Furiously, silently, Jennifer scrubs.
Rock Cliff edges even closer. “Come on now,” he implores. “I feel a real connection between us, Jennifer. I sensed it from the first. I’m sorry I lost my head, but your nearness combined with the hot charm of the night . . .” Rock Cliff has edged so close to Jennifer that she has been forced to retreat still further, has in fact climbed upon the windowsill itself, a precarious perch.
“Please, my dear,” he begs passionately.
“I’m warning you, Rock Cliff!” shrills Jennifer, but then she tumbles—scrub brush, water pail, and all—straight onto the wide-planked cypress floor, overturning a handsome old desk, an ottoman, and Rock Cliff himself, who sprawls violently beside her in the sudden sea of suds.
Jennifer giggles infectiously. Rock Cliff catches her merriment and guffaws heartily, then turns to her with yearning eyes and clasps her wet torso firmly in his rippling arms. “My dear,” he says.
“Oh, Rock,” yields Jennifer, as . . .
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I might have known!” cries Monica deRigeur. “Look at you, Rock Cliff, down there on the floor all wet and unkempt in a compromising position!”
“Now wait just a minute,” drawls Rock.
But Jennifer sees the emerald engagement ring on Monica’s tapered digit.
“No!” Jennifer leaps up and stamps her petite foot. “Don’t wait at all! Just leave! Both of you! I see right through you, Rock Cliff, you and your fashionable fiancée!”
Monica, by the way, is a real bitch wearing a low-necked blue-flowered voile dress which does nothing to hide her voluptuous form. White high-heeled sandals and a strand of priceless pearls about her swanlike neck complete the ensemble. Her upswept coiffure is elegant, implicit, or imminent, or something. I give up. “Move it, lover boy,” she directs haughtily.
“This is all a terrible misunderstanding,” Rock states, but the force of Jennifer’s grief ejaculates them both from the room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jennifer sends for her retarded brother and adopts a wild raccoon which she names Bruce, then nicknames Posy. (?)
CHAPTER NINE
Jennifer and Lewis are sunbathing on the secluded pink shell beach when here comes Charles Fine in his nautically white sloop, ready to propose to Jennifer. “I need a help-meet,” he explains earnestly, holding Jennifer tight in his strong ecclesiastical arms where she sheds a single tear upon realizing who it is she really loves.
“The cat is out of the bag now, I guess!” and, oh no, it’s Rock Cliff who has been concealed behind some hydrangea bushes observing this tender scene. Rock Cliff’s statement about the cat confuses Lewis, who becomes quite frightened and begins to weep openly. As Jennifer rushes to comfort her poor brother, helpful Charles Fine attempts to explain things to the irate Rock Cliff.
“You must not misconstrue . . .” Charles Fine begins.
“Misconstrue, hell!” shouts Rock Cliff, his fiery temper erupting totally since he has just broken his long-standing engagement to the beauteous Monica deRigeur only to find his dream girl in the arms of another man. Rock Cliff stalks off into the jungle just as lightning splits the summer sky and thunder rolls off the horizon, signaling the oncoming hurricane. A distraught Jennifer resists the fervent pleas of Charles Fine and Mrs. O’Reilly. She insists upon setting off immediately in search of Rock Cliff, and there she goes, accompanied only by her pet raccoon, into the dark wild jungle, into the eye of the storm.
CHAPTER TEN
just goes on and on! Jennifer is lost in the swamp, buffeted by the hurricane, set upon by wild dogs, defended by Posy, and drenched to the skin. Night falls. Jennifer finally takes shelter in a cave which strangely enough turns out to contain her parents’ grave (!) as well as a sealed cask holding some long complicated To Whom It May Concern letter implicating the deRigeurs in her parents’ death and explaining the curse of the emerald. Who cares? Jennifer tosses and turns in a restless doze yet feels strangely warm because of her parents’ presence. At the first blush of dawn she sallies forth and retraces her steps through the jungle until she spots Domino Lodge at last through the dense fronds.
“Posy, we’re home!” Jennifer tells the exhausted raccoon.
“And it’s about time!” cries Rock Cliff, who has thought better of his hasty actions and has been scouring the jungle all night long for Jennifer. The bedraggled lovers rush toward each other and meet in a passionate embrace on the pink shell beach. Their clothes are all torn and wet, revealing their contours anew in the paleness of dawn. They kiss hungrily as Mrs. O’Reilly, Lewis, and Charles Fine steal out to the edge of the beach to share this happy moment. “Well, it’s an ill wind which blows nobody,” Mrs. O’Reilly observes with a chuckle, and Charles Fine reveals that he plans to teach Lewis to sail. Rock Cliff casts the unlucky emerald into the waiting waves; Monica deRigeur flies past in her private plane, bound for New York; Posy heaves a sigh of relief; and again the lovers embrace as, behind them, the sun rises out of the sea.
And that’s it! I shade my eyes against the brightness of this sun, the glare off the water, but in vain: All I can see is the silhouette. Jennifer and Rock have nothing, nothing left—no faces, no bodies, not to mention fear or pain or children, joy or memory or loss—nothing but these flat black shapes against the tropic sky.
Intensive Care
Cherry Oxendine is dying now, and everybody knows it. Everybody in town except maybe her new husband, Harold Stikes, although Lord knows he ought to, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. And it’s not like he hasn’t been told either, by both Dr. Thacker and Dr. Pinckney and also that hotshot young Jew doctor from Memphis, Dr. Shapiro, who comes over here once a week. “Harold just can’t take it in,” is what the head nurse in Intensive Care, Lois Hickey, said in the Beauty Nook last week. Lois ought to know. She’s been right there during the past six weeks while Cherry Oxendine has been in Intensive Care, writing down Cherry’s blood pressure every hour on the hour, changing bags on the IV, checking the stomach tube, moving the bed up and down to prevent bedsores, monitoring the respirator—and calling in Rodney Broadbent, the respiratory therapist, more and more frequently. “Her blood gases is not but twenty-eight,” Lois said in the Beauty Nook. “If we was to unhook that respirator, she’d die in a day.”
“I would go on and do it then, if I was Harold,” said Mrs. Hooker, the Presbyterian minister’s wife, who was getting a permanent. “It is the Christian thing.”
“You wouldn’t either,” Lois said, “because she still knows him. That’s the awful part. She still knows him. In fact she peps right up ever time he comes in, like they are going on a date or something. It’s the saddest thing. And ever time we open the doors, here comes Harold, regular as clock-work. Eight o’clock, one o’clock, six o’clock, eight o’clock, why shoot, he’d stay in there all day and all night if we’d let him. Well, she opens her mouth and says Hi, honey, you can tell what she’s saying even if she can’t make a sound. And her eyes get real bright and her face looks pretty good too, that’s because of the Lasix, only Harold don’t know that. He just can’t take it all in,” Lois said.
“Oh, I feel so sorry for him,” said Mrs. Hooker. Her face is as round and flat as a dime.
“Well, I don’t.” Dot Mains, owner of the Beauty Nook, started cutting Lois Hickey’s hair. Lois wears it too short, in Dot’s opinion. “I certainly don’t feel sorry for Harold Stikes, after what he did.” Dot snipped decisively at Lois Hickey’s frosted hair. Mrs. Hooker made a sad little sound, half sigh, half words, as Janice stuck her under the dryer, while Miss Berry, the old-maid home demonstration agent waiting for her appointment, snapped the pages of Cosmopolitan magazine one by one, blindly, filled with somewhat gratuitous rage against the behavior of Harold Stikes. Miss Berry is Harold Stikes’s ex-wife’s cousin. So she does not pity him, not one bit. He got what’s coming to him, that’s all, in Miss Berry’s o
pinion. Most people don’t. It’s a pleasure to see it, but Miss Berry would never say this out loud since Cherry Oxendine is of course dying. Cherry Oxendine! Like it was yesterday, Miss Berry remembers how Cherry Oxendine acted in high school, wearing her skirts too tight, popping her gum.
“The doctors can’t do a thing,” said Lois Hickey.
Silence settled like fog then on the Beauty Nook, on Miss Berry and her magazine, on Dot Mains cutting Lois Hickey’s hair, on little Janice thinking about her boyfriend Bruce, and on Mrs. Hooker crying gently under the dryer. Suddenly, Dot remembered something her old granny used to say about such moments of sudden absolute quiet: “An angel is passing over.”
After a while, Mrs. Hooker said, “It’s all in the hands of God, then.” She spread out her fingers one by one on the tray, for Janice to give her a manicure.
* * *
And as for Harold Stikes, he’s not even considering God. Oh, he doesn’t interfere when Mr. Hooker comes by the hospital once a day to check on him—Harold was a Presbyterian in his former life—or even when the Baptist preacher from Cherry’s mama’s church shows up and insists that everybody in the whole waiting room join hands and bow heads in prayer while he raises his big red face and curly gray head straight up to heaven and prays in a loud voice that God will heal these loved ones who walk through the Valley of Death, and comfort these others who watch, through their hour of need. This includes Mrs. Eunice Sprayberry, whose mother has had a stroke, John and Paula Ripman, whose infant son is dying of encephalitis, and different others who drift in and out of Intensive Care following surgery or wrecks. Harold is losing track. He closes his eyes and bows his head, figuring it can’t hurt, like taking out insurance. But deep down inside, he knows that if God is worth His salt, He is not impressed by the prayer of Harold Stikes, who knowingly gave up all hope of peace on earth and heaven hereafter for the love of Cherry Oxendine.
Not to mention his family.
He gave them up too.
But this morning when he leaves the hospital after his eight o’clock visit to Cherry, Harold finds himself turning left out of the lot instead of right toward Food Lion, his store. Harold finds himself taking 15-501 just south of town and then driving through those ornate marble gates that mark the entrance to Camelot Hills, his old neighborhood. Some lucky instinct makes him pull into the little park and stop there, beside the pond. Here comes his ex-wife, John, driving the Honda Accord he paid for last year. Joan looks straight ahead. She’s still wearing her shiny blond hair in the pageboy she’s worn ever since Harold met her at Mercer College so many years ago. Harold is sure she’s wearing low heels and a shirtwaist dress. He knows her briefcase is in the backseat, containing lesson plans for today, yogurt, and a banana. Potassium is important. Harold has heard this a million times. Behind her, the beds are all made, the breakfast dishes stacked in the sink. As a home ec teacher, Joan believes that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. The two younger children, Brenda and Harold Jr., are already on the bus to the Academy. James rides to the high school with his mother, hair wet, face blank, staring straight ahead. They don’t see Harold. Joan brakes at the stop sign before entering 15-501. She always comes to a complete stop, even if nothing’s coming. Always. She looks both ways. Then she’s gone.
Harold drives past well-kept lawn after well-kept lawn and lovely house after lovely house, many of them houses where Harold has attended Cub Scout meetings, eaten barbecue, watched bowl games. Now these houses have a blank, closed look to them, like mean faces. Harold turns left on Oxford, then right on Shrewsbury. He comes to a stop beside the curb at 1105 Cambridge and just sits there with the motor running, looking at the house. His house. The Queen Anne house he and Joan planned so carefully, down to the last detail, the fish-scale siding. The house he is still paying for and will be until his dying day, if Joan has her way about it.
Which she will, of course. Everybody is on her side: desertion. Harold Stikes deserted his lovely wife and three children for a redheaded waitress. For a fallen woman with a checkered past. Harold can hear her now. “I fail to see why I and the children should lower our standards of living, Harold, and go to the dogs just because you have chosen to become insane in mid-life.” Joan’s voice is slow and amiable. It has a down-to-earth quality which used to appeal to Harold but now drives him wild. Harold sits at the curb with the motor running and looks at his house good. It looks fine. It looks just like it did when they picked it out of the pages of Southern Living and wrote off for the plans. The only difference is, that house was in Stone Mountain, Georgia, and this house is in Greenwood, Mississippi. Big deal.
Joan’s response to Harold’s desertion has been a surprise to him. He expected tears, recriminations, fireworks. He did not expect her calm, reasonable manner, treating Harold the way she treats the Mormon missionaries who come to the door in their black suits, for instance, that very calm sweet careful voice. Joan acts like Harold’s desertion is nothing much. And nothing much appears to have changed for her except the loss of Harold’s actual presence, and this cannot be a very big deal since everything else has remained exactly the same.
What the hell. After a while Harold turns off the motor and walks up the flagstone walk to the front door. His key still fits. All the furniture is arranged exactly the way it was arranged four years ago. The only thing that ever changes here is the display of magazines on the glass coffee table before the fireplace, Joan keeps them up to date. Newsweek, National Geographic, Good Housekeeping, Gourmet. It’s a mostly educational grouping, unlike what Cherry reads—Parade, Coronet, National Enquirer. Now these magazines litter the floor at the side of the bed like little souvenirs of Cherry. Harold can’t stand to pick them up.
He sits down heavily on the white sofa and stares at the coffee table. He remembers the quiz and the day he found it, four years ago now although it feels like only yesterday, funny thing though that he can’t remember which magazine it was in. Maybe Reader’s Digest. The quiz was titled “How Good Is Your Marriage?” and Harold noticed that Joan had filled it in carefully. This did not surprise him. Joan was so law-abiding, such a good girl, that she always filled in such quizzes when she came across them, as if she had to, before she could go ahead and finish the magazine. Usually Harold didn’t pay much attention.
This time, he picked the magazine up and started reading. One of the questions said: “What is your idea of the perfect vacation? (a) a romantic getaway for you and your spouse alone; (b) a family trip to the beach; (c) a business convention; (d) an organized tour of a foreign land.” Joan had wavered on this one. She had marked and then erased “an organized tour of a foreign land.” Finally she had settled on “a family trip to the beach.” Harold skimmed along. The final question was: “When you think of the love between yourself and your spouse, do you think of (a) a great passion; (b) a warm, meaningful companionship; (c) an average love; (d) an unsatisfying habit.” Joan had marked “(c) an average love.” Harold stared at these words, knowing they were true. An average love, nothing great, an average marriage between an average man and woman. Suddenly, strangely, Harold was filled with rage.
“It is not enough!” He thought he actually said these words out loud. Perhaps he did say them out loud, into the clean hushed air-conditioned air of his average home. Harold’s rage was followed by a brief period, maybe five minutes, of unbearable longing, after which he simply closed the magazine and put it back on the table and got up and poured himself a stiff shot of bourbon. He stood for a while before the picture window in the living room, looking out at his even green grass, his clipped hedge, and the impatiens blooming in its bed, the clematis climbing the mailbox. The colors of the world fairly leaped at him—the sky so blue, the grass so green. A passing jogger’s shorts glowed unbearably red. He felt that he had never seen any of these things before. Yet in another way it all seemed so familiar as to be an actual part of his body—his throat, his heart, his breath. Harold took anothe
r drink. Then he went out and played nine holes of golf at the country club with Bubba Fields, something he did every Wednesday afternoon. He shot 82.
By the time he came home for dinner he was okay again. He was very tired and a little lightheaded, all his muscles tingling. His face was hot. Yet Harold felt vaguely pleased with himself, as if he had been through something and come out the other side of it, as if he had done a creditable job on a difficult assignment. But right then, during dinner, Harold could not have told you exactly what had happened to him that day, or why he felt this way. Because the mind will forget what it can’t stand to remember, and anyway the Stikeses had beef Stroganoff that night, a new recipe that Joan was testing for the Junior League cookbook, and Harold Jr. had written them a funny letter from camp, and for once Brenda did not whine. James, who was twelve that year, actually condescended to talk to his father, with some degree of interest, about baseball, and after supper was over he and Harold went out and pitched to each other until it grew dark and lightning bugs emerged. This is how it’s supposed to be, Harold thought, father and son playing catch in the twilight.
Then he went upstairs and joined Joan in bed to watch TV, after which they turned out the light and made love. But Joan had greased herself all over with Oil of Olay, earlier, and right in the middle of doing it, Harold got a crazy terrified feeling that he was losing her, that Joan was slipping, slipping away.
But time passed, as it does, and Harold forgot that whole weird day, forgot it until right now, in fact, as he sits on the white sofa in his old house again and stares at the magazines on the coffee table, those magazines so familiar except for the date, which is four years later. Now Harold wonders: If he hadn’t picked up that quiz and read it, would he have even noticed when Cherry Oxendine spooned out that potato salad for him six months later, in his own Food Lion deli? Would the sight of redheaded Cherry Oxendine, the Food Lion smock mostly obscuring her dynamite figure, have hit him like a bolt out of the blue the way it did?