to strut. I'll see you in my dreams. Look at me and know my heart.

Dr. Theodore Levin, growly in dark, vested suit and white cigar ashes, invited Mrs. Grace Bending to be seated in the armchair facing his desk. He switched on the tape recorder. Then he stared at her.

She was wearing a shirtwaist dress in a pastel flower print. Long-sleeved and buttoned up to the neck. But her good legs were bare, her ropy hair fell loosely. It smoothed her carved features, softened the expression of prim distaste.

"Doctor," she said, bending forward stiffly, "are you making progress with Lucy?"

He ignored the question.

"Mrs. Bending, in cases of this nature, it is frequently helpful to delve a little deeper into the personal history of the parents. That is what I'd like to do today—to learn a little more about you."

"If you think it will help . . ." she said doubtfully.

"I think it will. Suppose you just tell me the story of your life."

"Well ..." she said with a nervous laugh, "I am thirty-six years old. I was an only child. Does that mean anything?"

He looked at her. "It means you were an only child. Please go on."

"I had a happy childhood. I don't mean that I now remember it as being happy, but at the time, I was aware that I was happy. My father had a very good job with an insurance company. He was an executive in the main office in Hartford, Connecticut. That's where we lived. In a big house. My father's mother lived with us until she died when I was nine. Then there was just the three of us. My father was a handsome man. At least I thought he was. And he was a very kind man. Stern but kind. I mean, he had his standards. My mother, very pretty, was something of a flibbertigibbet, but my father loved her very much. I did too, of course. Let's see . . . well, I really had a very normal childhood. Nothing dramatic happened to me. I did well in school. I was salutatorian of my high school graduating class. Then I went to Radcliffe. In my second year, my mother contracted cancer of the lymph nodes. She was gone in six months. I wanted to drop out of school, but daddy wouldn't hear of it. So I was graduated. I worked for two years in a law office in Hartford. Then I met Ronnie, and we dated for almost a year, and then his divorce came through and we were married. He was separated from his wife when I met him. I mean, I don't want you to think I took him away from his first wife or anything like that. We lived in New York City for a while, and then we moved to Florida about nine years ago. And—and that's about it."

Levin had listened intently to this recital. Grace Bending had started out haltingly, fidgeting with her wedding band. But she concluded her account with calm restored, voice steady and emotionless. She faced the doctor with chin raised, eyes challenging.

"Is your father still living?" he asked.

"No. He died several years ago. A stroke."

"You have aunts, uncles, cousins?"

"A few. We exchange Christmas cards, but we are not close."