Mrs. Kimble (11 page)

Some of the boys had minded; there was no doubt about that. She’d been passed over countless times, seen lesser reporters sent to Israel, to Greece, places her editor deemed too dangerous for a woman. But she kept pushing; she did not let up. Finally, in the spring, they sent her to Paris to cover the student uprisings. She let the boys chase down cabinet ministers (a losing battle; French politicians had no time for the foreign press). In her jeans and dark sweaters she passed for a student; each day she rode the Métro to the Nanterre campus or walked the narrow streets around the Sorbonne. One day she heard Danny Cohn-Bendit speak in the Place St.-Germain-des-Prés; afterward she pushed through the crowd and walked several blocks at his side. In her Radcliffe French she told him she was a Cohen too; amused, he gave her five minutes. She wrote the piece that afternoon; it appeared three days later, a half-page breakout embedded in the cover story. She’d managed to articulate the students’ concerns, to convey the frenetic mood in the streets; she’d captured Cohn-Bendit’s distinctive voice, his sharp wit. When she held the issue in her hand, her own initials stamped on the slick pages, she thought, I have done something. She’d celebrated with Claude Tirat that night, a miraculous evening that began and ended in bed.

That night, his hands exploring her body, Claude found the lump.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
he’d whispered.
“Ça te fait mal?”

No, she told him: it didn’t hurt. Later, alone, she examined it: a hard, rubbery nodule just below the nipple. In June the red and black flags came down from the Arc de Triomphe; Joan went back to New York and made an appointment with her internist.

“Excuse me,” said a nearby voice.

Joan looked up, startled. A man stood on the patio in a bright green uniform.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m with the lawn service.”

She felt a sudden chill. She hadn’t heard the truck in the driveway, or the man’s footsteps on the cement. He could have been watching her for half an hour.

“I’ll be right out.” She stood at the shallow end and removed her swim goggles, then glanced down at her chest. Once, months ago, she’d gotten out of the pool, toweled off, and gone into the kitchen to make herself a sandwich, all without realizing that her right breast was still floating in the water, clear and shiny as a jellyfish.

She made her way to the edge of the pool, squinting through the afternoon sun. She was halfway up the ladder before she recognized the man’s long face, his slender build. It was Moira Snell’s fiancé, Ken Kimble.

“Ken,” she said. “How nice to see you.”

She stepped onto the cement, streaming water. The black swimsuit clung to her like a second skin. A breeze blew across the patio.

“Joan,” he said. “I didn’t make the connection. They only gave me a last name and an address.” His gaze skimmed her body, stopped for a second on the erect nipple of her left breast.

“Let me put on some clothes.” She crossed the patio and slipped into her caftan, wondering if his eyes followed her legs. She still had good legs.

“Sorry to startle you,” said Kimble. “I tried the bell, but no one answered.”

“No problem.” She turned to face him, safe inside the billowing fabric. “I didn’t realize you worked for the lawn service.”

“It’s my first day.” His eyes swept over the tiled pool, the hot tub, the bronze sculptures of exotic birds along the perimeter of the patio. “This is a beautiful place.”

“It was my father’s.” She rubbed her hair with a towel. “It’s a little extravagant for my taste, but he was in real estate. He had an eye for fancy houses.” In the bright sunlight Kimble looked older than he had at the Snells’; he must be her age, at least. What on earth, she wondered, was he doing with Moira?

“A movie star should live here,” he said. “Greta Garbo. Someone like that.”

Joan blinked. Her father had bought the place from the estate of just such a person, a silent film actress who’d come east when her looks and career faded. The woman had been a recluse; she’d surrounded herself with beautiful houseboys and never ventured beyond the patio. It was, Joan thought, a sad story.

“Let me show you the oleanders.” She led him down the flagstone path to the blooming hedge. Her right arm tingled from shoulder to fingertip. “They’re not doing very well. It looks like something is eating them.”

Kimble approached the hedge and examined a blemished leaf. He caressed it gently, then rubbed his fingers together. He turned the leaf over and peered at the underside.

“Aphids,” he said softly.

“I thought so.” Joan peered over his shoulder. “What’s that black stuff?”

“Mold. The aphids leave honeydew on the leaves, and pretty
soon it gets moldy.” He knelt and examined the soil at the base of the shrub. She noticed his hair was sparse on top.

“Can you get rid of them?” she asked. “The lady at the service said you could spray them.”

Kimble frowned. “We
could
—there’s a spray for everything these days. But that stuff is pure poison.” He glanced toward the house. “Do you cook much?”

“A little.” In New York she’d subsisted on coffee and cigarettes, diner food and deli sandwiches. Only recently had she tried her hand at the stove. She’d fired her father’s cook and borrowed a stack of cookbooks from the public library. So far the results had been disappointing.

Kimble smiled. “If you want, I can make you a bug spray that won’t contaminate the groundwater. You probably have all the ingredients in your kitchen.”

What a strange thing to do, she thought. What an odd person. Yet for the first time in months she was intrigued. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

She led him across the lawn, through the sliding glass doors and into the kitchen. His bright blue eyes seemed to take in everything: the marble countertops and tiled floors, the double oven and eight-burner stove.

“You could open a restaurant here,” he said.

Joan laughed. “You haven’t tasted my cooking.”

Kimble reached for a copper pot from the overhead rack, filled it at the sink, and placed it on the stove. His sneakers were silent on the tile. He moved with quiet assurance, as if he’d spent his whole life in her kitchen.

“Do you have an onion?” he asked. “And some garlic?”

“I think so.” She opened the refrigerator and rooted through the
crisper drawers. She handed him an onion and a head of garlic, left over from her one sad attempt at a tomato sauce.

“What can I do?” she asked.

“Just stand there and look pretty.”

Joan laughed, pleased in spite of herself. If a man had said such a thing to her a year ago, she would have rolled her eyes. Now, somehow, it struck her as charming.

“I’m surprised to see you,” she said. “I didn’t realize you and Moira were planning to stay in town.”

“It’s a nice place. Beautiful climate.” He looked closely at her. “Why? You don’t like it?”

“It’s lovely,” she said hastily. “But it’s an older crowd down here. There isn’t much to do at night if you’re single.” Her face warmed. Why did I say that? she wondered. Why did I tell him I was single?

“Anyway,” she said, “I’m glad you’re getting settled. You found a job pretty quickly.”

Kimble chuckled. “Nancy gets the credit for that. She helped me cram for the interview. They were astounded by my knowledge of gardening. They hired me on the spot.”

He whistled softly as he puttered around her kitchen, a tune she faintly recognized. It had been all over the radio a few years back; Joan couldn’t identify the singer, but she remembered the words:
Unto everything there is a season
. Something like that.

“What’s that song?” she asked.

“The Byrds,” he said, and began to sing. “To everything, turn, turn, turn, there is a season, turn, turn, turn, and a time for every purpose under Heaven.” He sang unself-consciously; his deep voice serious, almost reverent. The sound seemed to her larger than his body, vibrant and full of emotion.

“You have a terrific voice,” she said.

He shrugged. “Thanks. I’m not much for popular music, but that one stuck with me. I guess I like the sentiment.” His eyes met hers. “Everything happens for a reason.”

“You believe that?” said Joan.

“You don’t?”

“I used to,” she said slowly. Her prosthesis felt heavy against her chest. “Now, honestly, I think it’s a load of crap.”

Kimble laughed. “You’re an honest woman.” He peeled a clove of garlic and dropped it into the pot. “What changed your mind?”

“Nothing specific.” Her face felt warm; all along her right arm the pins and needles returned. “Just that, well, it’s easy to believe in destiny when you’re young and everything you want lands in your lap. It’s when life starts taking things away from you that you start to question—” She hesitated.

“The fairness of things?”

“Yes.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But not just that. You start to question the logic. And once you do you realize that anything could happen to anyone. There’s no order at all.”

Kimble considered this. “It’s not immediately obvious, I’ll give you that. But if you’re patient it eventually becomes clear. It’s all in the way you look at things. Life never takes away something without giving something back.” He grinned. “You strike me as an impatient woman.”

She laughed. “I can’t deny that.”

He dropped another garlic clove into the pot.

“Smells good,” she said.

“I think so too. I guess that says something about us.” He took a knife from the butcher’s block and cut the onion into quarters. “There’s an old Chinese proverb I heard once. ‘He who is afraid of garlic is afraid of pleasure.’ ”

She laughed again, her face warming. “Who doesn’t like garlic?”

“Moira can’t stand it. Even the smell of it makes her sick.”

Joan’s smile faded. She’d forgotten, for a moment, that the charming man who’d commandeered her kitchen was engaged to a teenager.

“How is Moira?” she asked.

“Not so good. Her folks are giving her a hard time. I think they’d rather not have me staying in their house.”

“Really?” said Joan. “You and Nancy seemed to hit it off.”

“Oh, Nancy’s a sweetheart. It’s Dick who can’t stand me.”

Joan thought of Moira’s father slicing into his steak. She’d had the impression he wanted to do the same to Kimble.

“It must be a shock for them,” she said. “The engagement. But I’m sure they’ll get used to the idea.”

“I suppose so.” Kimble rinsed his hands under the faucet. “Where’s your spice rack?”

She opened a cupboard. “I don’t have much. What do you need?”

“Cayenne pepper.”

She handed him a shaker of red pepper flakes. “Will this work?”

“Close enough.” He took the shaker and sprinkled it over the pot of water.

“Now what?”

“Let it simmer for an hour.” He wiped his hands on his pants. “I’m supposed to mow the lawn while I’m here.”

“Oh,” said Joan. She’d forgotten, briefly, what had brought him to her house. I could talk to him all day, she thought. It occurred to her that she hadn’t enjoyed a conversation so much in months.

“It won’t take me long,” said Kimble. Lightly he touched her shoulders, moving her out of his path. His touch startled her.
Except for her surgeon and Dr. Sugarman, no man had touched her in a year.

“I’ll start the lawn,” he said. “By the time I finish, our bug spray will be done.”

J
OAN SLIPPED
out of her swimsuit and into the marble tub. She hadn’t used it in months, preferring quick showers in the tiny bathroom down the hall. The house was full of strange creakings; the last time she’d taken a bath, each small noise had seemed amplified as she lay in the tub. But that afternoon was different: she was not alone. The mower buzzed in the distance, Ken Kimble tending to her lawn. A breeze floated through the open window, carrying the clean smell of cut grass.

She sank into the steamy water; heat seeped into her arms and shoulders. She closed her eyes and thought of his voice filling her kitchen. He is just outside, she thought. A moment later she was asleep.

When she opened her eyes, the water had cooled; the house was silent. She sat upright in the tub. A draft brushed her bare skin.

The bathroom door was wide open.

Panic shot through her like an electrical impulse; she lurched out of the tub, splashing water onto the floor. She saw at once the grotesque picture she’d made: lolling naked in the water, her devastated chest exposed.

She reached for a towel and peered out the window. The mower stood silent in the driveway.

She dressed quickly and hurried downstairs. In the kitchen the pot was gone from the stove; clearly he’d come back into the house.
He had a light step; he could have crept up the spiral staircase without waking her.

He came upstairs, she thought. He stood there looking at me.

She went out through the glass doors. Kimble stood at the edge of the lawn, squirting the oleanders with a spray bottle, still whistling the same tune. She approached the hedge. Kimble turned and smiled.

“There you are,” he said. “It stinks, but it’ll keep the aphids away. At least until it rains.”

Joan’s heart raced. Inside the house, a door slammed.

“The wind’s kicking up.” Kimble glanced at the house. “Looks like you left some windows open.”

Relief washed over her. The wind, she thought: it must have been the wind.

“I was taking a bath,” she said.

“Must have been some bath,” he said, eyeing her. “You’re glowing.”

An odd sensation filled her, familiar but nearly forgotten, an intoxicating mix of anxiety and pleasure. This is ridiculous, she thought. What’s wrong with me?

“I guess I fell asleep,” she said.

“I hope I didn’t wake you, banging around in the kitchen like that.” He gave the oleanders a final squirt, then handed her the bottle. “Keep this in the refrigerator—it should last for a month or so. Make sure the gardener sprays them again next week.”

“Won’t you be back next Friday?” said Joan.

“I don’t know.” His eyes were very blue; they held hers just a second too long. “They don’t make the schedule until the night before. They just send whoever’s available, unless the customer requests somebody specific.”