Gables Court

by Alan S. Kessler

  “My mother covered our furniture and floors with plastic,” Glenda said. “I hated it, all cold and stiff. I use rules instead. No shoes in the house. No eating in the living room. Timmy likes to draw so I got him that desk. But with a 7 year old boy it’s a constant battle to keep the house clean. He’s always forgetting to put the toilet seat down! Billy was never messy. His closet…” her voice trailed off. Glenda looked down at her hands, then back at Samuel. “God loves the color white.”

  “I was thinking…if you want, I could do your yard work. Cut the grass, pull weeds. Whatever you need.”

  “Billy does that,” Glenda said, obviously annoyed. Samuel didn’t understand.

  “I mean, now that you’re divorced.”

  “What difference does that make? This is still Billy’s home. He wants to keep it up. He was here earlier and mowed the yard. Doesn’t it look great?”

  “I noticed it when I came in,” Samuel answered. “Nice to have someone you can depend on.”

  “Would you do me a favor and check on Timmy? He was so angry. His bedroom is upstairs, on the right. I’ll put the pie away.”

  “Glad to,” Samuel said, happy Glenda had just given him such a fatherly role!

  I’ll read Timmy a book. I wonder what kind he likes. Comics, of course! All kids like comics and I’ve got a whole collection of them! If only I’d brought one…well, next time. I’m sure he must have some books in his room…I can look at his drawings. I used to like drawings…and paintings…

  At the bedroom door, Samuel stood watching Timmy sleep, the boys blond hair spread wavelike over his pillow. His face peaceful, mouth slightly smiling, he looked as if he were in the middle of a wonderful dream. Samuel remembered his own son, the one who had never been born.

  I can take him fishing.

  Samuel hesitated.

  I don’t want to scare him…

  He stepped into the room as the shadow behind him moved past.

  Once. Softly. On his forehead.

  Bending over Timmy to kiss him goodnight, he backed away quickly when hearing Glenda call him.

  “Samuel, please come here.”

  Across the hall, in her bedroom lit by one white candle, a large black cross nailed into the white wall at the head of her bed, Glenda lay naked on her puppies and hearts quilt.

  “Shut and lock the door, please. Now take your clothes off. You can put them on that chair. Thank you. I appreciate you being so neat. Now lie on top of me.”

  He again did what she asked.

  Looking at the ceiling, Glenda hummed a hymn and didn’t move. Samuel felt as if he were pressing his face and body into ice.

  “Are you done?” she asked.

  Glenda got up, went into the bathroom and came back wearing a pink fluffy robe.

  “That was sinful but by doing it I have a deeper knowledge of Billy’s transgression. Christ bore our sins. He preached to the souls in spirit prison. Like Him, I can now help my husband. Please get dressed.”

  Her face radiant, the afterglow of a transcendent experience, she left the room.

  Samuel put his clothes on and when downstairs, followed Glenda to the front door.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “Your shoes.”

  Outside the house, he tried keeping his balance, one leg up, then the other, while hurriedly putting them on.

  “I’d like to see you again,” Samuel said, his right shoe untied, the back of the left one pressed down by his heel.

  “Don’t fall in love with me, Mr. Baas,” and Glenda slowly closed the door.

  Shoes flapping, he hobbled to the car.

  Unlike earlier when, with an easy drive, Samuel reached Miami Heights early and Glenda on time, the road now seemed endless as it stretched and twisted past shapeless buildings and blurry lights, each mile longer than the last.

  Finally home, he got into bed with a bottle of wine and plastic cup.

  A few days later, Timmy’s apology came in the mail. Samuel lightly touched the carefully printed but childishly written name and address. Without opening the envelope he put it in the bureau drawer where he kept the few letters he had gotten from Gary and Kate’s nude photos.

  The next day Samuel threw the envelope away.

  Leo had warned him about the righteous.

  3

  Samuel knocked on the door.

  “Goddamn Jehovah Witnesses!” Damour called out from inside. “You don’t listen! Want to reach heaven? Stay right there while I get my fucking shotgun!”

  “It’s Samuel Bass.”

  “Baas? OK, I’m coming.”

  It took a few minutes before Damour opened the door.

  “I’m surprised. Didn’t think I’d see you again.” Unshaven, wearing a silk dressing gown and yellow ascot, he looked past Samuel and spoke loudly. “Did you crazies put him up to this? Are you hiding out there, waiting to rush in? Well, lunatics, here I am! Come give me a big hug!” Grinning, Damour stretched out his arms, his robe falling open. He turned and walked slowly back into shadows.

  Samuel stepped inside and shut the door. After carrying a chair over, he sat facing Damour propped up on the couch by large pillows, his robe again neatly tied.

  “It’s funny, Baas. When you’re dying, the only ones who care are the nutcases selling eternal life! They smell death and descend like vultures. I actually listened to one of them. They always come in twos, but I thought the man had beautiful eyes. The woman looked like a mouse. I’m queer, I told him. I thought he looked interested. When he offered me their magazine, I kissed his hand. It was just for fun, but you should have seen the way he jumped back! They quickly mumbled a prayer for me and left. A week later, the church sent another pair. Two women! Just think. My body’s rotting but I can be washed pure in the blood of the Lord! Which brings me back to you. Do I smell Jesus on your breath? ”

  “I’m not religious.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “You invited me—”

  “A month ago. You took your time. I could be dead.”

  “I went for a drive tonight, thought you might be lonely.”

  “Me or you?”

  Samuel didn’t answer.

  “Well I am,” Damour said. “No family, my friends either dead or too afraid to see in me what they might become. Who wants to be around something ugly? I never did. In school, assholes made fun of me because I was prettier than most of the girls. I grew up so gorgeous I could have any man I wanted. Even women tried to fuck me. Never interested, but who knows, it might have been fun. I’ve broken all the mirrors in this house. Am I a freak show for you Baas? Come see the monster. Is that how you get your kicks?”

  “I was called names too,” Samuel said.

  “You were never like me,” Damour stated. “At the end of the hall you’ll find my art. Bring me one. I’m interested in your choice.”

  The dim hallway led to a dark room. When Samuel switched the light on he saw walls covered with the paintings of nude males, all reclining the same way, all with large penises, the handsome faces similar in their symmetry and sybaritic expressions. Ready to take the canvas closest to him, he glimpsed in a corner something different and walked over. On its wooden stand, the gilt framed painting of a man sitting under a tree brought into the room something more lasting than sex. Wearing a white suit and woven straw hat, a bottle of wine and picnic basket in front of him on a checkered table cloth, the grass green, the sky blue and bright, the man waited for his lover in a moment of time beyond flesh. Samuel saw love in his eyes.

  He carried him into the living room.

&n
bsp; “On a chair…careful…” Damour kept looking at the painting. “Hello Hector,” he said softly, “it’s been awhile. You’re as handsome as ever. I’m sorry I’m not. Can you forgive me? Remember when we were both beautiful? You must hate me for making you stay with the others. They meant nothing, you know that, but I wanted them to see you. From now on, you’ll only be with me.” Damour wiped his sweaty face with an embroidered handkerchief and turned toward Samuel. “You chose well. There’s more to you than I thought. This is Hector Gonzalez. I lived with him in Paris for a year. He was a florist. We went to dinner, the theatre, walked in the park, had picnics, as you can see. He was very gentle and kind. I tried to stay faithful, but couldn’t. I worked as a flight attendant and there were just too many temptations. He understood me. At heart I’m an artist. In life, the colors have to work. Ours didn’t.”

  “What happened?” Samuel asked.

  “He met someone. They bought a little farmhouse and raised sheep. I wanted to visit, his friend said no. This picnic was our last one together. Now we’re back.” Damour smiled at the painting. “I’d like a toasted biscuit,” he told Samuel. “Spread it lightly with marmalade and for tea, honey hibiscus. Not too hot.”

  Samuel spent the rest of the afternoon listening to Damour talk about his trips, boyfriends, and life of pleasure.

  4

  His head jerked forward, then back.

  “What the—”

  Samuel got out quickly, saw he’d been rear-ended by a dented, pink, Volkswagen Beetle. Squat and big-chested, a red-haired girl hurried over.

  “I didn’t know you’d stop.”

  “The light’s red.”

  She looked up at it.

  “Shit! Guess I missed that. Are you sure it wasn’t yellow? I thought you would go through on the yellow.”

  “It was red,” Samuel said, trying not to get angry. “I’ll find a phone booth and call the police.”

  “Please don’t do that! I have so many tickets and my license is kind of suspended.”

  “Kind of?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  Horns beeped as the traffic began backing up.

  “You gonna move those piles of junk or what!” a man yelled out his window.

  Samuel liked his car. Newer than the one he bought after selling the Corvette, he kept the Chevette washed and polished, made sure he never left any fast food wrappers inside. In exchange for legal advice, the Pakistani owner of a gas station near Samuel’s office regularly changed the oil. Until a few minutes ago the car didn’t have any dents in its gray metal.

  A ‘can you believe this’ small shake of his head, then Samuel turned away from the smashed bumper and trunk. Insurance would cover the damage if he had a police report showing this frizzy-haired girl at fault. But he knew by getting one he’d cause her serious legal problems. Her face and arms splotched by red freckles, she looked at him hopefully.

  “Will your car drive?” he asked her.

  “It does! All the time! I’m so glad the engine’s in back!”

  “OK then, good-bye.” Samuel started to leave.

  “Wait!” She grabbed his arm. “I want to give you my name.” The line of drivers blasted their horns. “Drive into that parking lot over there! Hurry!”

  The November sun still bright but drifting toward sunset, Samuel had planned to spend the rest of this late, Saturday afternoon in the park, the accident happening just as he was about to turn toward Key Biscayne.

  I can still go there. Walk alone…

  He got back in his car and at Krispy Kreme watched the VW, rattling and shaking, its front tire wobbling at an angle, roll to a stop beside him.

  “Hi again!” the girl said, getting out smiling. “Here, I wrote it down.” She handed him a paper. “Sandy Goldstein. That’s my name and this is my address and phone number. What’s your name?”

  “Samuel Baas.”

  “We’re landsmen! Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know…maybe…”

  “It’s either yes or no, so my guess is no! You’re the shy type, I can tell. I’m shy too. I might not seem it, but I am!” Her breasts flopped close to his open window. “Thank you for not calling the cops. I don’t want another ticket!”

  “It’d be worse than that,” Samuel said. “You’d get arrested. Driving with a suspended license is a crime.”

  Her face turned a redder shade of pink.

  “Put in jail! My mother would kill me! Would they handcuff me like in the movies?”

  “Probably.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I’m a lawyer,” Samuel said.

  “A lawyer! Wow! My lucky day! Sorry about the accident, but I believe everything happens for a reason. Do you?”

  “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “That’s because…” Sandy studied his face “you’re a Cancer! No, Sagittarius! Wait…I’m still reading your aura …Libra! I’m sure you’re a Libra! Am I right?”

  “I was born in January.”

  “What day?”

  “The 15th.”

  “I knew it! Capricorn. The goat-fish! You believe in fate but are too stubborn to admit it! You have to expand your consciousness! What sign am I?”

  “I’ve never been interested in Astrology,” Samuel said. “I’d just be guessing.”

  “Then go on! Guess!”

  “OK, Capricorn, same as mine.”

  “Aren’t you clever!” Sandy said. “Joining us in the stars! I’m a Pisces. Fish love more than water!” She squeezed his arm. “What time is it?”

  Samuel looked at his watch.

  “5:15.

  “Oh God, I’m late! I have an art lesson. Nice meeting you, Samuel. Give me a call.”

  Banging, smoking, the VW lurching to the side, Sandy barely avoided a parked car as she drove away. Samuel glanced up at the dimming sky.

  In Crandon Park, he walked along the tree-lined path, the palms turning red then black, night inking the air and land. Samuel enjoyed the quiet darkness; the cool breeze stilled him. He didn’t think about his Haitian clients. Surprised at himself, he thought about Sandy…

  Talkative, annoying, funny, in an overbearing way…She believes in fate…

  What is that? A puppet show where God or a celestial comic book writer pulls the strings making us heroes or villains? Are we destined to fall in love or never meet anyone and die alone? Did Mr. Eldridge have to kill himself? Was Peter talking to Kate in Key West part of some cosmic plan begun earlier at the Gables Court pool when I saw her for the first time swimming through mist?

  Samuel bumped against a pear-cactus, the spine scratching his hand. He touched the blood.

  A bee, flower, fruit, and bird caused this. What if instead of pollinating, the bee died? Or the flower didn’t bloom? Or no bird found the fruit to eat? Without a seed dropped here this plant wouldn’t exist to cut my hand. If Sandy hadn’t hit my car I would have walked this path in daylight and seen the cactus.

  Fate or chance?

  If life is chance there is luck, good and bad. Which is she for me?

  He wiped the blood away.

  The next day, while again sitting alone and watching through his window the fading brightness of another late, Sunday afternoon, Samuel decided to call her. Sandy invited him over.

  It wasn’t just the color, aquamarine, the porch flag with a pig in the center, or the plastic flamingoes on the small front yard that made the house look different than the other ones in the neighborhood. They were neoclassical, with columns and
beams, large rectangular windows and high foundations. Long and narrow, close to the ground, Sandy’s home looked like a railroad car without wheels.

  Samuel climbed three wooden steps and found the front door open.

  “Hello,” he called into the house.

  “Down the hall,” Sandy yelled back.

  The extended hallway, constricted on both sides by rows of windowless rooms, led to the back door. On the stoop outside, Sandy splattered paint on a canvas by repeatedly swinging her brush down as if it were a hatchet.

  “Colors,” she said. “That’s what matters. Who gives a shit about composition.” She grinned, streaks of luminescent blue and green in her hair, her shirt off the shoulder, her jeans slashed. “Do you like it?”

  “Very nice,” Samuel answered.

  She stepped back, arms folded, and tilting her head to the side examined the painting. Dipping her brush into pink and purple, she splattered on more paint. “That’s my problem. I’m a perfectionist. My art is never done. Creative people are like that. You’re lucky.”

  “In what way?”

  “You have a left, lawyer’s brain! Books and cases, it’s all so…solid. I’m different. I see colors! I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Samuel didn’t answer.

  She grabbed the canvas from its easel and holding the large painting in front of her, wobbled into the house, Samuel following her. In one of the rooms, all the same size, she positioned the painting at the end of a row of others also collections of drips, drabs, and splotches.

  This is a room like Leo’s gallery…

  “I’m getting ready for a showing.”

  “That’s exciting,” Samuel said. “When is it? I’d like to go.”

  “Just as I thought! You don’t know anything about art! I have to keep painting, make sure I have enough for people to buy. Then I’ll hire an art dealer to represent me. He’ll get me into a gallery and it’ll schedule a special night just for me. I’ll sell out and paint some more! That’s how it works.”