by Kip Chase
‘Pat,’ George interrupted, ‘don’t you see that isn’t important? It doesn’t matter where I work, it’s the painting that matters. And when I’m not working, I want to be with you. That’s why I married you. I love you.’
‘That’s not fair, George, you’re getting sentimental on me. Darling, I give you my word of honour when this contract runs out next month I’ll take some time off and we can see how it goes. All right?’ She leaned over and gave her husband a solid kiss on the mouth.
George disengaged himself with reluctance. ‘Okay, okay’, he said wearily. ‘But don’t think it’s a closed issue.’
‘Of course not, darling’, Pat said briskly. She began to gather up the beach paraphernalia and to stuff it into a huge multi-coloured beach bag. ‘’Bout supper-time, don’t you think? Steaks tonight. Thick, juicy, grade-A steaks.’ She glanced impishly at George.
‘It does beat pizza’, he grinned back at her. George rolled over on his back, draped one arm across his forehead, and momentarily closed his eyes. There passed across his face a look of contentment curiously mixed with anguish. In his mind’s eye he caught a flash of flat rice paddies, stubble-covered brown fields, and wooded, rugged hills etched against the lead-grey of a Korean winter sky.
The Three Musketeers, the correspondents had dubbed them – he, Tony Ortega, and John Williams. They had been boyhood friends together in a small sun-dappled California valley town, enlisted together, and served together in a battalion of the First Marine Division. It was during the wild, desperate retreat from Inchon that Tony’s platoon, the Second, became cut off and isolated inside enemy territory. George and John talked the remaining members of their battered group into what appeared to be an almost suicidal rescue mission. After savage fighting they carved out a path to the Second platoon and turned to fight their way back out of enemy territory. Four men, including George and John, were acting as lead scouts. A mortar shell landed near the scouts. Two were killed; George and John survived, but were too badly wounded to be moved. Tony refused to leave his buddies. After a futile argument the rest of the group moved on, leaving Tony, George, and John six miles inside the Chinese lines. It took Tony fourteen days to retrace those six miles, but he made it, and he brought George and John with him. Hiding by day, foraging for food at night, and alternately carrying his two friends, it was an incredible performance of courage and endurance. For Tony, there was a Congressional medal; for George and John, the Navy Cross. When the two men had recovered, the three Marines were shipped back to the States to receive a hero’s welcome – a visit to the White House, television appearances, speeches, the works. That had been six years ago. The Three Musketeers were forgotten now, but for George Craig it was not an end to seeing his name in print. True, the articles were not dramatic news stories emblazoned across the front pages of the country’s newspapers. They were now tucked away somewhere in the back pages of the Los Angeles Times or Examiner, usually in the Art and Music sections. But to George, these few occasional paragraphs were infinitely more satisfying than the spectacular reporting of his wartime heroics. They attested to his recognition as an artist: kind words by a critic, a hard-won award, a successful exhibition.
George erased his memories from his mind and stood up, brushing the sand from the seat of his bathing-suit.
‘Let’s go, doll’, he said to his wife.
Carting the beach bag, the backrest, and the radio, they made their way up the wooden steps to their small rented house perched on a bluff overlooking the beach.
Supper was a hurried affair. George had a seven o’clock meeting to make. It was the bi-monthly meeting of the Peninsula Art Association and he was not looking forward to it. ‘A real political hassle’, he explained to Pat, between mouthfuls of steak. ‘Old Goodall is trying to pack the judges’ panel again. Last year he got away with it, but this time he won’t find it so easy.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Pat said, ‘I remember at the time you came home boiling mad, but I’ve forgotten the details.’
‘He was pretty clever. The way it’s supposed to work is, the judges’ panel is voted on by the membership at large, but the nominations come from the Board of Directors. We’ve got a pretty even split on the Board. Conservatives versus Liberals, you might call it. Goodall and his crew will go as far as the impressionists and no further. If anyone comes along with anything approaching an abstract, it’ll never get in the Gallery if they have their way. Last year Goodall waited until a Board meeting when his bunch had the majority. You and I were in Acapulco, Martin was out of commission with his bad liver, and I’ve forgotten where Frank was. Anyway, what it amounted to was, all the nominees were handpicked by Goodall. Not that I really give a damn. The Association doesn’t carry too much weight around here. It’s the principle of the thing.’
‘What do you mean, it doesn’t carry much weight? They’ve got the loot, haven’t they?’
‘You can’t buy artistic prestige, Pat.’
Pat snorted, gathered up the dishes, and marched into the kitchen. ‘Want to split a beer?’ she called back, as she scraped the remainder of the meal into the sink disposal unit. ‘There’s just one tin of Budweiser left in the refrigerator.’
‘Save it for tonight. I’m on my way.’
‘Hey, wait, what are we gonna do about the car?’
‘Oh hell, I forgot. Well, how about driving me up there? Then you can have it. I’ll bum a ride back with somebody.’
‘Okay’, Pat agreed.
The Craig home was located in that section of land where the Peninsula merged indistinguishably with the mainland proper. To get to the Goodall property (the meeting was traditionally held in the Goodall Gallery), it was necessary to follow the main road skirting the Palos Verdes cliffs, then turn on to a narrow macadam road which led to the rear of the Goodall property and entrance to the Gallery.
During the short drive, George spoke very little. He whipped the little car around the poorly-banked curves with a contempt born of familiarity, drawing disapproving frowns from his wife. He was thinking of the problem in diplomacy he would have to face this evening. The problem was because of Tony Ortega. Not that it was Tony’s fault. When the three friends returned from overseas, George and John had had no trouble in readjusting. George had pursued his art career with a great sense of relief mingled with excitement. John also had taken advantage of the G.I. Bill to get his degree in engineering. He was now one of the bright young men employed by a Los Angeles electronics firm specializing in research and development. For Tony, it had not been so easy. Though he had a quick mind, he had never developed the mental tenacity necessary for scholarship. His grades in high school had been poor, and college did not appeal to him. Flushed with the attention he received as a hero, he had decided college was a waste of time, and that he would have no trouble finding a good-paying job which would allow him to live the kind of carefree existence he enjoyed. His two friends had attempted to dissuade him from these ideas, but without success. ‘Go ahead’, had been his rejoinder, ‘live it up for four years on your hundred and twenty-five a month, and if things get a little tight, come around. There’ll always be beer in the icebox.’
At first it had seemed Tony was right. He did get a job at twelve thousand a year in the sales department of a sports equipment manufacturing company, but it soon became apparent he had been hired for his reputation, and as that dwindled so dwindled his value to the company. He was regretfully let go almost exactly a year after he had been hired. The next job was also in sales, but Tony found that to make any money he had to work at it, and he didn’t like work. That job lasted four months. Then came a succession of misadventures. When things got really bad, he would return to his hometown and stay with his parents for extended visits. It was during one of these visits that Tony approached George on the possibility of getting a job – any job. He showed up one night at the ‘Swinging Times’ where George was waiting for Pat to finish her act.
‘I’m up against it, old buddy,’ Tony had said
, ‘and please don’t tell me I told you so. You were right; I was wrong. That’s about all there is to it. Any chance of your getting me a job somewhere? This last trip around I’ve been sponging off the folks for over a month. They’re swell about it. They never say anything. But it makes me feel like hell. The problem is, there’s nothing I’m really suited to do. I could always re-enlist, I suppose, but I just don’t cotton to that military life – at least not in peacetime. Got any ideas?’
George shook his head doubtfully. ‘Not offhand, Tony, let me check around. Meantime, why don’t you camp out with Pat and me for a while? We’ve got an extra room in that place of ours, you know, and I’m not doing you a favour; I’m doing myself one. We haven’t seen much of each other lately and it would give us a chance to catch up. I could use a good drinking partner while Pat is working. How about it?’
‘Thanks. But if I had a wife like that I don’t think I’d particularly care to have another guy hanging around.’
‘Okay. But the room’s there if you change your mind. How about dinner tomorrow night anyway?’
‘Sure. I’ll be there.’
When Tony showed up the next night George told him he had talked old Hubert Goodall into taking Tony on as a sort of combination manager, janitor, and secretary of the Goodall Gallery, and also to perform the clerical duties required by the Art Association. The pay wasn’t much. Half of it would come from Goodall, the other half from the Art Association funds. It would bring in the bacon and eggs, though, until something better came along. In those days George was not particularly well acquainted with Hubert Goodall. Had he known him better, he might not have accepted the offer for Tony. George now suspected that Hubert had hired Tony to place George under obligation to him; at least, that was how it had worked out. George felt whenever he and Hubert disagreed on some Art Association policy matter he was at a disadvantage – not that Tony had proved a liability; on the contrary, he had done well. He accepted the menial tasks involved cheerfully, and that work which required extra effort he had taken pains to do well. In less than a year the Art Association had voted to raise his salary, even gaining the begrudging approval of Goodall.
Nevertheless, accepting the favour had made things awkward for George, and tonight he would again be reminded of his obligation.
George pulled up in front of the adobe building, dutifully kissed his wife good night, and trudged inside.
The meeting, he noted woefully, began with the usual atmosphere of pseudo-camaraderie – solicitious inquiries about members of the family, gentle ribbing, and not so gentle witticisms. Formalities began when Hubert Goodall, using his good left hand, rapped the gavel for attention.
‘All right, gentlemen, this meeting will come to order. Do you all have your agendas? Good. First order of business is the nomination of candidates for the judges’ panel.’ George saw that Hubert meant to deal with the most important item first. That was one thing about Hubert, George admitted to himself, he seldom wasted time beating around the bush. It was one of the few qualities in the man that George admired.
Hubert continued: ‘Rather than open the floor for nominations, I will solicit nominations individually clockwise around the table. Mr. Bekins, you are first.’
Raymond Bekins was a pudgy, kindly old gentleman, who at one time had been a first-rate art critic on a New York newspaper. He had, in his later years, slipped into semi-senility. His function on the Board was primarily that of a stooge for Hubert. Obviously he had been coached in his role for this evening, for he immediately began to recite rote-like in a quavering voice, ‘I nominate George Craig.’
George was startled. What kind of trick was this? Could it be the old curmudgeon was having a change of heart? He shot a sharp glance at Hubert. The man’s face was expressionless. George did some rapid thinking. What was the old man up to? In the first place, it was very unusual to nominate a member of the Board of Directors as a judge. There was nothing in the Charter against it, but it just wasn’t protocol. It wasn’t like Hubert. Further, why did Hubert nominate him, George wondered. It didn’t make sense. The nominations continued.
Five men were nominated, out of whom three would be elected. The Board had been completely polled, when Hubert said, ‘Nominations are closed. Ballots will now be taken. George, you will of course abstain from voting.’
Surprised, George said, ‘What do you mean, abstain?’
Hubert Goodall’s smile was beatific. ‘I direct your attention, George, to Article Twenty-one in Part Two of our Charter, which states, and I quote, “No member of the Board of Directors who has been nominated for elective office as defined in Article Seventeen, shall be allowed to vote in said election.” The office of judge, Mr. Craig, is one of those listed in Article Seventeen.’
Hubert’s strategy was thus made clear.
‘And I suppose,’ George shot back, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, ‘that Mr. Bekins who nominated me, thus preventing me from voting, will now himself vote for one of your men.’
Hubert Goodall’s smile became, if possible, even sweeter. ‘My dear George, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by “my” men, and as for how Mr. Bekins votes, that is something which, of course, no one will ever know unless Mr. Bekins chooses to tell us. The voting for office of judge is done by secret ballot, as I am sure you will recall.’
The vote was taken. The three judges elected were all men known to be Goodall’s personal choices.
George left the meeting in a rage. He was half-way to the parking lot before he remembered that he had no car. To hell with it, he thought, I have plenty of excess energy it might be well to burn off. The village centre, where he could pick up a ride, was three-quarters of a mile away. He started the walk with a brisk pace, and bitterly reflected on the existence of the Hubert Goodalls of this world.
He had met Goodall two years ago at an exhibition. A sometime student of history, curiosity had prompted him to do a little digging and had given him a little background on the Peninsula and in particular the lives and fortunes of the Goodall family.
In 1909 the City Fathers of Los Angeles acquired a narrow strip of land extending south of the civic centre to the port of San Pedro. They did this for the same reason Poland annexed the Polish Corridor and the city of Danzig – to gain access to a deep-water port. For almost thirty years this umbilical cord to the sea had retained a bucolic atmosphere – cattle grazing in green fields, weathered farm-houses and occasional gas stations. With the coming of the forties and World War II, greater Los Angeles began a rapid expansion southward and to a lesser degree San Pedro grew to meet it. In the post-war period all the blessings of modern man blossomed along that strip of California land: shopping centres, housing tracts, flashing neon signs, and clogged highways.
One area, bypassed by this stream of civilization, had remained relatively unsullied. This was Palos Verdes Peninsula, north and east of San Pedro. There pervaded the countrified atmosphere, but with a sheen of elegance – rolling green hills, virgin fields, and spacious homes.
One of these was the Goodall home. The fifteen and one-half acres of property on which the home was built were purchased by an ancestral Goodall some two hundred years before from the owner of the original Spanish land grant, one Hernandez Aguelar. Captain Aguelar was awarded one thousand acres of Palos Verdes land in recognition of his services to the King for having exterminated, with the help of his men, some three hundred recalcitrant natives. The Indians, it seemed, had exhibited a strange reluctance to spend their lives in bondage building missions for the Holy Fathers.
In the intervening years the Goodalls’ estate had not expanded, but at least it had held its own. Now the end of the line was near, for there were no male Goodalls to carry on the family name. There was the girl, Jennifer, a grandchild, whose parents had had the bad judgement to attempt to negotiate a turn near Portuguese Bend at eighty-five miles an hour in an Austin-Healey. The Healey is a fine car, but every car has its limit of stability. The Goodalls had graci
ously accepted the responsibility for Jennifer’s welfare. But the Goodall Gallery remained Hubert’s pet.
The permanent collection was undistinguished, except for two authenticated Renoirs and an alleged Van Gogh, unsigned. One room was set aside for Early California art work. As objects of historical interest the paintings contained therein may have had some value. As art, they were appallingly bad. Several critics and collectors had pointed this out to Hubert. On each occasion it was their last visit to the Gallery.
George stepped up his pace, drawing in great lungsfull of moist, fresh-smelling air. Rounding a turn, the road skirted the bluff overlooking Santa Monica Bay to the north. He paused a moment. The moon caught the distant ripples in the bay, creating intermittent wakes of light in the black waters. Along the edge of the bay were stronger, brighter lights – those of the South Bay ‘Beach’ towns: Redondo, Hermosa, Manhattan. Then the lights became fewer, splashed forth again at El Segundo and Playa del Rey, dwindled again, then became almost solid in the brilliance which emanated from Venice and Santa Monica. George could distinguish the Redondo pier and the Hermosa waterfront. One of those lights was undoubtedly the ‘Swinging Times Cocktail Lounge’. His tenseness relaxed and George grinned at himself in the darkness. Hubert Goodall and his petty politics slipped back into their proper perspective. After all, it made no difference to George who the judges were. It did mean, perhaps, that some young modern artist who deserved to have a showing might not get it, at least not in the Goodall Gallery. But life is full of disappointments, particularly for artists. It was a lesson which he, himself, had learned well.
Breaking into a cheerful whistle, George Craig marched briskly down the darkened road.
