FROZEN DANCERS
Alice knew he was home because the Ford was parked out front, but there was no greeting as she closed the door behind her and relocked it. The apartment was dark except for a glow from the studio. Good, maybe he was still working.
She entered through the back door and picked her way through the kitchen without touching the light switch. She knew the light would send cockroaches scurrying among piles of dirty dishes, and she would feel compelled to say or do something about them. It was a toss-up as to whether the bugs or the dirty dishes bothered her more, or, for that matter, as to which could precipitate a fight faster.
There would be no fight on this night. Especially not if he was actually getting some work done. There was news to break. Good news, though there was no telling how he would react to word of her promotion. Oh, he'd be full of congratulations and praise at first, but what about later? Would he throw it up to her in the middle of their next fight as an example of how she cared more about her job than him?
The apartment was completely silent as she paused at the entrance to the living room. A breeze bounced the curtain at the front window, and she moved across the room to close it off. When they had moved in he had carried on for hours about how the house in front of their duplex would block off the noise from the street while the high hedges surrounding the manicured lawn would keep down the noise of the neighbors. Well, he'd been right about that part of it, at least at night. During the day the kids next door raised a racket loud enough to penetrate a sound studio, but the nights were peaceful. He worked at night. At first he had worked, at night that is. Now, he hardly worked at all.
She drew herself away from the window where she had been staring up at the clouds moving across what stars managed to shine through the city-lit haze. Might as well peek in and see how he was doing. She could always tiptoe back out to the living room and read for a while if he seemed too busy to talk.
The overhead light was out. All light came from the gooseneck, clamped to the back of the table. A crumpled sheet of paper, sitting on the floor in the studio doorway, grew on its dark underside into its own shadow and thence across the floor of the hall. Inside the studio dozens of other balls of paper dotted the floor, congregating mostly around a plastic waste can at the foot of the floor to ceiling bookcase.
Around the base of the drawing board and its stool, unused sheets of paper were scattered like playing cards in a child's game of pick up. The long lamp was stretched straight out across the drawing surface, its light focused on the ceiling in the far corner. Under the lamp the table's surface was strewn with photographs, half-completed sketches, pencils, and a large drawing which had been torn nearly in two.
She closed her eyes and chewed on her top lip for a moment before going over to the table to pick up the drawing. It was, as she had known it would be, a seemingly random collection of lines, congealing into a dancer seen from above in a stylized pirouette. She also knew that somewhere, buried under the rubble, there was a short, polite note from a gallery, saying that, while his work was "interesting" it didn't really fit with their current showings. For a moment she was lost again in the bewitching magic of his work.
When he'd first left the Art Institute they had laughed and gotten drunk on Red Mountain Burgundy when he received such notes. The gallery would rue the day they'd rejected him, she'd say. Now, after several years and many notes, rejection was no longer funny. Now, when he told her about such things, she shrugged and said nothing. Her good news would have to wait.
Alice laid the drawing back on the desk, switched off the lamp, and walked out of the room. The hall was rather light, being exposed to the living room windows, which she'd forgotten to close, and the glow of city lights. None of the light managed to penetrate the imposing shadow of the bedroom doorway to her right, however, and she flicked the switch to the hallway light, sending its beams ahead as scouts, before entering the room herself.
The pool of light from the hall showed Bill, lying on the bed, on his back. He rolled his face toward the wall, away from the glare.
"Bad day," she asked.
There was a long pause. "Bad year."
"Come on now, it'll be alright. It's just a matter of time before the right exhibitor sees your work and then you'll be off to the races."
His only response was to rise, walk past her to the bathroom. She turned on the bedroom light and began preparing for bed. She was hanging her dress in the closet as he wrapped his arms around her.
"Oh, you're all wet!" She laughed and pushed his arms from her bare skin.
"My sentiments exactly."
"No, silly, your hands are wet. And cold. You never dry them properly." She turned as she spoke and took him in her arms, laying her head against his chest.
"It seems I don't do anything properly."
"Well now, I can think of something you're pretty good at. Besides, I saw what you were working on in the studio, and it looked great."
"But it won't sell. It's not super-duper realism. It's not what people want to see. It's about time to stop busting my butt at that damn drawing board and stuff this whole god-damned fantasy about creating new perspectives." He spun around and made as if to hit the wall with his fist but stopped in mid-swing, his arms dropping to his side.
She reached past him and turned out the light, then took his arm and pulled him toward the bed.
*
She stood before the mirror applying a hint of lipstick. Casual, she thought, that's the thing. Just mention the promotion in passing. The face in the mirror assumed a look of utter nonchalance and then slackened as he came into the room carrying a cup of tea and toast. "You didn't have to bring it in here. I'll be done in a sec, and we'll sit down together in the kitchen."
"Oh no you don't," he called back over his shoulder as he left the room. "I know you just want to get me out here where I'll feel guilty about those damn bugs. Well, let me tell you something, I've outsmarted you. I not only escape the roaches and get credit for being a liberated husband who fixes his wife's tea in the morning, I'm also all set to sit and sip mine in bed after you leave." By the time he had finished speaking he was back in the room with another cup and was sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Up from there, lazy person. Your work awaits in yonder room. Hie thee quickly to thine labors, which the world, with bated breath, awaits."
"And with what, Madame Legree, is that breath baited? For I shall not be tempted by such inane stuff as fame and fortune."
"Oh no, venerable sire. Trifles like that are reserved for minor talents like mine. Indeed, only yesterday the world's reserve of fame was placed at my feet. The new financing has gone through and," she swallowed. "And I've been made story editor."
"Well, well," Bill raised his cup to her. "A toast to the rising star in the world of affairs."
*
The freeway was a place to think. Whenever she bemoaned the time needed to drive the full length of the Harbor Freeway morning and evening, she ended up reminding herself that those were the parts of the day most truly hers. Only there, on those twenty-five miles of concrete could she relax and sort things out, her compulsion to do, to be busy, temporarily sedated by the act of driving.
She accelerated through the long curve that brought Gaffy Street into the freeway, adjusted to the stream of cars coming from the Vincent Thomas Bridge, and leveled out at freeway speed just as she passed the San Pedro docks where thousands of tiny cars from Japan, looking exactly like the one she was driving, sat row on row. By the time the freeway broadened to four full lanes at Pacific Coast Highway, she was on automatic pilot.
He had taken it fairly well. Maybe she worried too much. It was just that things had been so tense in their relationship lately. At first it had been the two of them against the world. She had her career. He had his art. They believed in each other. The hell with the rest of the world.
He still had his art, his frozen dancers. She still had her career. But things changed.
Maybe Now Books wasn't Harper and Rowe, but it was a publishing company and it gave her a chance to get to know people in the industry. Later, if Now Books could only hold on for another year or so, she would move on to something better.
The thing was, she was realistic. She adapted. Why couldn't he draw something besides those god-damned dancers? At least he could draw them so people knew what they were without having to stare at them for ten minutes.
Maybe it was her fault. She'd been as naïve as he was back when they'd started out together. She'd always told him how good his things were, how he was going to turn the art world around. His stuff was good. He saw things in a unique way, but . . .
Oh hell! He was just so damned hard to live with anymore. He was always depressed, and she was always walking on eggshells. If he'd only compromise a little bit. She had, and she was going places.
Back when she'd first started out she'd been all uptight about things like going out to lunch with clients. She'd known they only wanted her along because they wanted to make a pass or at least pretend to all the other men around that they had a little something going for them on the side. But she'd eventually learned to go along with it, and she'd finally gotten the job she wanted. When she went out for lunch today she'd be in charge. If the guy wanted the contract he had to convince her to sign it.
If only she had that kind of control with Bill. Not that she wanted to be the boss, but as it was now, she was almost embarrassed to introduce him when he dropped by the office. It was fine to go around in patched jeans when they were in school, but now things were different. It had been hard enough to establish herself in the business world without having to explain why her husband looked like a hippy.
With the paycheck she was bringing home now they could afford better looking clothes for him than that. Even he sold enough drawings and etchings to buy some new clothes. She'd bring it up when she got home in the evening. For that matter, she ought to see if she could find some way of getting him out of his rut and into a job or something. It was something to think about all right, maybe a set of illustrations for one of Now's new books.
Her day's objective defined, she turned her attention to the more immediate problem of getting off the freeway and onto Wilshire Blvd.
As she pulled the car into the driveway, she searched in vain for some sign of life. Even the studio window was dark. Shit, not two nights in a row. Well, no coddling tonight, she was going to lay it on the line.
She parked the car and walked quickly to the back door. As she entered, she began turning on lights. She was almost through the kitchen and into the living room before she noticed, the dishes were gone. She worked her way back through the house, turning on lights: living room, hall, bedroom, bathroom, studio. No Bill. No mess. Where was he? The car had been out front, hadn't it? She couldn't remember.
She ran back through the apartment and pushed the curtains aside at the living room window. No Ford. Maybe he'd parked in the street and the landlord's house was blocking her view. No. She knew that wasn't true. He was gone. She dropped the curtain and walked slowly back to the bedroom.
So, she shouldn't have broken the news after all. God damn him! At least he could have faced her, told her he'd had enough. Why did she have to push him so hard? Wasn't he ever going to grow up?
She stood in the middle of the bedroom undressing, letting her clothes lie where they dropped. It was still too early to go to bed, but she put her nightgown on anyway: the old flannel nightgown, with the buttons missing, worn gauze-thin in spots and down soft. He called it her cuddly.
She turned off the bedroom light and crossed the hall to the bathroom. The porcelain sink gleamed its cleanness at her as she washed her face. Damn him! She snapped off the light and went to the door of the studio. She stood there for a moment and then reached one arm through the door and felt for the wall switch. When she found it she turned the light out and then strode out through the living room to the kitchen. Without pausing, she walked to the door, turned off the light and returned to the living room. Oh, damn! She'd forgotten to lock the door. She started back toward the kitchen but just as she came into it, the door opened. She gasped.
"What's the matter? Did I startle you?" Bill blew her a kiss and closed the door behind him. "I decided I needed a day off, so I cleaned house instead. Then, I was so proud of my industriousness that I went down to Duggie's to reward myself with a beer. Hey, what's the matter? Why are you crying?"
"Nothing. It's nothing. We need to talk."
M. L. Owen lives and writes among the giant redwoods of Northern California and has had work published in a number of literary journals, including Bookends Review, Down In The Dirt, Café Lit, Bright Flash Literary Review, South Shore Review, and others.
