She stood and admired the bowl from different angles, marveling
at how the spotlight shining down on it created rainbow effects
and prismatic distortions. She had displayed the object on a
simple, waist-high pedestal finished in black lacquer. Maybe I
should not have rewarded myself so soon, thought Greta, since the
board meeting that would take care of Peter Jones was not until
tomorrow. What if something went wrong?
Of course, nothing would go wrong. She knew that Matthew had no
choice but to pitch Peter from his position at Wallaby, and not
only because she couldn't stand the precocious young founder. She
smirked when she thought about the blow Peter would feel after
the ax dropped at tomorrow's meeting.
The minute Greta had met him, she knew she was not going to like
Peter Jones. He had taken to Matthew instantly, tugging on his
arm like a child when he was excited about something, or when
Matthew's observations and comments would harmonize with Peter's
own thoughts. He would listen intently when Matthew talked about
business and buying psychology, things she did not understand and
had no desire to know more about. But what she loathed most about
Peter, which led to her involvement in his destiny, was that he
managed to spend more time with Matthew than she did. Matthew
would practically ignore her in Peter's presence, so exhilarated
was he by the young man's company. When Matthew arrived home from
work, especially in the beginning, it was always "Peter said
this," or "Peter did that," so full of marvel was her husband at
young headache's braininess. And every Saturday, like clockwork,
Peter would be at the door before she was out of bed, asking
Matthew to come out and play. One morning, while Peter was
waiting within earshot in the entrance hall, she loudly protested
from their bedroom upstairs that she and Matthew never got to
spend time together on Saturdays, as they used to when they lived
in Connecticut. Afterward, Peter stopped coming to the door and
took to waiting outside the gate, like a mongrel. Not a bad
description, she thought to herself. Greta had once read an
article about Peter that told of his life as an orphan. Obviously
he saw Matthew as a father figure. Well, too bad.
Greta understood early on that Peter's attachment to Matthew
could ruin everything her husband had so carefully planned before
he accepted the job at Wallaby. Time was wasting, she observed;
she knew that the stronger Matthew and Peter's friendship became,
the farther Matthew would stray from the original plan. She had
had to act swiftly, otherwise Matthew might have had a change of
heart altogether.
To start the ball rolling, Greta had told Matthew that she did
not want Peter in their home. How Matthew was to accomplish this
without offending Peter was his problem; if he really cared about
her, he'd spare her the company of the bratty wunderkind. She
followed through by feigning anguish whenever Matthew mentioned
Peter, and by pressuring him to get on with business: When would
he tell Peter about the development strategy? Why was he
stalling? She knew that once Matthew revealed his strategy, the
young man would withdraw from her husband. And perhaps that was
why he had taken his time - he was enjoying too much their
friendship. Matthew's transformation plans were hideously
contrary to Peter's renegade spirit. It had been painful to hound
Matthew constantly, but she had no choice. He would never have
dealt with Peter and put his plan back on track if she had not
intervened. A few weeks was all it had taken to re-focus Matthew.
When he explained to Peter his hopes for the company - a profound
strategy for leading Wallaby into Big Business - the two men had
their first falling-out, which seriously upset their formerly
flawless courtship. Matthew had persisted in attempting to sway
the young founder into understanding his strategy, but each time
he faced argument and resistance. Greta had forced Matthew to
confess that as long as Peter was in control, the secret plan
would never materialize. Finally, Peter expressed doubt in
Matthew's overall vision and qualifications, saying he was
personally hurt that Matthew could even hypothesize such a thing
for Wallaby. That said, Matthew halted his friendship with Peter,
and drew heavily from his wife's support to rebuild his
confidence in the secret plan.
She felt wanted again. However, her expectation of spending more
time with Matthew was unfulfilled. Instead of spending weekends
with her, he spent more time than ever in his little home office,
next to the library. And when he wasn't holed up in there, he was
constantly reading about big computers and the latest
technologies, his face often closer to the pages of a book than
to his wife's face when they were in bed.
After tomorrow, after Peter was truly invalidated, she knew that
Matthew would start spending more time with her. She had to
believe that. After all, it was she he had to thank for
rectifying his temporary shortsightedness. At least that was how
she saw things.
Raising a glass of wine to her lips, she heard the automatic
garage door open. He was home. She twisted the knob of the
recessed ceiling-mounted quartz lamp to full intensity. The
salmon bowl sparkled.
He appeared at the living room entrance, hands at his sides. She
pretended not to notice his arrival.
"Greta."
"Oh, darling," Greta said, pretending to be surprised.
Without remark, she quickly took in his tired expression. His
eyes seemed half closed, as if the reflection thrown off by the
glittering object were blinding. Studying him, she searched for
the foundation of the man she had married, the man with the
strong and sinewy build, the confident posture, the sharp
aristocratic features. Today his cheeks appeared blanched, his
stance tentative. With her glass of wine in hand, she strolled
casually across the room.
"What's that?" Matthew said.
She pecked his impassive lips. "That," she said, toasting the
bowl with her glass, "is pure brilliance."
"How much brilliance?"
"A steal, Darling. I got it to celebrate your success. Let me get
you something to drink." She left him alone with "his" present.
He inspected her newest purchase. He had to admit, it was
magnificent, and as he scrutinized it more closely, he began to
forget about his labored day and the impending showdown. He
studied one of the etched salmon that circled the bowl's rim. It
swam against a powerful, unseen force, compelled onward with
inner strength, driven by instinct to fulfill its obligation. It
was that way in business, he reflected, one had to be driven by
instinct and a sense of obligation, plain and simple -
But that word, simple, was like a hook that snagged his mind and
reeled him from the peaceful waters that were his thoughts. Once
more, his thoughts returned to the damnable Peter Jones, his
excited voice raiding Matthew's mind like an unwelcome visitor.
"'If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get the best
thing God invents,'" Peter would wistfully recite, the poet
Robert Browning's words, during design meetings. Forever
distrusting complexity, Peter made it his utmost priority that
Wallaby's products were unaffected in their design and easy to
use.
Once more, apprehension washed over Matthew like a shifting tide.
If only he could convince himself that everything would go
exactly according to plan. It would, wouldn't it? He felt as
though his life depended on it. He just didn't feel one-hundred
percent sure.
"Here," Greta said, handing him a small bottle of Perrier. Taking
the drink, he avoided looking at her bare hand...or at the other,
which was concealed inside a silky white glove. He took a sudden
and uncomfortable interest in the tiny bubbles that formed and
rose in the bottle.
Greta sat on the flowery chintz settee and patted the cushion
next to her. "Come."
Before joining her, Matthew twisted off the bright lamp.
Nighttime descended on the salmon, their struggle temporarily
suspended. He sank into the softness of the sofa and rested his
eyes.
"Well? Is everything all set?"
He nodded.
"Good, Matthew," she said. "I can't wait for you to be able to
relax once this all settles down." She thought of the time she
would have with him after tomorrow's meeting and smiled, more at
this thought than to comfort him.
Matthew frowned. "He says I don't know what I'm doing. That I
don't have a clue." He stared into the bottle. "He says I don't
have instinct. No vision, guts. Unless I'm wrong, I don't think
he realizes what's going down tomorrow." He met his wife's eyes.
His expression soured; then half resentfully, he sought her
reassurance. "Have I been wrong? What if I've misread everyone's
loyalties? What if he has his own plan to spring on me tomorrow?"
A voice inside Greta's head roared No! No matter what Peter Jones
had up his sleeve - yes, certainly he had something - her
husband's well thought out plan was more powerful. It was too
late now, anyway, to start worrying about the enemy's strategy.
That she never seriously considered it probably meant that her
instincts about Peter were correct. He was blind to what was
coming.
"No sweetheart. Don't think that way." She gently pushed back
some hair from Matthew's forehead. "You're doing exactly the
right thing. And after tomorrow, everything will be fine."
He offered her a dim smile, then closed his eyes.
For the briefest instant there she had felt his need for her. It
had been so long since he'd called to her for help. However
cursory, she had served him nevertheless. And now it was her
turn, tit for tat. "Let's go for a walk down by the stables. What
do you say?" She grasped his hand as she rose.
Too weary to protest, he rose to his feet and let his wife lead
him off.
* * *
Walking into his home, Peter heard Ivy playing the grand piano in
the drawing room. She was singing softly, a verse he did not
recognize. One of her own? The pleasing sounds bellowed and
echoed through the more or less empty mansion. She did not hear
him enter the room.
Her fingers settled on the last chords of the score. Peter
smelled the sweet fragrance of her long white-blond hair,
brightened and warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the
French windows behind her. Coming closer, his shadow gave him
away and she turned her head to greet him.
"Hello," she said, through the last fading chords of her music.
"That was wonderful. It's as if this entire house is joyful and
alive when you're playing." He casually rested a hand on her
shoulders, a simple expression of admiration.
She turned her cheek to his hand, and he went to move it, but
before he was able to she stood and stretched. He took her seat
then, resting his hands on his lap. Looking past her and through
the windows, toward the hills that rolled beyond his estate, he
could see Hoover Tower in the distance, rising high above the
treetops of the Stanford University campus. Three weeks earlier
he had been there to give the commencement speech to the
graduating class. Afterward, at the reception, a striking young
girl had introduced herself. Her name was Ivy, she said, and she
proceeded to tell him about the speech and language interface
that she was developing for the Wallaby Joey computer. When it
was finished, she promised, the interface would allow people to
interact with the Joey by speaking to it, and it would reply in
kind, in its own "voice." The Joey's intuitive and portable
design, she told him, was what had inspired her to develop the
speech recognition and simulation interface software. When he
asked what were her eventual ambitions for the project, she said
she wasn't sure. She had no agenda for the summer and, for lack
of a more tempting course, had halfheartedly committed herself to
traveling across the country with some friends. He was intrigued
by her knowledge of linguistics, particularly when she revealed
that she had never used a computer until the Joey. That part was
especially touching, and he somehow felt compelled to help her,
so he offered her the opportunity to continue developing the Joey
speech and language component in his home. The next day she
arrived with her duffel bag, a couple of books, a few boxes of
floppy disks, and a backpack. Peter often had guests straying in
and out of his home, usually students to whom he offered the use
of his thoroughly equipped computer lab. In return he asked that
they respect the privilege by picking up after themselves. He let
them come and go for as long as they liked, and his doors were
never locked. Alice, his maid and cook, always kept herself
abreast of the various artists in residence.
She appeared now in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.
She was a small, voluminous Spanish woman with pulled-back black
hair and a gorgeous smile. "Hello, Mr. Petey," she said with
plain affection. She turned to the young girl. "I finished
preparing your meat and spices." Peter looked at Alice for an
explanation, and she nodded to Ivy.
"I'm making you a special Mediterranean dish tonight," Ivy said,
taking Peter's hands in hers. "My way of saying thanks, for being
so kind and letting me stay here with you."
"Great," he said, and casually withdrew his hands.
Usually it started out, as it had a number of times before, as a
rent-free working environment. Peter received both pleasure and
satisfaction from being around artists and other creative types
who crafted amazing things from the technology he had invented.
Except for his work and Kate, when she was in town, his life was
surprisingly spare. Having the students in his home filled the
spacious mansion with the lives and passionate works of others.
And with little effort, he was helpful to them. In several cases
the projects they worked on became marketable products, and
sometimes he nurtured them in getting started as software or
hardware developers by introducing them to the appropriate
managers at Wallaby. But to some of the students, staying at
Peter's became more than just a neat place to crash. Once a
couple of young men had taken off with some of the equipment and
a few of Peter's personal valuables. And then there were the
girls, who often presented their own set of problems. And right
now, Ivy was the mansion's sole no-strings boarder.
"Come on," Ivy said, taking him by the hand once again. "I want
to show you what I've been working on this afternoon."
As they passed, Alice busied herself with a tissue in her apron
pocket. Peter noted the uncertain look on her face; she was all
too familiar with the course that Ivy's stay was taking.
* * *
Dressed in a violet silk camisole, Greta Locke sat on the edge of
their large bed and brushed down her thick chestnut curls. As she
did this she observed herself - her hair, her face, but never the
movement of her hands - in the mirror above her bureau. Though it
was early, she had nonchalantly followed Matthew upstairs to the
bedroom when, after dinner, he had said he was going turning in
early. She had a modest face that she considered robust rather
than pretty. It was satisfactorily oval in shape, though a little
too fleshy in the cheeks. Her nose was sized accordingly, yet if
it had been a little longer, straighter, perhaps she would have
been a real model - but then again, her face had never been her
selling point...
While she scrutinized her complexion, her right hand, as if
guided by its own vision, encountered the crystal lotion
dispenser resting on her bureau. With a light press she dispersed
two long, corpulent worms of Lancome lotion into her hand.
Working one hand over the other with systematic precision, she
performed the evening ritual without ever once looking at them.
On this occasion she focused her vision, through the mirror, on
the lighted bathroom doorway at the opposite end of the bedroom
suite. Finishing up, working again on the familiar motions
without directly needing to - without wanting to - watch what she
was doing, she reached into a drawer and retrieved a pair of
fine, exclusively tailored white silk gloves. Just as she was
pulling on the second glove the bathroom light snapped off.
Matthew appeared, wearing light blue Oxford cloth pajamas made of
the same material used to tailor his business shirts. That was
her husband, she thought with a tinge of malice, all business
both in and out of bed.
Greta snapped off the lighted mirror and climbed beneath the cool
sheets, folded the layers of bedclothes to just below her
breasts. Matthew settled on top of the sheets, sealing her in on
one side, and clamped his hands together behind his head.
Straining her peripheral vision, she saw that he was staring at
the ceiling.
She turned on her pillow to face him. "Darling, don't keep
thinking about tomorrow." Softly: "Try to relax."
Taking her advice, she watched as the puzzled, problem-solving
frown on his face slackened and was replaced by a vague yet
unwavering gaze.
She stretched across him to turn off the antique bedside lamp,
her breasts barely an inch from his chin. As she drew back, she
gently settled herself on his chest.
Through the windows beside the bed, the valley shone brightly.
Orange and yellow pinpoints of light, far in the distance, glowed
and shimmered in the cool summer night. She felt a sudden urgent
desire to get out of bed and close the curtains, shutting out the
view of the damned valley.
Was she rushing things? First the bowl, and now making love. But
it had been so, so long, she thought, in her silent agony.
Matthew had simply shut off where activity between them was
concerned, telling her once, several months ago, that he could
not concentrate on lovemaking, not even their particular style of
it, until things were working again and his plan was firmly on
track. Still, they were so close, just hours away from tomorrow's
big event and the unquestionably victorious outcome that was
rightfully theirs.
Just a kiss. Was that asking too much?
She gently nuzzled his neck and throat, which showed minimally
through the pajama top, tracing her long and delicately gloved
hand, the part of her body to which he had once been most
attracted, most submissive, along his upper body.
He sighed through his nostrils and closed his eyes.
Was he responding? Perhaps he too felt that he deserved to reward
himself a day early, she thought with a private cheer. She
inhaled deeply and pressed his shoulder with her left hand,
careful to keep the sight of it from his peripheral vision. Her
other hand strayed along his biceps. Raising her face, she closed
her eyes and moved her lips to his.
He sniffed, and she opened her eyes just in time to see him turn
his agonized face toward the window. He sneezed, twice, and she
flinched with each burst, but was at the same time enormously
relieved too. For an instant she had had the impression that the
face he'd made had been in response to her. But it was only a
sneeze. Two sneezes. Nothing at all to do with her, and so silly
for her to have thought otherwise.
Or was it. There he was, gazing out the window again, as if he
were counting the individual lights in the valley. She scolded
herself for not having pulled the shade.
"Matthew," she said softly, meaning to apologize or assure him or
-
"Good night," he said.
Or nothing.
It was useless, and so she retreated to her side of the bed and
lay there in silent deliberation. For the second time today she
worried if perhaps the crystal bowl she had purchased had been a
mistake, her private celebration somehow jinxing the outcome of
tomorrow's meeting.
They lay there like that for a long time, silent and awake but
inexpressive, until, eventually, exhaustion won out and they both
slept, each playing their parts in a dream that did not embody
the other.
* * *
Peter sat on a stool at the island console range while Ivy
prepared her special dinner. She bustled about in what seemed
like a frenzy, but he understood, with some amusement, that she
had the meal under complete control. A fragrant lamb and
vegetable stew bubbled lazily in a large pot on the stove. In the
oven, two small pizzas baked. Peter had enjoyed watching Ivy roll
out the dough with her hands and shape it into little rounds. On
each she had arranged caramelized onions, chopped olives, pine
nuts, grated Parmesan cheese. During the preparation, she
concentrated intensely on each step. A number of times she held
the recipe close to her face and read a line or two aloud. At the
same time she managed to engage him in interesting conversation.
Though she had been a guest in his house for three weeks now,
this was the first opportunity he'd had to spend time with her.
And considering his day at Wallaby, her company tonight was a
welcome relief.
"Pass me that cayenne, would you," she said, reaching out with
one hand.
"Which is it?"
"That's curry. The one next to it. Right."
The rosiness of her face, from all of the bustling about, against
her white-blond hair, gave the effect that she had spent the day
at the beach. She wore tattered old jeans cinched at the waist
with a colorful bandanna, and a white dress shirt with no bra
beneath. He realized suddenly that he was staring. He spoke.
"So do you cook often?"
She gave him an amused look. "You kidding. For who. I've been in
a dorm, chowin' on junk food and studying for the last three
years."
"Then how'd you learn all this stuff?"
"Easy. All you have to do is follow the directions. Besides, I'm
a quick study." She met his eyes and held his stare, as if
challenging him. Until a bell chimed. "Pizzas," she said with a
delighted smile, breaking their link, which had felt to him a
little weird but not exactly unpleasant. Just,
well...significant. Careful, he warned himself.
He watched her slip on an oven mitt and told himself he should
really look away as she bent over to retrieve the appetizer. Her
breasts, he could see, were not large, yet were ample enough to
illustrate gravity. They reminded him of the firm doughy rounds
she had worked beneath her fingers minutes ago. As she reached
inside the oven a little burst of heated air gently raised a few
stray wisps of her hair, and an instant later the delectable
aroma of her creation wafted his way. He swallowed.
Then something about her startled him and he felt his throat
abruptly tighten.
As she was rising, holding the tray in one hand, she swept her
hair aside with the other, and he had the opportunity to see,
just for an instant, inside the collar of her shirt, in back of
her neck.
What he saw was his own name - the code name the dry cleaner used
to label his shirts. Something that felt about the size of a
marble felt as though it had suddenly become lodged in his chest.
A little to the left. Yes, there. In his heart.
"What?" she said, freezing in place.
"Oh," was all he could manage at first. He gave a little laugh.
"Nothing, oh nothing. Sorry. I just zoned out there for a
second." His lungs moved, he was breathing again.
"Hmm," she said, a moment's scrutiny, then she shrugged and
transferred the miniature pizzas to the butcher block counter.
"Where's the cutter thing?"
"I'm sorry?" he said. He had blanked her out for a moment, and
was just beginning to recover from his jolt. The cutter thing. He
wanted to be helpful, to tell her where to find it.
Until he found more: The jeans, with their familiar rips where
his own knees had eventually worn through the denim. She was
wearing his pants, too. The marble thing became a fist.
"You know," she said, making a rolling gesture with her hand,
"The pizza cutter thing."
"No. I mean, I don't know. In one of those drawers, probably."
Had she gone through his closet? Had she helped herself to
anything else?
"Ah. Here we go." She returned with the instrument and cut the
pizza into quarters.
Her feet were bare. She wore no jewelry, no watch. He fabricated
a possible explanation: She was doing her laundry and had asked
Alice if she could borrow some of his old clothes while hers went
around.
"Mmm. Not bad. Here. Eat."
It was probably nothing, he told himself. He was probably
overreacting. He'd ask her about it later, no big deal. Still, it
had given him one hell of a little scare there. Enough, already.
Right now, he was hungry.
"Delicious," he said truthfully. "I can't believe you don't do
this all the time."
"I could," she said, and stopped chewing. He caught her look,
edged with some unknown meaning. "I mean," she went on, waving at
the pot on the stove, "I could eat like this all the time, but
who has the time, right?"
Peter just nodded. He took another bite of pizza. He was thirsty.
"Wine. That's what we need."
"Yes."
"White? Is that good for what you're making?"
"Red's better."
He went to the tall narrow wine rack hidden inside a cabinet. His
fingertips lingered on the neck of a particular reserve, a
special bottle. He deliberated for a moment, then selected a
younger vintage. He opened it and poured them each a glass,
handed one to her. There was an awkward moment, in which both
stood motionless. He didn't know what to say and, gratefully, she
made it easy for him.
"To new friends."
"New friends," he said, slipping in a small emphasis on the
latter.
They touched their glasses together and Peter looked into his own
to avoid her eyes as he sipped the wine.
"Come on," Ivy said, "let's eat." She went about filling two
bowls with stew, while he sliced the crusty loaf of bread she'd
set out on the counter. She carried the bowls into the dining
room, and he followed with the bread and his glass of wine.
"Sit," she said, "I'll get the bottle."
He drank some more, and when she came back in he noticed her
glass. She had filled it.
They ate in silence for a few moments. He told her the stew was
delicious, and she said she was surprised, though she wasn't
really.
"So, what made you choose Stanford?" he said.
"A course they had. It's called VTSS. Values, Technology,
Science, and Society."
"I've never heard of it."
"It's been around for awhile. Interesting mix."
"Sounds like it. What interests you about it most?"
"Well, how they all overlap. One affecting and impacting the
other, and so on. You sure know all about that."
"Me?"
"Sure, you." She snorted. "Come on. You know, the way the
computers you invented have changed our society, that they're
founded on science and technology. How they've affected people's
values." She glanced up from her plate. "I mean, really, you've
democratized computing power among the masses, putting it in the
hands of the people. Giving them a choice, an alternative to
business as usual. No more Big Brother, brother." She resumed
eating. "Anyway, that's what the course was about." She spoke
with the easy, unaffected confidence one acquires with
experience. Yet she was only twenty-one.
He realized that his spoon was halfway between his bowl and
mouth. He did not know how long he'd been sitting there like
that. He set it down and poured himself more wine. He looked at
her over the rim of his glass, and felt as if he were seeing her
for the first time. It was an agreeable feeling, and that in turn
made it an adverse feeling. Thin ice ahead, if he didn't watch
himself. Friends, he repeated to himself, and don't forget it.
"Did you hear me?"
Had she said something? "I'm sorry - you were saying?"
"I said, that's what the course was about. I dropped it."
"But you sound like an expert. Why the change of heart?"
"Nah. Music. This speech stuff. That's what I told you when I met
you, don't you remember?"
In fact, he did not remember. What's more, he realized, was that
he didn't know her last name either. Before he was aware of what
he was doing, he asked her, "What's your last name?"
She was pouring herself more wine. She stopped. Was she hurt?
She grinned. "You got me."
His expression betrayed his confusion.
"I never told you my last name!" she said, as if that explained
everything. Whatever everything was. "I see what you're getting
at: How could I ask if you remember that I dropped that course to
get into this linguistics programming stuff when you don't even
know my last name. It's because I never told you."
He went to take another sip of wine, but then decided to hold off
for a bit.
"It's Green. Ivy Green. Can you stand it?"
"It's certainly very Earth conscious."
"Very funny. The only green I think Rick and Jeannette had in
mind when they named me was reefer."
He burst out laughing. "How come?"
"Oh, please. Don't you get it? I'm a Sixties baby, like, 'Make
Love, Not War,' 'Give Peace a Chance,' 'If It Feels Good, Do It.'
Well, they did it. They met at Woodstock, no kidding, and, a few
years later, they did it, made me, and got married and all. How
it felt, I mean, good or not, I never asked. Quit laughing. They
moved to California, lived right at the corner of Haight and
Ashbury, and found peace and all that. Later, when my dad
accidentally started his own herbal tea company - yes, it's the
brand you've got on the shelf there in the kitchen - they moved
to Mill Valley. That's where I grew up, with parents who told me
to call them by their first names, so we'd get closer to where we
visualized ourselves in the universe. Or some shit like that."
"Sorry, I'm not laughing at the circumstances. It's the way you
tell it."
"No problem. I'm still amused by the Rick and Jeannette Show."
From out of nowhere came a pout. Then: "But I'm not goin' to live
my life like they did." She sniffed deeply. "Um, I'll be right
back."
Had he offended her? He'd meant no harm in laughing. He was just
amused by her deadpan delivery. While she excused herself, Peter
got up from the table. Her talk about the Sixties had aroused
some vague sentiment in him. Whatever. All of the sudden the
place seemed too quiet. While she was away from the table he got
up and loaded a compact disc into his stereo system. The first
track was a folksy acoustic number.
Ivy returned to the table smiling. "Want more stew?"
"I'm stuffed," Peter said.
She sat down.
"Here." He poured more wine into her glass, trying for an apology
if it was in fact called for. He had no idea.
The instrumental ended, then a lovely female voice filled the
room with song. It was his absolute favorite. His eyelids lowered
slowly, automatically, and a smile washed across his face. The
artist's sensual voice had an effect on him that was like easing
into a warm bath. He sat there like that for a little bit,
forgetting Ivy and his dinner and everything else.
Ivy turned her head to the source of his evident pleasure. Her
frown went unnoticed.
Peter had met the vocalist one afternoon at a Sierra Club
luncheon thrown in his honor after Wallaby had donated several
computers to the noted environmental organization. Kate
McGreggor, the "softly outspoken" folk-rock star, was the keynote
speaker. He tried to be attentive to her words during her speech,
but he constantly found himself drifting, starting at her warm
green eyes, sighing when she casually brushed aside her hair,
dark brown with sunned highlights and occasional strands of gray.
In just fifteen minutes Kate had made an impression on him like
no other woman ever had. Meanings for her wandered into his mind.
Intelligent. Simple. Pure. True. What you see is what you get, he
surmised. After the meal, she sang. Her voice was enchanting,
perfect, and as she sang about pain and hope and love he knew
that he had to get to know her personally. Immediately after her
performance he introduced himself. At first she seemed
disinterested. He suspected her judgment was influenced by his
involvement in an industry notorious for destroying the
environment. And perhaps also by the eight years difference in
their ages. He invited her to visit Wallaby for a personal tour.
She hesitated, but ultimately he persuaded her to accept after
asking for a chance to prove that he and Wallaby were unlike all
the rest. When she arrived a week later, she surprised him with a
special gift: A bottle of wine from her parents' obscure little
vineyard in Oregon, where she had grown up. It was a Cabernet
Sauvignon, bottled the same year he had founded Wallaby. He was
touched by the thoughtfulness of her gesture, and told her she
had to be the one to share it with him when the company was ten
years old. Her tour was scheduled to last two hours, but as Peter
expressed his own thoughts and concerns about the environment,
the state of education, the future, they engaged in long and
satisfying conversation, and by the end of the day their
attraction for one another was evident. And had remained so to
this day. They were two people comfortable with themselves and
with each other. She maintained a home in Los Angeles, where she
was constantly at work on her music or lending her celebrity
status to political causes about which she felt strongly. She
came to stay with Peter between recordings and projects, and her
independence meshed perfectly with his own like composure,
creating the foundation for what had become a lasting and loving
relationship. They had been together for nearly eight years, and
the distance between them imposed by their careers generated a
constant longing that kept their affection for one another fresh
and alive. Sometimes, like now, it was difficult and he wished
they could be together more often. Especially now, with
everything the way it was at Wallaby...
And with that thought, he opened his eyes and came back around to
the present, and to his guest.
Ivy was lowering a coffee cup from her lips, staring at him. Had
she made a pot? He hadn't even heard her in the kitchen. In front
of him sat a steaming cup of coffee. Perfect, he thought. That
odd sense of dread he'd experienced earlier had returned, just
for an instant, when he'd opened his eyes. He needed to sober up
a little.
Abruptly she spoke.
"Is it true?"
"What's that?" he asked. He met her azure eyes with a perplexed
smile. She gestured with a nod to where the music was coming
from. "That you two are lovers?"
"Completely."
She nodded, added more coffee to her cup, very slowly, with
considerable concentration. She emptied half a packet of Equal
into her coffee. Addressing her immersed spoon, she said, "In
everything I read, like "People," or that story about you in last
month's "Esquire," they say you'll probably get married. To her."
"I don't know, it's hard to say" Peter said, knowing the right
thing to do would be to agree with the speculation, but choosing
to answer truthfully instead. "We're both very busy. She's always
recording or involved in some cause or another. And I'm at
Wallaby." The feeling of dread inside his heart rolled on its
side. However this time, instead of striking quickly and fading
away, its presence seemed to stretch out and linger as he sat
watching what Ivy was doing with her half-empty packet of Equal.
She had dumped the remainder of the artificial sweetener onto the
black enamel table. Using the straight edge of the little blue
packet, she cut several fine, stark, parallel lines from the
small white pile of grains.
Not very subtle, and not a good sign. He attempted to resume the
conversation.
"Anyway, as far as marriage, we've never really discussed it
seriously."
All of the sudden, he understood the feeling assaulting his
senses. Trepidation.
Something - no, a number of things - were going to happen. It was
as though a crystal ball had bloomed in his mind's eye, giving
him a quick peek into the near future. It all came in a blurry
rush, no single picture or image freezing long enough to grasp
completely. But he caught the gist, just same. He would go
through all the required motions, but in the back of his mind he
knew he was helpless. What was coming, he realized with a
throbbing certainty amplified by the wine, was only natural.
Jesus, how sick that sounded to his private ear. Still, he
wouldn't give in without a fight, for that, too, was only
natural. Quietly he stared at the lines she'd cut, mesmerized by
their orderliness.
Ivy, too, studied the straightness of her lines, her upper lip
hidden beneath the lower. She was the first to notice the
silence, to sense its uneasy drift. With a great gust, she blew
the white lines from the table and looked across the table at him
with a renewed smile.
"Oh, hey. Sorry. I had a little skip down unhappy-memory-lane
there for a second, is all. I hope I didn't upset you."
Peter looked at her. He shook his head, then rose without a word
and carried his coffee cup into the kitchen.
"Hey, you want to open more wine?" Ivy was at his side, carrying
their empty glasses. "I've been here only three weeks and already
have a prototype of my speech interface working." The trembling
of her hand caused the glasses to steadily clink together, a
fragile ringing sound. She didn't seem to notice. "Come on, let's
celebrate."
He rested his hand over the glasses, silencing them. "We've had
enough."
She narrowed the already small space between them, and he slid
his hands into his pockets, not sure what to do with them. "Thank
you for such a great meal," he said, and made an attempt to get
past her.
She giggled, held her ground.
He let out a frustrated breath. "Please," he said. "I've got to
get to bed." There was no humor in his face.
"All right, then," she said sullenly, and pressed her back
against the doorjamb, making way for him.
Just as he was about to shut off the stereo he changed his mind,
and decided to leave it on. To keep Kate there with him, he
thought, humming along with her voice on his way to his bedroom.
He lit a single candle and placed it on the floor beside his
futon bed. Except for the thick stuffed sleeping mat, some books
piled against the wall, a Tizio lamp and the Zuni Indian
sculpture of a bear that Kate had given him one birthday, his
bedroom was bare, like the rest of the house.
He tossed his clothes onto the floor and sat in the lotus
position on the soft cotton mat. Kate had introduced him to the
basics of meditation when they had first started dating, teaching
him to lead himself into natural, peaceful sleep. He closed his
eyes and concentrated on relaxing the muscles in his neck and
shoulders. Gradually he worked his way down, through the rest of
his body. His breathing slowed, and he imagined whiteness,
weightlessness. The whiteness slashed into a black surface and he
thought of Ivy and the dining room table, her playing with the
little blue packet. He pushed this away and brought back the pure
white. After a short period, the soft whispering snowstorm turned
to warm earth tones, to Kate's lovely hair...
The sound of footsteps broke his concentration. He opened his
eyes.
Ivy stood before him, wearing a lightweight cotton kimono. Her
face glowed warmly in the candlelight. Her voice was a mere
whisper. "I want to be with you."
Peter remained seated in the lotus position, unable, it seemed,
to move. He became sharply aware of her delicate physique, his
nakedness. He felt their vulnerable auras bending toward one
another, reaching. He thought about what he'd come to realize at
the dinner table, the feeling of dread inside him that seemed to
suddenly threaten everything in his life. He thought of telling
her about the few close calls he had had over the past couple of
years, how they had ended in tears and shattered dreams for the
students. He thought of telling her that in all their years
together he had never been unfaithful to Kate. He thought of
telling her that in all their years together, Wallaby had never
been unfaithful to him, and it was the same thing. Was, he wanted
to say aloud and tell her, tell anyone who'd listen, why.
But he told her none of these things. Instead he said to himself,
without uttering a word, I had a lot to drink, it was the wine.
But was he really that drunk, or was it something else? Something
worse? That he even considered this excuse, that he was actually
entertaining a defense for something that had not even happened,
not yet, presaged the guilt that would follow if he were to allow
them to come together. And apart. And it was all the same thing,
he told himself. Today, tomorrow, and the next day and every day
after that.
He considered her. She was an angel whose mission was to ease him
into the hereafter. He concluded, when he noticed a powdery white
substance encircling the inner edge of her nostrils, that she was
already "there," perhaps even farther, some point beyond
recognition. As if she interpreted this, she brushed her nose
with the back of her hand and sniffled.
"Peter," she pleaded, her voice husky, "You've empowered me.
You've given me a whole new meaning. It's my future."
Somehow her words had breaking effect on him. He was both
repulsed and beholden by her sentiment. By himself. He turned his
face toward the window, fighting the urge to reach out and pull
her down by the waist. It was not as if he were in love with this
young girl. And the way she made it sound, he was acting on her
behalf, like she needed him. Not the other way around. No, not
that at all. He didn't need her. She was nothing to him. Just
another worshipper in a long string of subjects.
And, as if to prove his cruel pretense, she knelt before him. Her
soft knees touched his shins. He smelled the peppery sweetness of
her breath, and his eyes lingered on her radiant golden hair. He
looked into her shining, anticipating eyes.
With a deep, winded sigh that was almost a cry, he finally
acknowledged his fear. It was inevitable, he told himself, as he
felt himself rising. He placed his fingertips about her neck,
traced his thumbs along her delicate lips, her precious ears,
touched her smooth eyelids, and gently pressed them shut. Her
breath hitched, and she waited for his touch to lead them
farther.
He slid the kimono from her lean body, and guided her hands to
his shoulders. He drew her down, guiding her to his hips. Her
smooth buttocks slid along his thighs. He felt her pause as she
settled onto him, over him.
They kissed.
She pulled away her lips and raised her hips.
He moved his mind to another place, into and around and between
Kate's lovely, far-off lyrics. He concentrated, tuned himself to
her rhythm.
Down, then up, then again, she slowly drove herself harder and
harder. He matched her motion with equal urgency, little lunging
lifts, telling himself at the same time that he was not
participating, not really, that she was doing all of the work, it
was all her, not him. Their mouths worked desperately, lunging
for one another, each attempt to kiss more impossible, more
desired than the last...
Spent, he felt a delirious sense of relief, as if it had all been
a bizarre dream from which he had just awakened. He raised his
head from the mat. For a brief, wanting moment he envisioned Kate
resting lightly on top of him.
The music had ended, the silence was palpable.
His mind collapsed. He felt as if he had taken an enormous plunge
backward from a high altitude, his head dizzy, his thoughts vague
as he fell. He squirmed beneath the full weight the young girl
lying atop him, trying to escape from what they had done. He
wanted tonight to be over. He wanted tomorrow to be over. He
wanted both gone forever. He wanted another chance.
Ivy stirred. She raised her head off Peter's chest and looked at
him. Her face was glistening, content. "Thank you," was all she
said. She raised herself from him and collected her kimono. She
covered him lightly with the comforter, blew out the candle, and
vanished.
He tested his defense. A whisper: "It was the wine - "
But he could not complete the sentence, for it was already done.
And it was not the wine. It was another thing altogether. And he
felt it now.
The little thing in his heart. The little thing that had come and
gone earlier in the evening. It was back again. It lay quietly,
barely perceptible, like the breathing of a tiny creature, and he
had almost not noticed it. But there was no mistaking it now, and
he fought to grasp hold of it, to suffocate it, but his attempts
were futile. It felt as though the thing had established
permanent residency.
For many hours, until his consciousness finally succumbed to
mental depletion, he was disturbed by a queer premonition. That
the dark, throbbing thing in his heart was determined to eat its
way out, ever so slowly, boring straight through the only parts
that Peter had ever loved, the only parts that had ever mattered.