by Randy Salem
Dizz moved after a while and went to her room to dress. She had left the door open and for a few minutes Chris sat watching her. Then very deliberately she rose and went back onto the terrace.
A black and white cat from across the alley was perched on a corner of the fence taking the sun. Somebody's radio blared out an orange juice commercial. Brakes squealed somewhere out on the Avenue. It seemed like any other Monday morning.
Yet Chris knew in her heart that it wasn't. Dizz was too happy, too anxious. She found herself hoping that Dizz would be disappointed and come home miserable and take a couple of drinks. That Chris could cope with, but this other thing she could not touch. She sat down on a garden chair and proceeded to ignore the whole situation. She looked at the cat. She listened to street sounds and some terrible thing of Bach's. She smoked herself nauseous.
The buzzer rang in the kitchen. She bent her head to hear if Dizz would run, a little too eagerly, to answer it. But it was quiet in the apartment.
"Honey," Dizz called out the window. "Get it, will you? I'm not quite ready."
An hour and she's not quite ready. An hour. A person could try on everything in Macy's in that length of time.
Chris got to the kitchen just as the buzzer sounded the second time. She pushed the button and opened the door. George took off his hat as he came through the doorway. He stood with it hanging from two fingers and stuck out the others in greeting. The left hand was behind his back.
"Hi, Chris," he said with that ear-to-ear grin. "I brought a friend." He took his left hand from behind his back and held out the friend for inspection.
"It's adorable," Chris laughed and in half a second she was sitting on the living room floor getting acquainted. The miniature schnauzer couldn't have been more than two months old. He still looked a little wobbly. With his shiny black eyes and little tufted self, he enchanted Chris completely.
"His name's Schnitzel," George said, squatting on the floor beside Chris. He held out a hand and the pup bounced over to it and licked his fingers. "He's just learning manners. Better not let him get too excited."
Chris sat back on her heels and watched the pup. “I don't imagine he can do too much damage," she said.
George picked up Schnitzel and got to his feet. "I'm beginning to think he could win a medal," he said.
"Chris, are you quite comfortable?"
Chris heard the icicles in Dizz's voice and looked up rather foolishly from her seat on the floor.
George turned quickly. "Hello, Sheila," he said. He took a step forward, cupping Schnitzel in his hand. "Chris and my buddy have just been saying hello."
Dizz turned on the charm. "Oh, he's a love," she cooed She put out a hand and played with the puppy's ear. "Isn't he darling, Chris?" she said, turning to look down at her friend.
Chris stood up and nodded at Dizz. She had a smirk on her face that she knew Dizz could kill her for. "Yes, he is," she said. "And I'm so glad you like dogs. I gather you’ll be holding the baby this afternoon."
George smiled happily at Dizz. "I'm glad you do too," he said. "I've had one or another all my life." He put out his hand and gave the pup to Dizz.
Dizz took the pup and cuddled it in her arm. She stroked it lovingly with the other hand.
Chris turned away to find a cigarette. She could not look at Dizz and keep a straight face. Dizz with a dog! It was too delicious. Dizz with one of those dirty smelly beasts that she could not tolerate.
"Chris," Dizz said, "would you get my coat for me, dear? The light blue one."
"Of course," Chris answered and went to the closet off the kitchen. She took the coat and put it over her arm. She walked back to Dizz.
Dizz took advantage of the moment to glare at Chris with fury. "Thank you," she said stiffly as Chris draped the coat over her arm.
"Well, I guess we're ready," George said. "I'm sorry you're busy this afternoon, Chris. Maybe you can make it next time."
Chris looked at Dizz. "I'm sorry too," she said.
Dizz did not look at Chris, but busied herself with Schnitzel. She flushed slightly, then said, "Goodbye, Chris. We'll be home early, I think. Won't we, George?"
"Should be," he answered. He turned to Chris. "Is it okay if I take the young lady to dinner on the way back?"
"Yes," Chris said. "It's okay."
"Then well see you later," he said. He took Dizz by the elbow and steered her to the door.
Chris closed the door behind them and stood with her back against it. She couldn't blame George, she knew. He was doing his best to play it fair. It was Dizz she should hate, if she wanted to hate somebody. But how the devil could she hate Dizz?
She walked into the living room and slumped onto the couch. She put out the cigarette. Her hands dug angrily into her pockets and she pushed her feet hard against the floor.
Whatever this game Dizz was playing, Chris did not like it. Chris did not mind a good fight with everything out in the open. But when a woman started being wily, a person might as well beat an honorable retreat from the battlefield.
Dizz had never done anything like this before. She was usually bluntly honest. Hurt like hell, sometimes. But at least you knew what was happening. You could only guess this way.
Chris didn't like any of the answers she came up with.
The phone startled her out of her bitter reverie. She leaned over to the end table and grabbed the receiver.
"Hello," she said.
"Miss Hamilton?" asked a voice she knew from somewhere.
"Yes."
"Chris, darling, this is Carol. I thought maybe you'd like to come help me with some sea shells over lunch."
Chris paused a long minute. She knew perfectly well she was too old to play at getting even. And she knew she had no business getting involved with this girl.
"Yes," she said. "I'd like that. Very much, in fact."
"Good," Carol said. "Can you be here in an hour?"
"Honey," Chris said, "I can make it in half the time, if you're free."
"Come ahead. I’ll see you then."
Chris hung up the phone and hurried to put on a skirt. She knew it was all wrong. She belonged to Dizz and she always would. She could not decently let anyone else get interested.
Carol was a good kid. She deserved somebody who could love her, who would settle down with her.
Chris had all the arguments against it down pat. But she felt a niggle of excitement at the thought of being with Carol, of caressing-her and loving her.
And when she closed the door behind her, she walked briskly to the corner to hail a cab, filled with a kind of elation she had not felt in years.
CHAPTER 4
The meter made a dollar's worth of clicks before the cab left the crosstown traffic and turned north on Fifth Avenue. A dozen blocks later it pulled up in front of a four-story stone building that looked no different from the others lining the block.
A small metal placard on the great black door said MARINE MUSEUM.
"This the place?" asked the driver, turning to peer at Chris through smudgy thick lenses.
"Yes, this is it," she answered, leaning across to open the door.
"Don't look much like a museum," he commented sourly.
"It's private," Chris whispered confidentially and turned on a mysterious smile.
"Oh," the driver said. The awe in his voice made Chris at least an ambassador from lower Mongolia.
Chris grinned and handed him two singles. She stepped out of the cab and slammed the door without looking back.
She felt the driver watching her till she had climbed the wide concrete steps, opened the heavy black door and passed inside.
It was always an experience to enter this place. Something like being suddenly at the bottom of a tropic sea. The walls were tapestried in warm blues and greens with an occasional splash of scarlet and of gold. The floor was covered with a thick sand-colored carpet that caught and held every trace of noise. The great entry hall rose four stories high and from the skylights abov
e long fingers of sunlight reached down, only occasionally finding bottom and resting there.
Beyond the hall and on the floors above was housed one of the finest collections of marine lore in the world. With almost limitless funds and a practical approach to spending them, Jonathan Brandt had put old Hobbes' will and his mansion to splendid use. In his employ divers had combed every sea, searching out lost cities, fabulous treasures and sea creatures of every variety. Thousands of books, maps, diaries and secret documents had found their way into his eager hands.
And the whole had been arranged in a fairy-tale fashion that never ceased to delight Chris and others who, for a rather sizeable fee, had the standing of lifetime members. It was like a casual visit to Neptune's private palace and being allowed to wander at will through his gardens and libraries. No showcases, no locked cabinets. The glories of the sea were all set within easy reach to be examined and admired.
Chris herself had been responsible for many fine contributions, mostly rare shells and a few oddities like the collection of treasure maps she had routed out in odd corners of the world. As she crossed the hall toward the office at the back, Chris was remembering proudly how she'd done that lying bastard Blackfield out of an authentic pirate's map. He'd tried to chisel her out of a small fortune. But he had a weakness for rum and poker. So...
"Chris!'' A high-pitched squeal called to her. "Chris, dahling!" Jonathan Brandt had appeared, apparently from nowhere. He looked like a chubby cherub, all five-five of him round and pink and snub-nosed and somehow angelic. Little wisps of faded blonde hair poked out at the edges of his bald pate and his clear blue eyes would never get as old as the rest of him.
He bustled noiselessly across the carpet toward Chris, stretched forward on his toes and puckered his lips.
Chris bent to receive the greeting. She was fond of Jonathan, in a peculiar way. He was charming and pleasant and did his work expertly. But she wouldn't trust him out of her sight.
"Chris, it's been an age. You look marvelous, just too too marvelous," he said breathlessly. He always sounded breathless. "And how's Sheila?"
Chris felt a pang of dismay. Jonathan had known Dizz for years, had even fancied himself in love with her once. He'd been one of the people who'd introduced them. She didn't like to think what might happen if he knew why she was at the museum.
"Sheila's fine," she said. "As always."
"Good, good," he said. "And what can we do for you this lovely afternoon? If anything." He stood with his hands together as if in prayer. He moved up on his toes, back on his heels. He was never still.
"Well," she paused imperceptibly, then took the plunge. "I got a call from your new assistant, Miss Martin. She's cataloging that last batch I brought in, I gather, and wants some information."
Dr. Brandt pursed his lips and clucked. "Very thorough, Miss Martin, very thorough. I've been most pleased with her work." He peered up at Chris. "Beautiful girl, beautiful. Have you met her yet?" he asked.
"No, I haven't," Chris lied. She prayed in her heart that Carol would play it smoothly when the time came for introductions.
"Come along, then. She's in the office in back." Jonathan turned toward the rear of the building.
Chris followed him the length of three immense rooms and through an archway into what had once been the solarium. There was not a sound to betray their passage.
When they entered the room, Carol was sitting on a high stool at a semi-circular counter that ran the length of the glass wall. Spread out before her on sheets of off-white paper were thousands of colorful pea-sized shells. She held one of these tiny shells between two fingers and was studying it intently.
Dr. Brandt coughed politely in order not to startle the girl.
Carol put the shell carefully on the paper and turned to face them. She looked up at Chris and began a smile that could easily turn out to be too friendly.
Chris sent her a warning with her eyes over Dr. Brandt's pink dome. Carol caught it. The smile eased to one of polite greeting.
"Miss Martin," Dr. Brandt said, then turned to Chris with a flourish of his hand, "this is Christopher Hamilton." The tone in which he said it implied that anybody but a fool would grasp the full significance of the moment.
Carol slid off the stool and came toward Chris as though she were about to curtsey to the Queen. "How do you do, Miss Hamilton," she said. Chris could see the laughter bubbling in her eyes.
Chris extended her hand. "Miss Martin," she said.
Solemnly they shook hands.
"Well, ladies," Dr. Brandt said, "I'll leave you to your work." He turned to go.
"Jonathan," Chris called after him, "one second. After I astound and bore this young lady to death with all the pertinent facts, have I your permission to buy her a drink?" She grinned at him. "I like to be on the good side of your assistants. I give them enough dirty work to do."
"Of course, Chris," he answered. Chris made a habit of Christmas gifts and the like, he knew. He turned importantly to Carol. "As soon as you've finished here, call it a day," he said expansively.
Chris watched him trot out through the archway and toward his own office off the foyer.
She turned to Carol. "Thank you," she said. "That fat little gentleman has all the instincts of a peeping Tom. And I can't see any good reason for keeping him posted on my personal life."
"Sure. Any time," Carol said. She walked back to the counter. "Does he know Dizz?" she asked, carefully keeping her eyes focused on the shells.
For a long minute Chris did not answer. She looked intently at the back of Carol's head, trying to calculate what was happening inside it "Yes, he does," she said. "Why?"
"Just curious," Carol answered.
Chris came and stood beside Carol at the counter. She gripped the edge with both hands and pressed till the knuckles went white.
"Look," Chris said softly, "I came here because I wanted to see you. I like you," she said. "A lot. Do I have to give you the history of my life? Or will you take it for what it's worth?"
Carol tilted her head and smiled into Chris's eyes. "No, darling," she said. "I don't need any explanations. I just don't want you to get in trouble with your girl." She grinned impishly. "I know how unreasonable women can be."
Chris laughed and hastily planted a kiss on Carol's forehead.
"Now, big shot, we've got work to do." Carol turned to a rack of rolled maps, selected one and lifted it off.
"Sit down over there at the desk and well get at it."
Chris reached out and easily lifted the cumbersome map from Carol's hands. She carried it to the desk and unrolled it on the broad top. Carol brought over a couple of conch shells to anchor the bottom corners.
"Now, I could use some tracing paper and a sharp pencil," Chris said. She stood looking down at the map, tracing with a forefinger the area to be lifted.
Carol came up behind her and laid a two-foot square of tracing paper over the map. Then she reached in front of Chris and pulled open the middle drawer. 'Take your pick," she said.
Chris selected a blue drawing pencil and felt the lead with her finger. Then she took a contraption with a razor blade from the drawer, flicked lightly at the lead and tested it again.
"Okay," she said. "An ashtray and we're all set." For two hours Chris bent studiously over the map, tracing carefully every minute particular of the Keys, shading here and there, labelling each area she had explored and listing meticulously which shells came from which spot. Occasionally she paused to take a drag on a cigarette or to sharpen the pencil.
Carol, she knew, was somewhere behind her, silently going about her business, not humming or running a sweeper or something, as Dizz would be doing.
Finally Chris straightened up and put the pencil down on the desk. "How's that?" she said.
Carol was all of a sudden at her elbow, studying the tracing. "Perfect, darling," she said. "You just saved me a week's work." She picked up the paper and carried it to the counter. She checked a couple of items against
the key, shifted one to another sheet. Chris rolled up the map, crossed with it to the rack and set it in place. She returned to the desk, moved the conchs back on a shelf, then sat down in the swivel chair.
Carol came and perched on the desk beside her. "It's a pleasure to watch you work, Chris," she said. "You're so thorough. And you know what you're doing."
“I should," Chris answered. "I've been doing it for twenty years."
"My God, I was just out of diapers then," Carol laughed. "What got you started?"
Chris shifted in the chair. "Well," she said, "a land of childhood compassion, I guess. I was brought up around the Indian River Inlet, you know. Plenty of ocean and beach and dunes. I remember when I was just a little kid, going with my family to Long Neck to dig clams. Not in the mud on shore, but wading up to your neck in the water with a tub tied to you and floating behind. You dig down in the mud with the clam rake and when you're a kid it's fun to see if you can dig faster than the clams and catch 'em before they get away."
She paused to put out a cigarette. "Then one night I had a peculiar dream," she went on. "A big clam was standing in the water with a people rake and I was trying to dig my way down into the mud. And just when I thought I was safe, he grabbed me with the rake and pulled me out of the water and threw me in the tub." She laughed. "I never went clamming after that."
Carol slid off the desk and stood up. "But you started collecting clam shells?" she said.
"Hmm. And other kinds. And making maps. I used to walk along the shore, listening to the ocean. I'd hear voices, you know, telling me about far away ports and all kinds of mysteries at the bottom of the sea." She sighed wistfully. “I even wrote poetry in the wet sand at one point."
Carol was silent, letting Chris enjoy her reverie.
"So," Chris said in a moment. "And now I'm hungry. How about you?"
Carol crossed to a small lavatory at one end of the office. “I’ll be with you in two seconds," she said. And in two seconds she returned. She had put on a soft rose wool coat that set off her dark hair dramatically.
