4

 THE WOMAN

Sylvia Chandler Watergate

            Sylvia woke unusually early, and by 10:30 she was donned in a smart, red-white-and-blue pantsuit with her hair neatly coifed into a becoming wave at the nape of her shapely neck.  Her recently serviced, navy-blue Mercedes two-seater awaited her.

            Roger had long since left for the office to finish up some final details before his flight to Chicago, where he would be for several days, leaving Sylvia with time on her hands.  Excess time was normal for Sylvia, but this time she had a responsible job to perform, and she was looking forward to her trip to Malibu to water Audley's coleus.

            It was a lovely day; the smog was light and the sky was clear.  A tropical breeze wafted in from the Pacific.  Once outside Beverly Hills, she sped to the Coast Highway and drove directly and leisurely west.  Both Sylvia and her vehicle were at their best.  She almost wished a cop would stop her so her beauty could impress him.  If one did, she would tell the officer who she was and where she was going and he would be enthralled by her wit and her friendliness.  She would ask him unimportant questions to pass the time of day and they would admire the rocky coastline together.  But no traffic cop stopped her, for none had reason to.  She drove slightly under the speed limit, looking often at the sea, watching the white crested waves lap gently onto the shore. 

            Right now, this minute, she thought, Audley would be driving too, and the thought of them sharing something gave her pleasure.  That was the absolute best thing to do on a day like today: drive.

            Along the Malibu Coast she took the right turn onto Juniper Drive and drove the final quarter mile into the graveled driveway that was Audley's.  In no hurry to step out into the humidity, Sylvia sat looking at the tall, redwood structure that had once been a miserable, vermin-infested shack, totally different now than the first time she had seen it.  It was Audley's dream come true.

            Audley had a green thumb.  The mass of weeds made way for a small but perfect patch of lawn, which, Sylvia had been advised, was the future site of outdoor furniture.  But now, in its natural manicured green state, it was surrounded by sunflowers and young junipers.  Clustered along the west wall of the ground floor, which comprised the garage and future laundry room, were beds of portulaca and Audley's favorite, California Poppies.

            The garage door was shut, of course, so Sylvia ascended the wrought-iron banistered stairs to the back landing and let herself into the kitchen with the spare key that was kept over the doorframe.  This was the first time Sylvia had been alone in Audley's house.  Oh, sometimes when she visited, Audley would run over to the corner store for mushrooms or wine, but this visit was different.  Audley was a thousand miles away, and for a moment, an hour, a day, Audley's dream come true would be hers.

            Sylvia’s heels touched softly on the yellow-tiled kitchen floor.  It was too quiet.  Normally, when Audley was home, the stereo was playing.  She went straight to the music bar and pressed 'on'.  Immediately the mellow sounds of jazz permeated the room, filling it with its owner's vibrations.   It seemed now as though Audley might be on the front deck, or upstairs doing her toenails, or reading in the bathroom.  This was more like it.  Now Sylvia didn't feel so alone.  The coleus could wait a bit longer.

            She went into the kitchen and poured a tall glass of iced tea, cut a slice of lemon, and carried the cool drink to the sofa where she slipped off her shoes and curled her legs beneath her, picking up a magazine and preparing to enjoy herself.

            The magazine opens to a photographic article done in the style of the 1940's.  A woman, exotic and classy, very nouveau rich, is standing alone on a train platform.  She is smartly dressed and her piece of luggage suggests a short, perhaps, business trip.

            A man approaches.  He could be a character out of F. Scott Fitzgerald.  He is very attractive in a sleek, almost gaunt sort of a way, and he gives the impression of being extremely capable in bed.  The woman sees him.  Their eyes meet.  Untold waves of passion pass between them.  They want each other.  Now. 

            Sylvia stole a sip of iced tea and turned the page.

            Now the two are in a private berth.  The photographs are stylized, as though they are from an old family album.  The sepia tones of the photos lend a surreal, mystical quality.   The man is undressing the woman.  He is very adept.  She undresses him.  They are urgent.  Tension mounts with every photograph. 

            Sylvia squirms on the French Provincial sofa and quickly turns the page.

            They are doing it!  Right there in the magazine.  Right there in the train.  Although his trousers are off, showing his hard buttocks, he still wears his crisp white shirt -- unbuttoned and pulled back so that Sylvia's eyes can travel furtively down his chest to his taut belly and the quivering shadows below.  His vest and tie are draped across the back of the settee.

            She is brilliant.  Her eyes are glazed with passion.  Sultry, animalistic, and very controlled passion.  Her stockings dress her legs, and she is wearing her jewels, but the rest of her is naked and he is doing wonderful things to her.  You know it's wonderful by the quality of the photographs.

            Sylvia couldn't sit still.  She jumped off the sofa and walked around the room in her stocking feet, visualizing the couple, hearing them absorbed in each other and oblivious to the train and the passing scenery and to the business engagement they must each proceed to.  There is nothing but their sex.  Nothing but the straining of each body on and in the other.  They don't speak.  They never do.  Their communication is in their actions.

            She returned to the magazine and turned the page quickly for she could not dwell on how they must be feeling.  But, oh.  Now they are dressed.  They are leaving the train.  His shirt and tie and vest are impeccable.  Her hair, once rumpled with his caresses, is pinned into place, leaving not a trace of what transpired.  They each carry their respective briefcases.  They don't look at each other.  They will never see each other again.  They seem, to Sylvia, magnificent.  She sighed deeply.

            Flipping through the rest of the magazine, looking briefly at the ads, the titles of articles -- how to get over a love affair, how to look your best this summer -- her mind remained on the photographic essay.  Why had she read that damned thing?

            She stood up, stretched, and found the watering can then went about methodically watering all the plants.  The coleus was thirsty.  They were all thirsty.  Sylvia was thirsty.  She poured herself a drink.  As she went about watering the plants, inside and out, she walked carefully, looking at all the things Audley had collected to adorn her home.  The miniature figurines from France, the music equipment, color television and VCR and the array of books, tapes, records and CD’s.  The liquor cabinet was full and varied, as were all the cupboards.

            She went into the bathroom and looked, admired the fixtures and the grandiose elegance of the bathtub and the toilet.  A man could sit on that toilet, she thought, without breaking it.             The towels were thick and cocoa brown and rough to the touch -- a man's towel.  And mauve towels, too, of a softer quality, for a woman.  Both colors matched the flocked and foiled wall covering and the downy soft carpet.  Carrying the watering can, Sylvia climbed the winding stairs to the loft.

            Upstairs was a wall of closets, another wall of mirrors and a king-sized bed.  A king-sized bed!  What single person the size of Audley needed all that space?  Sylvia noticed that the bed was unmade, unmade only in the upper left-hand corner.  Audley slept in a ball, in a fetal position.  Sylvia noted that Audley would only have to launder one-quarter of the sheets because the rest of the bed was unused.

            Her mind turned immediately and unwittingly to the magazine article and the impassioned man and woman.  She turned away from the bed and looked instead at the two large chairs, arranged with a low, round hassock that overlooked the studio and the distant ocean.  As if deciding to stay a while, Sylvia put down the watering can then sat tentatively on the edge of one of the chairs, allowing herself to succumb to its comfort.  It was an overstuffed chair that all but swallowed her up.  She rested her feet on the hassock and crossed her ankles.  On the footrest were two books, a newspaper, and a tray.  The tray, she knew, was for coffee or Galliano.  Sun glittered on the far-away ocean.  The chair and the drink conspired to relax her.  Cautiously, she let herself go.

            She wasn't comfortable at home.  Why not?  Her home was too fussy, she thought.  Too feminine.  She recalled her own bathroom, all in pinks and laces.  No self-respecting man would go in there.  He would not belong.  And why shouldn't her own husband feel comfortable in her bathroom?  What was so private and personal that two people couldn't do it together?

            Roger had never even seen her bathroom.  She, in fact, had never seen his.  What did he look like in the shower, she wondered, with shampoo on his hair or lather on his face?  When he shaved, did her husband use a razor or an electric shaver?  She could not remember.  What did he do while he sat on the commode?  Read?  File his nails?  Sylvia was depressed.  Miserably depressed and did not know why.

            Her eyes wandered over the room below and settled on Audley's desk, a large man-sized mahogany desk with a highjack upholstered swivel chair.  The desk faced a room divider of shelves that contained miscellaneous books and objet d'art.  On the desk was a telephone, one of the ornate kinds with gold filigree, a penholder, and a note pad, open to receive messages.

            Sylvia struggled out of the chair and went quickly downstairs.  She went straight to the desk, sat, and read the messages:

            "January 1: recuperate from hangover; afternoon cocktails at Eugene's;

            "January 2: make an appearance at Weinberger's but don't stay more than 20 minutes."

            Sylvia flipped the pages forward.

            "March 30: pay Bullocks' bill -- $16.72.  Pay telephone bill -- $378.43."  $378.43!  Who did Audley call long-distance?  Her father?  Not that much.  Brad probably, but he should pay for it, not her.  She read further:

            "June 15: return call to LBCU in Dallas.

            "June 18: submit article on LBCU."

            Of course.  Audley was an independent business- woman.  She owned her home outright, played the stock market, had her own credit cards in her own name, took lovers and forsook lovers when she felt like it, came and went where and when she pleased.  Sylvia's stomach churned.  She flipped the pages to August 14.

            "August 14: Flight 702. Gate 14. 11:35 a.m. to JFK; Flight 364, 7:40 p.m. to Meadowland."  It had been scratched out.  So she really didn't want to go.  They why did she?  For Sylvia's dress?  No.  For Brad?  Sylvia seriously doubted it.  For the money?  Also dubious.  Why, then?

            Sylvia reviewed the conversation she had had with Audley in the middle of the night -- from Illinois, of all places.  Audley had been upset about her plants.  Sylvia felt a funny kind of affection for her strange and unconventional friend who would be concerned about the 'little' things in life.  Little things like her plants and her house.

            Never in a million years would Sylvia have looked twice at this property.  Only Audley would have seen it for its potential and acted upon it.  And just look at it now!  More than quadrupled in value.  Ceiling-high windows overlooking the Pacific, wall-to-wall custom loomed carpeting, a microwave oven, automatic icemaker in the frost-free refrigerator....

            Sylvia went to the kitchen and opened all the cupboards and began pulling things out: pickles, breads, cold meats, vegetables, salad dressings.  Throwing these together into a meal for herself, Sylvia fumed.  Damned Audley anyway, she thought.  Why should she be out having one adventure after another?  What gave her the right?  Wasn't she, Sylvia Chandler Watergate, just as smart, just as pretty, just as capable?  When was the last time she had done something adventurous?  She was doing it right now -- making a Dagwood sandwich in spite of her diet.  Well, hell.  She had been watching her weight for 28 years.  Why shouldn't she feel free to gorge herself if she wanted to?

            She thought again about the man in the magazine and dropped a slice of tomato on the floor.

            "Damn it," she said aloud, jumping at the sound of her own voice.  She never talked to herself.  Matter of fact she never talked much to anyone.  Why not?  Wasn't she just as interesting as anyone?  Maybe more so?  At least she was pleasant to look at.  Some people had their ugly faces all over the place.  She wondered, “How can anyone pay attention to what an ugly person has to say?”

            If she were to have someone to talk to besides Audley, what would she talk about?  Had she ever in her life really talked about something serious?  People were always assuming she was stupid, just because she was blonde.  People like Roger, and like Brad.  Well that was bull.  She could think of lots of intelligent things to discuss.  She could talk about floods and the cold spells and the heat waves.  She could talk about food shortages and solar energy and birth control and political candidates and their issues.  She read her father's newspaper.  In fact that's about all she did, was to look nice and read her father's newspaper.

            And for what? she thought, carrying her plate to the sofa.  What pleasure or point is there in discussing the world's unhappy problems?  Nobody ever does anything about them!  She chewed on the sandwich absently, mopping up tomato seeds and juice from her chin with the bread.  There is no pleasure in the world's problems.  There was no pleasure because there was no solution and if anyone ought to know about living with an unsolvable problem it was Sylvia. 

            Without wanting to, her mind focused on the figure of a yellow-haired child, lying in a hospital bed in Denver, lying in a coma for seven years.  As always when Sylvia thought about her daughter, she felt sick.  Sick like she felt when she had her period, like there was a hot brick in her belly, burning and weighing her down.  She didn't like that feeling, but she had grown used to it.

            Grown used to it! That was the real tragedy!  She had become accustomed to an insolvable problem, to a miserable state of affairs, like everybody else in the United States, everybody else in the world.  You just, “Get over it!”

            But where was the fight?  Where was the right to the pursuit of happiness?  Happiness for Sylvia?  Not for Jennifer, who had no use for happiness.  Jennifer didn't even know if she was alive or dead.  Jennifer didn't know anything!  Why wasn't she dead?  Dead and gone, out of sight, and out of mind.  Why was it that she and Roger should have to live with this mindless tragedy and become accustomed to it?

            Sylvia carried her plate into the kitchen and filled her iced tea glass with gin.  Jennifer should die, she thought.  She has no right to be using me like this.

            Years ago the schoolgirl Sylvia Chandler, who was having trouble with German and Biology and English, the Sylvia who didn't have to worry about getting high marks because she would survive anyway -- nobody would fail Hiram Chandler's only child, the pretty young thing who had such potential! such vitality! Years ago Sylvia would not have been used.  Everyone had treated her with respect!  Everyone liked her.  She had a million friends!

            "Bull!" she said aloud, startling herself.  That was a lie.  Everybody in school hated her except for Audley.  Why hadn't Audley told her what to do?  Why didn't she tell me to have an affair? Or to take drugs like she did ... like everybody did.  Oh, no.  Not Miss Goodie Two-Shoes.  I had to get married and have a vegetable for a child!

            Sylvia noticed Brad's photograph standing proudly on the shelf over the desk.

            "You don't see Audley jumping into something just because her father wants it," she said.  Perhaps she should divorce Roger.

            She stepped out onto the deck but the sun was too hot; it would blister her fair skin within minutes.  She came back inside.

            Why don't you divorce Roger? she asked herself.  Because, her mind answered, I am a good wife and Roger loves me.  He needs me for his career.  What a liar, she thought, and was disgusted with herself for being such a worthless excuse of a woman.  The truth was that Roger would never consent to a divorce.  He would stick it out with her, having discreet affairs on the side, and one day she would become Mrs. Attorney General, Mrs. Supreme Court Justice, or even First Lady, and wives like that do not have to think.  Better to not even talk about controversial issues.  Their function, like hers, was to look lovely, be gracious, and lend dignity to their husband's image.

            Besides, she loved Roger.  Didn't she?  She had loved him once.  She thought she did.

            She could see herself and Roger on the pages of the magazine.  It had been like that for them once.  It had been just like that.  She remembered that Roger was a beautiful man.  His legs had been strong, his waist firm and narrow.  She remembered how her legs had reached around his waist, locking him to her in their passion ... when it wasn't necessary for them to speak, when their actions said it all.  How long had it been?  How long had it been for them?

            It wasn't her fault.  She was afraid.  What if she was to have another child?  What if, again, she and Roger looked forward to being parents, if they decorated the nursery and planned for the future of the unborn child, only to find that it was born without a mind, without a soul, without any knowledge of its own or anyone else's existence, with no purpose whatsoever other than to be beautiful, like Roger and herself, and to grow bigger and more beautiful and more useless?

            No.  She dared not take the chance.  There must be no sex!  No physical relationship with Roger or anyone, because she might get pregnant and there could be no more children.  After all, accidents do happen and what if she gave birth to another Jennifer?

            Once she thought she would kill the baby.  Just casually smother it before it went away to the hospital.  But what if that leaked out?  How would that look in her father's newspaper?  What would that do to Roger's career?

            She would live with it.  She had her therapist when her own reserves failed her.  And she must not think of Jennifer's dying.  It was wrong to think that way.  Jennifer lived for a reason!  She was a reminder of some kind.  Some kind of punishment for Sylvia.  A cross for her to bear for being a spoiled, willful girl.  Sylvia had prayed alternately for release and then for forgiveness for so long, she had long since ceased to pray at all. 

            She finished the gin.  “Therefore,” she concluded, "I will live with it.  I have become accustomed to the tragedy and I will live with it until I die or until I find a way to be free of it.  Free of the doubts, free of the guilt, free of the trap of non-action."

            Audley was free, her own person.  She made her own decisions, and came, and went, and had perfectly wonderful experiences.  Audley enjoyed all that life had to offer without guilt and without fear of the outcome.  And somehow Sylvia felt better by simply being in Audley's studio.  She felt a part of Audley's freedom, surrounded by Audley's things, in the same apartment Sylvia had once denounced as not being fit for an animal.  Yes, perhaps it was, in the beginning, but so what?  Had there ever been a finer animal than Audley?

            From the security of the French Provincial sofa, Sylvia sat and watched the afternoon wear on and the sun sink into the ocean, feeling bathed in its diffused rays.  As the stars began to twinkle overhead, she climbed the winding stairs to the loft and slipped into the comfort of Audley's one-quarter of the king-sized bed.

BRAD WAS ACCUSTOMED TO CRISES.  He wore them as easily as a Hickey-Freeman suit. 

            Intent on finding new and better techniques of dealing with old and inadequate methods, the IOF frequently initiated crisis situations in order to bring about desired changes.  As an example, the preparations made prior to the now historical East Coast Black-out were elaborately detailed and charted months in advance of the predicted event.  These preparations designated Operation Onyx, related to problems of food shortages, medical emergencies, crime, ad infinitum.

            Mass propagandization enabled some of the more far-seeing populace to act on these potential hazards.  After the IOF paved the way, new institutions developed to help man help himself in cases of temporary crises.  Many families became largely self-sufficient as to food supply and solar energy, but even in the face of all these efforts, few were prepared for the mayhem and misery hinging upon the power failure of August 14th.

            And, as if to flaunt this pathetically inadequate state of affairs, Brad knew that these problems would be considered “impossible obstacles to the Future” until society at large could uplift the socio-economic levels of the peoples through improved education and a new sense of social responsibility.

            But now, packing his suitcase for the West Coast flight, Brad faced a new and unprecedented crisis in his life: that of his relationship with Audley.  At the airport, when she had driven away, he sensed that she had not driven away from the IOF conference, nor even from the blackout, but from him and from their relationship.  The more he considered this depressing theory, the more he felt convinced it was correct, and the more exhausted he felt.

            Yes, he had deliberately chosen not to tell her of the possibility of the blackout.  All precautions had been taken, and the chances of anything happening were, indeed, a million to one.  Anyhow, he had been insane enough to think that if, on the outside chance anything untoward did occur, it might somehow accelerate their marriage.  What a fool he had been.

            Obviously he had been a fool about a lot of things.  He should have known the first time he slept with her that she was too spirited, too independent to be stultified into a circumscribed role.  It would have been foolhardy of him to expect it of her.  No wonder she had avoided their future in the setting of the wedding date.

            He had not helped the situation any, either, by being so engrossed in his work.  He should have been trying to help her overcome her anxieties, assuring her it didn't matter whether or not his mother approved, whether or not her father was famous.  He should have let her know that their life together could rise above social and political rituals, that their union would be a new beginning, not an ending.

            He, more so than she, had been childish.  She at least had the good sense to get out of an impossible situation.  And she had the audacity to get out in his car!

            He saw himself looking at life from a purely human standpoint -- as a selfish, needy human being.  Love, he knew now, was not a scientific equation to be worked out and then shelved.  It required dedication such as he had given solely to Sam.  No wonder she hated the word!  No wonder she hated the IOF and the future. 

            He did not want to lose her.  What could he do?

            He fumed with resentment at what had been pulled on him.  Lassater and the President, giving him authority to inquire into a situation that was beyond what even Sam could comprehend.  And the IOF had put them up to it!  If by some fluke he were to determine the cause of the blackout, he could begin making his own decisions.  He could name his price at any higher institution of science and learning in the world!  He would be able then to take the time necessary to build his life with Audley.

            He had alternatives.  He could reopen discussions with UCLA on their invitation for him to teach and he could tell Lassater to go to hell.  Or, he could ask Audley to join him as an Investigative Assistant on this ludicrous presidential assignment.  She might even enjoy that. 

            But first things first.  He had to rest and he had to think.  He would talk this over with Doc Will and Doc Will would advise him, while Martha would nurse him back to health with her good cooking and her coddling.  By the time Audley returned, he would be ready for her.

LANON PROVED TO BE a good driver and a tremendous help at the wheel.  Working together, they drove night and day, stopping to eat, then driving and sleeping in shifts.         Their waking hours were not wasted.  Lanon listened to the radio while he drove and learned to recognize the names of musical groups and words to popular songs.  He paid close attention to the news broadcasts and the all-talk programs.  Somewhere in Oklahoma they stopped at a department store where Audley purchased jeans, T-shirts, underwear and miscellaneous toiletries for them both.  Here also she charged a compact encyclopedia, which Lanon read at an incredible rate of speed.

            When Audley felt it would be good for Lanon's "education”, they stopped at major tourist attractions that were not too far off the route.  Once exposed to America's wonderlands, Lanon harangued Audley to stop everywhere, at each new desert vista, at each waterfront, so that he might wonder at what he called Urth's “primitive majesty”.  In distraction, Audley finally put her foot down.

            "Lanon!  We just can't!  We'll never get home if we stop to examine every bush and rock along the way.”  She made him promise to stop making comparisons to Zenton.  "You're a human being, Lanon, and you can’t forget that!  The sooner you get used to being one of us, the better off we'll all be."

            By the time they reached California, three days behind schedule, Lanon could pass for normal fairly well.  Idioms no longer stymied him, his speech patterns were relaxed and he could swear in good taste.  Audley, too, had developed during the journey.  She threw herself into the responsibility of teaching Lanon those things she felt he ought to know.  She was constantly impressed with the magnitude of what it must be like to raise and train an inquisitive child.  In her deep recesses she knew that by putting off marriage and family life, she was shirking a major responsibility and depriving herself of a means to happiness and fulfillment, but teaching Lanon the "art of living" was an entirely satisfying experience which completely surpassed her earlier, pleasure-oriented experiences.

            Los Angeles overwhelmed Lanon.  The size, smells, hustle and bustle of the metropolis excited him.  Then, when he thought the City went on forever, he saw the ocean and wanted to stop and look.

            "No.  We'll be home -- to my place -- very soon now," she said.  "It's on the ocean.  You’ll be able to look to your heart's content."

            "Great!" he said, drinking in the size of the horizon.

            "I've got to call Dad."

            "Fine," he agreed, enjoying himself.  "Whatever you think is best."

            Audley was anxious about introducing those two.  Her father would be suspicious of Lanon for the simple fact that she was interested in him.  For Doc Will, the sooner she married Brad the better, and he wouldn't take kindly to her interest in another man, no matter how platonic.

            She wheeled the Maxum onto Juniper Drive.  God, it was good to be home!  Each palm tree waved hello to her.  She grinned when she maneuvered the potholes, but frowned at once upon seeing Sylvia's Mercedes in her driveway.  She had not anticipated seeing anyone until she had had a chance to get organized.  She needed a bath and Lanon needed more time.  She needed to talk to her father and arrange for the return of Brad's car.  She needed to get her MG from the airport and locate her abandoned luggage.  "Damn."

            "What's the matter?"

            "We have company."

            "Who?"

            "Sylvia," she said, getting out and feasting her eyes on the sunflowers.

            Lanon got out and stretched.  "Why 'damn'?  She's your best friend," he reminded her, eyeing the redwood structure critically.  "This is your place?"

            "Yes," she responded.  Looking up, she saw that the coleus were vibrant.  "Like it?  Wait 'til you see the view!"  God, it was good to be home.

            Sylvia met Audley at the top of the stairs.  "Hi," she squealed, pulling Audley in with a hug.  "It's good to see you!  Welcome home."  Her eyes devoured Lanon.

            Audley acted quickly.  She pulled Lanon inside and shut the door.  "Sylvia, this is Lanon Zenton.  Lanon, this is my friend, Sylvia Watergate."

            Lanon took Sylvia's hand in both of his and held it.  "I'm very glad to meet you, Mrs. Watergate." 

            Sylvia felt a peculiar tingling sensation in the hand he held and she pulled it away.  "Sylvia," she corrected.  Her skin felt flushed and she shot Audley a quick look but Audley ignored it, brushing past her into the room.

            "We've been driving day and night, Sylvia," she said.  "We're exhausted.  I need a bath."  Her voice was distant, leaving Sylvia to understand that she should leave, but Sylvia was having no part of that.  Who was this man?  And what about Brad?

            "Well, of course!  I'm sure you must be exhausted, you poor thing!  That awful blackout, the trip.  You go draw yourself a nice bubble bath and tell me all about it.”  Sylvia intended to stay.

            During their exchange, Lanon had approached the front window to survey the view and it didn't disappoint him.  He whistled appreciatively, capturing both women's attention. 

            "This is really something, Audley," he said.  "It's even better than you described."

            Audley wrenched herself free from Sylvia's grip to join him.  “I’m so glad you like it, Lanon.  I love it."  She opened the double doors to the deck and walked out, relishing the feel of the breeze.  "Isn't it just delicious?"

            Sylvia, not to be left out, donned a straw bonnet and joined them.  "I don't know how you can be gone for even one day, Aud," she said.  "These plants are thirsty all the time!  I didn't dare leave them alone, and you never did tell me how long you thought you'd be gone."  Her voice reeked with implications.

            "They're hardier than you give them credit for, Sylvia, but just the same, I do appreciate your taking care of things for me."  She knew that Sylvia could hardly keep her eyes off Lanon and she did not want Lanon reacting to Sylvia's overt admiration.  Damn.  She had wanted more time alone with him.  Still, she rose to the occasion.  "Speaking of thirsty, how about a drink?  Lanon?"

            "Whatever you're having."

            Sylvia, too, rose to the occasion.  "Let me do that, Audley.  What'll you have?  Galliano?"

            "No, thanks.  How about some scotch?  Heavy on the soda."

            "Scotch it is."  Sylvia scuttled off, in a hurry to return.  "You two sit down."

            Audley shook her head.  "We've been sitting for days."

            Lanon meandered around the deck then around the room, taking in Audley's books, the desk, and her music collection.  From the kitchen, Sylvia kept her eyes and ears on Lanon and Audley while adding a dash of soda to the potent scotch.

            "You wouldn’t have any Wes Montgomery, would you?  He's always nice," Lanon said glibly.

            Audley was relieved.  He wouldn't betray himself to Sylvia.  And she was proud of him, acting so normal.  She inserted the CD while he studied the art prints on the wall.

            "Nice collection," he remarked.  "Where'd you get your Matisse?"

            "It was a gift from Dr. Spencer," she replied, biting her tongue.  Sylvia didn't miss the reference to "Dr. Spencer" as she returned with the tray of drinks and snacks.

            "How is Dr. Spencer, Audley?  Did you give him my regards?"  She took her drink to the wingback chair that floated mid-room.

            "Unfortunately I had very little contact with Dr. Spencer, Sylvia.  Our visit was cut short by the black-out."

            "Do tell."

            "I'd rather not."

            Audley took her drink into the bathroom and turned on the tap for her bath.  Lanon sat near the stereo sipping his drink.  He could not understand why humans drank the awful liquid.  It tasted bitter, left a flat after-taste and blurred the mind, practically debilitating Nucleus.  But he toasted in Sylvia's direction.  "Very good," he said.  "Nice work!”

            Sylvia blushed, unaccustomed to compliments.

            "Audley tells me you two went to school together," he persisted.

            "Yes," she said, finding her voice.  "College.  We go back a long way.  We have no secrets from each other,” she threatened.

            Audley emerged in a thick purple robe, her hair wrapped in a towel, turban-style, as Lanon was saying, "It helps to have someone to talk to." 

            Sylvia watched Audley sit next to Lanon, assuming what she perceived to be an intimacy with the stranger, and saying, "It certainly helped having Lanon to talk to all the way across the country.  It would have been a very lonely trip, otherwise."

            "I can imagine," Sylvia purred.  

            Audley knew Sylvia was deliberately twisting things.  "Mr. Zenton and I," she said firmly, "were both in a very trying situation, Sylvia.  We were both in an airplane when the blackout occurred.  We could easily have been killed."

            Sylvia ignored the reprimand.  "Are you with the IOF, Mr. Zenton?"

            "No," he said.  "And please dispense with the 'mister'.  All my friends call me Lanon."

            Audley grinned.  All his friends, indeed.

            "That's a nice name," Sylvia remarked.  "Different."         Nobody spoke. 

            At length Sylvia turned to Audley.  "Did you ...?"

            "... get your dress?  Oh, yes!  Lanon,” she suggested.  “I left a package in the trunk of the car.  Would you get that for me, please?"

            "Oh, sure!" he said, getting up.  “Gimme the keys and I'll bring in all the stuff." 

            As soon as he was out of earshot, Sylvia launched.  "My God, Aud!  Wherever did you find him?  He's the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen!"

            Audley grinned smugly in spite of her resolves.  "He really is, huh."

            "I didn't think they made men like that anymore!"

            "Trust me, they don't.  He's a breed all his own."

            "Married, I suppose," Sylvia suggested.

            "No, I don't think so."

            "You don't think so!  You mean you haven't asked?"

            Maybe it would be better if she didn't even mention the amnesia theory.  No sense in Sylvia asking awkward questions.  "No, and don't give me that kind of a look," she snapped.  "He isn't.  I'm sure of it.  I can just tell.  I didn't have to ask."

            "Well, if you don't, I will!  I'm not going to let you make a fool of yourself over a married man."  Lanon came back with his arms full as Sylvia was saying, "Not MY best friend!"

            "Here you are," he said, handing the package to Audley.  Sylvia snatched it up.  "I sure appreciate this, Aud.  I really do, and I hope it wasn't too much trouble for you."

            If Sylvia hadn’t coerced her into connecting with that dress, she would never have met Lanon.  "We're even," she said.  "You took care of my plants."  She exited to the bathroom and turned off the tap.  Sylvia followed her.

            "Have you been here all this time?"

            "Since Sunday.  Your father called here twice."

            "I'm not surprised."  If she and Lanon had driven straight through, she might have been home by late Tuesday.  It was Friday.  "I'll call him in the morning.  How come you've stayed all this time?"  She set out a razor, shampoo, conditioner, and a selection of oils and lotions.

            Sylvia sank onto the cushioned toilet seat. "Oh, Aud.  I just couldn't stand to go home.  Roger's in Chicago on depositions all this week.  Not that it makes any difference.  He's no company.  We just tolerate each other." She followed Audley back into the living room, altering her attitude as she passed through the doorway.  "I just thought the change would do me good, so I stayed here.  I've had a nice time, too.  Thanks."

            Audley again sat next to Lanon.  "And you, sir?  Are you having a nice time?"  He nodded, noticing her sudden warmth.  What a peculiar creature was woman: independent one minute and dependent the next.  He accepted that and smiled at her.  She wanted a moment alone with him.

            "Sylvia," she crooned, "why don't you fix us all another drink before I go take my bath?"  Sylvia obliged, happy at not being asked to leave.  "I'm going to take my bath, Lanon," Audley conspired, "and I'm going to trust you alone with Sylvia, but I want you to do me a favor and keep the conversation away from yourself.  Will you do that?"

            He winked, a gesture she had not taught him, and said, "Don't worry about a thing."      

            Sylvia came in with the drinks as Audley stood up, swooped up a glass and, eyes twinkling, left them.  "Make yourselves at home.  I'll be back!"

            Lanon hardly touched the second drink; he didn't like the blurred feeling.  Sylvia, also, was uncomfortable.  She knew her ample cleavage was perspiring, and her face felt crooked, but Lanon smiled into her eyes then rested his gaze squarely on his ice cubes. 

            She took a deep breath.  "Are you a pilot?" she asked for openers.

            "No, what makes you think that?"

            "Well, you said ... Audley said you were in a plane when the black-out happened.  I just thought it might have been your plane."

            "No, the plane belonged to an associate.  Actually, I don't know the first thing about flying."

            "I see." In spite of Audley's graciousness, Sylvia felt she ought to be somewhere else.  She didn't know how to talk to this man.  She twisted uncomfortably in the chair, thought about getting up, changed her mind.  Lanon was aware of her discomfort but had no understanding of the effects of hormones nor any reason to believe humans knew how to behave otherwise.  He only knew Sylvia's Nucleus was very unfocused.

            "Where do you live when you aren't here?" he asked.

            "I live in Beverly Hills," she said, smiling.  "I'm not here very often."

            "You are married,” he said.

            "Yes."  It would have been a perfect time to ask him if he was married but for some reason it didn't occur to her.  Instead, she looked at her wedding band.  "My husband Roger is an attorney.  He's on business in Chicago this week so I decided to come here for a few days."

            "And your child?"

            Sylvia looked him over.  "I didn't say anything about having a child."

            "But you have one, don’t you?"

            A cool calm settled over her.  What made him say that?  "I can't imagine where you got that idea, Mr. Zenton.  Can I get you another drink?"

            He shook his head, still peering at her expectantly.

            If Audley had told this stranger about Jennifer, she would skin her alive!  She shifted.

            "I'm sorry,” Lanon offered.  “You’re  uncomfortable."

            She snapped, "I am not uncomfortable!"  She stood abruptly, feeling herself getting angry.  Maybe she didn't like him as well as she thought she did.  She couldn't think of anything to say, or a way to change the subject, but she did feel compelled to stay there with him.  It was peculiar, but she saw herself as silly and deceitful.  She laughed lightly and sat back down.  "Actually, you're very astute.  I guess some men can tell."  She felt giddy and brave.  "I do have a child."

            "Where is she?" he asked.

            "She's...."  (Imagine the headlines.)  "She's not….” "  Why didn't she just say the child was dead?  “She’s not with us anymore!”

            "She's visiting somewhere?" he probed.

            "She's just not with us!"  Sylvia strode to the window, trying to appear unaffected.  For seven years no one had asked her these questions.  They had no reason to.  It was published in her father's paper: Mr. and Mrs. Roger Watergate's infant daughter, Jennifer, aged five months, died in her sleep last night of natural causes.  No services will be held."  It was right there in the paper: Jennifer was dead!  Why did he have to ask?  Why couldn't she just lie to him?

            His voice, damnably cheerful and unsettling, came to her.  "She must be very beautiful.  Her mother certainly is."

            "Yes," Sylvia acquiesced.  "She is very beautiful."

            Lanon heard her sadness, and when he spoke next, his voice reached deep inside.  "Why isn't she with you?"

            Damn him!  "You're out of line, Mr. Zenton!"

            "Am I?”  He was astonished.  “I’m sorry."

            He was not sorry.  He had pushed those buttons on purpose.  Why?  She was furious!  She was in pain!  "Did Audley tell you about Jennifer?" she demanded.

            "No.  You told me."

            Sylvia suddenly felt exposed.  "Excuse me," she said, leaving him and bursting in on Audley in her bath.  "Audley, I’m going home."

            Audley saw the look on Sylvia's face and her stomach wrenched.  "What happened, Sylvia?  You look like you've seen a ghost."

            "He asked me about Jennifer."  Sylvia collapsed onto the toilet seat.

            "He did?"  It did not surprise Audley.  "He didn't call her by name, did he?"

            "No."

            "What did he say?"

            "He asked me about my child."  Sylvia seemed helpless.

            "And you told him." She groaned.  Lanon affected people.  Evidently, he could not help that, no matter how cautious he was.

            Sylvia nodded.  "I don't know why.  I just couldn't lie to him."  She jumped up.  "He's weird, Audley.  What are you doing with him?  Where did he come from?"

            Good question.  Audley pulled herself up out of the soapy water.  "Lanon’s not weird, Sylvia.  He has amnesia.”            "Amnesia?"

            "Yes.  He hurt himself in the plane crash.  I'm taking him to see my father."

            "Oh."  She had thought Audley was out to snare him.  "Then you're not interested in him?"

            Audley pulled the plug and wrapped herself in one of the mauve towels.  "To the contrary.  I AM interested in him.  Otherwise, I would have left him on the side of the road where I found him."

            "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be interested in him, Audley.  He's a perfect stranger.  I’m not going to leave you alone with him.  I'm going to stay here and make sure you're safe."

            Actually, it might be helpful to have her around.  “Suit yourself.”

            "I am suspicious, Aud, I can tell you that."

            "Trust me, Sylvia.  He's harmless."

            "You mean he hasn't made any moves?"

            "None whatsoever."  She slipped into a loose one-piece lounger.

            Sylvia grinned in spite of herself.  "Too bad, huh?"

            Audley started rinsing out the tub.  "Listen.  Is there any food in the house?"

            "Tons.  I stocked up.  You want me to cook something?"

            "You?  Cook?  Will wonders never cease!"

            "Oh, cut it out."  Sylvia's color had returned to normal; she looked much better. 

            "You start.  I'll be out to help in a minute."

            Sylvia passed Lanon without looking at him, deciding to forget the conversation even happened, while Audley drew another tub of water, going light on the bubbles this time. 

            Lanon responded at once to her summons.  As he took in the decor of her bathroom, certainly more colorful than the one at the motel, she instructed him on bathing, shaving, et cetera, then laid out towels and an oversized terry cloth robe for him to wear.

            "Whatever made you ask Sylvia about her kid?" she asked.  "Of all the things you could have picked to talk about, that was not the best choice."

            "Why not?"  Her criticism didn't seem to bother him in the least. 

            Maybe it was at that, she reconsidered.  Jennifer was Sylvia's nemesis, that’s for sure.  “The kid is a vegetable.  The whole experience has practically ruined Sylvia's life."

            "A vegetable?"  Surely she didn't mean that literally.

            As Audley talked, she urged him out of his clothing, using the conversation as a buffer to conceal her absurd fascination with his body.  "A basket case," she explained.  "A nothing.  Jennifer hasn't got a mind."  She tapped herself on the head for emphasis.  "She's not all there."

            Lanon scowled and slid under the bubbles.  "And she is alive?"  He was incredulous.

            "Alive and well in an institution in Denver, Colorado, where they feed her, change her diapers and treat her like a China doll."

            "Why hasn't she been eliminated?"  He could not believe that on this world the Voids were allowed to exist.

            She handed him a wash cloth and a new bar of soap.  "It's against our laws."

            "The laws must be changed!" he insisted.

            "Perhaps.  But that's not our problem."  She stood up.  "Now, take your bath."

            As he began to lather himself he thought about Sylvia's vegetable.  "That’s not our problem, you say, but it is for our friend Sylvia."

AUDLEY WOKE IN HER OWN BED.  Beside her, Sylvia slept soundly and would sleep undisturbed until noon or until she was deliberately roused.  She lay there listening to the wind in the junipers and to the birds singing, reflecting. 

            She felt good inside.  What she had done, what she was doing, what she intended to do -- all this was good.  Today she would introduce her fledgling friend to another aspect of life, the world of the complexity of the mind, and this too was good.   Whatever it was that was happening, of which she understood very little, she felt good about it.  She would be fearless.  But, she would keep him and enjoy him for as long as possible within the framework of that which she did not understand.  She crept downstairs and watched him sleep.  He was such an innocent.  She did not relish the idea of giving him over to her father and Mindal Science, but she felt it must be done.

            She perked coffee, made up her face and dressed, then went back to watching Lanon.  Was he sleeping?  Or was he out somewhere in the galaxy?  Was it possible?  Even so, his lovely body was here, and to that extent she was with him.  

            He opened his eyes and, seeing her, smiled and said, "Hello."

            She returned the smile.  "The appropriate thing to say upon rising is 'Good morning'."

            "Good morning." 

            If he were a little more experienced, just a little more sophisticated, she would crawl under the covers with him.  Heck, he would have pulled her in with him already, but he was so new.  She would have to wait.  "Did you sleep well?" she asked, moving away.

            He nodded.  "And you?"

            "Very well.  It was great to wake up in my own bed."

            "I'll bet," he agreed.

            She did not know if he was talking about waking up in his own bed or hers, but it was fun to speculate. "Sylvia is still asleep.  Are you ready for coffee?"

            He tossed off his covers and, sure enough, he was in great morning condition.  She hid a smile and went to the kitchen to start his breakfast, thinking what life would be like as Mrs. Lanon Zenton.  It would be heaven, she decided.  Sheer heaven on Urth.

            After breakfast she said, "I need to talk to Dad about you before Sylvia gets up.”

            “About the testing?”

            “Yes,” she nodded.  “Are you ready to learn how to use the telephone?” 

            “Of course, I am ready,” he said confidently.

            She showed him how to feed in the destination, how to listen for the 'go' signal and so on, then finally put in the call to Santa Barbara. 

            Martha answered and, recognizing Audley’s voice, launched at once on a verbal tirade about worrying her father half to death, why hadn't she called, Brad was there and beside himself with concern, when was she coming up, et cetera. 

            "Martha," Audley cut in, "let me talk to Dad."  Martha knew when to be a mother and when to be a housekeeper.  She connected father and daughter at once.

            "Audley?"  His voice was understandably terse.

            "Hi, Dad." She grinned at Lanon’s eyes fixed on hers.

            "You're late getting back.  Did you have trouble?"

            "No.  No trouble."

            "When are you coming up?  Brad's here."

            She took a deep breath.  This was not going to be easy.  She gave the task her full attention.

            "Dad, the reason I'm calling is to ask you a favor."  She paused, trying to find the words to phrase it right.  "I want you to test someone."

            "Who?"  As she anticipated, he was suspicious.  She took another deep breath and forged on.

            "His name is Lanon Zenton."

            "He?  Audley, what are you doing?"

            "Nothing, Dad.  I know you're frowning and I know what you're thinking, but it's not like that."

            "Damn it, Audley.  Brad has been here since Sunday.  We've both been half out of our minds with worry.  You owe at least Brad an explanation!" 

            He was angrier than she expected.  Well, she could be angry, too.  "What goes on between Brad and me is none of your business, Dad.  What's he doing there anyway, bothering you?  He's got no right dumping on you about our problems."

            "He hasn't 'dumped' on me, and you watch your tone of voice with me, young lady.  This is your father you're talking to."

            She wasn't going to get away with it that easily.  She would have to pacify him.  "I'm sorry."

            "You damned well should be sorry.  I'm an old man, Audley.  I can't adjust to your mis-adventures like I used to.  It wouldn't have hurt you to call and let us know you were alright."

            "I know.  I should have called.  I called Sylvia."

            "Christ," he sulked.  "Was I supposed to call all over the country trying to see if you were alive or not?"

            "I said I was sorry!"  Would he go on all day?  There followed a long silence, during which Audley toyed with the cord on her telephone.  He had finished.  "I know you're mad at me," she continued, "but this is important."

            "You're single-minded, Audley!” he launched anew.  “It only counts if it's important to you.  It matters little if it's important to other people."

            "Please, Dad.  This is important to other people.  Trust me."

            "Ha!" he spat.  Another long silence.  "Who is he?  Your latest and greatest paramour?"

            She bristled.  "He's an acquaintance!  A friend, Dad.  We met during the black-out."

            "What do you want me to see him for?"

            She hesitated.  "He was in a plane crash."

            "Then he should be in a hospital somewhere on the East Coast.'

            "He wasn't physically hurt."

            "Then what is it?"

            "Well, Dad, I can't explain it.  I think it's some kind of amnesia.”  She could feel her father’s disbelief.  “Dad, please see him.  I beg you.  I want to make certain he's all right."

            Audley begging?  Despite himself, Doc's interest was piqued.

            She continued.  "He's been very helpful to me on more than one occasion and I want to return the favor."

            "That's all there is to it?"

            "That's all there is to it!"  That was a lie, but ... if it made him happy.

            "Where is he now?"

            "He’s here, at my place."

            "He slept there?"

            "He slept here on the sofa.  Sylvia and I slept in my bed.  Now, are you satisfied?"

            "I'm going to tell Brad you're coming up."

            "Go ahead!"  It sounded flip.

            "Audley...."  It was a leading tone of voice.  "What happened back there?"

            "We had an argument.   I'll tell you about it later."

            "Is everything alright with you and Brad?"

            She hesitated again.  "I'll talk to you about it later, okay?"  She didn't want to talk about Brad in front of Lanon.

            "What time can we expect you?"

            "We'll have to wait for Sylvia to wake up."

            "Why?"

            "So she can drive."

            "Why?"

"Because Lanon doesn't have a driver's license and my car is at the airport and I need to find out if my luggage has come back yet and I need to bring Brad's car up to him…"

            "Oh, alright!  About 2:00 then?"

            "Better make it 3."

            "We'll be expecting you."

            "Thanks, Dad.  I appreciate it."

DR. BLACKSTONE HUNG UP without saying 'good-bye'.  What the hell was she up to now?  He sometimes regretted having raised her the way he did.  She got away with murder.  He rubbed the back of his neck, relieved to have heard her voice, even if she did get his dander up.  

            This was peculiar and he didn't like it.  She had never asked him to test anyone.  Never.  And certainly not any of her man friends.  This 'interest' she had was more than platonic, he was sure of that.  She never set her cap on something that there wasn't something in it for her.  And now this thing with her and Brad…. 

            Doc Will suspected the worst and felt justified in his feelings.  And another thing!  The little brat was leaving it up to him to break the news to Brad!  No, he couldn't let his suspicions be broadcast to Brad.  Maybe she was being straight, although he doubted it.  Strange things happen in times of disaster. Maybe it had scared some sense into her.  He hoped so.

            Amnesia, indeed, he harrumphed.  And what a handle: Lanon Zenton.  Probably some buck passing himself off as a Nairobi prince.  He shook his head, feeling sick.  God, he hoped she was being straight for once.