Dreaming In Color

by Charlotte Vale-Allen

  "All right," Alma said, her eyes still on the child. "Two weeks. When can you start?"

  It took Bobby a few seconds to realize Alma was speaking to her. Then she had to swallow before saying, "Tomorrow?"

  "Fine. Eva, take her downstairs and work out the details."

  Bobby thanked the formidable woman, then moved to take Penny's hand. Penny tucked her hands behind her back, saying, "I wanna stay and visit. C'n I stay?" she asked Alma.

  "We'll visit tomorrow," Alma told her.

  "Okay." Penny leaned forward and looked into Alma's face, asking, "Are you smiling at me?"

  Alma gave another croaking laugh.

  "Are you?"

  "Penny, come on!" Bobby took hold of her arm. "Thank you very much," she said, following Eva out. "You won't regret it, I promise."

  "I'd better not," Alma said, already turning her motorized wheelchair away to face the window.

  "You get room and board and two-fifty a week," Eva explained back in the living room. "There's a self-contained apartment downstairs. You can park your car on the far side of the driveway next to the garage. I'll fill you in on Aunt Alma's routine when you get here in the morning."

  "What about schools?" Bobby asked. "I'll have to get Penny enrolled.”

  "We'll take care of everything tomorrow. Be here by nine."

  "We gonna live here, Mom?" Penny asked.

  "For a little while anyway," Bobby told her. "You leave that book here, Pen."

  "She can take it with her," Eva said.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Quite sure," Eva said, impatient always with people who questioned her stated intentions. "Just take good care of it," she told Penny.

  "Oh, I will," Penny promised solemnly.

  "Good. Can you find your way back?" Eva asked Bobby.

  "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

  "Okay. We'll see you in the morning." Eva went to the front door while Bobby quickly got Penny into her coat. "I hope you're not biting off more than you can chew."

  "No, ma'am," Bobby said, looking her directly in the eye. "I don't think so. I'll work hard for you and take real good care of your aunt. And Penny won't be any trouble at all."

  "My aunt loves children," Eva said. "She was head mistress of a girls' school for thirty years." Penny was the only reason Alma was willing to go for a two-week trial, but Eva knew it would be cruel to say so.

  "We'll be here right at nine," Bobby promised, and hurried with Penny up the driveway to where she'd left the Honda.

  Eva stood in the open doorway until the pair had driven off. It was going to be a disaster, she thought. She simply couldn't imagine that tiny female bearing the brunt of Aunt Alma's weight or of her sharp tongue. "We'll see," she said to herself, closing the door. "We shall see."

  Bobby got Penny's seat belt fastened, then folded her arms over the steering wheel and let her head drop onto her arms. She was being given a chance. Those two women were going to let her and Penny stay. Yes, it was only a two-week trial, but she knew she could do the work and win them over.

  "What'sa matter, Mom?"

  Bobby turned to look at her daughter. "Nothing, honey. I'm just real happy."

  "You don't look happy." Penny's features drew together into a puzzling frown.

  She'd wanted a miracle and she'd got one. It made her want to break down and cry. "I am. Honest, Pen." She felt shaky all over, her fingertips buzzing. Too much coffee and no food. "You hungry, honey?"

  "Yeah."

  "Me too," Bobby said, sniffing back incipient tears. "Let's go eat." She looked over at the white clapboard house with its black-painted shutters, and the Sound beyond. Tomorrow, they'd be starting over. Hoping the Honda wouldn't let them down now, she fit the key into the ignition. The engine turned over at once. She patted the steering wheel, then put the car into gear. Joe would never find them here.

  *

  He was more surprised than mad when he'd come home to find the house empty, the kitchen still a mess. After checking the bedrooms, he stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at the footprints in the spaghetti on the floor, feeling his pulse beating in his temples. The stupid bitch had run off again. He'd have to go after her, drag her back home. He could almost feel his fingers grabbing hold of her hair, see her head pulling to one side. Goddamned bitch couldn't do one thing right. He imagined hearing her bones crack as he drove his fists into her. It gave him a momentary high that swelled his chest, made the muscles in his arms tighten and bulge.

  “Look at this fuckin' mess!” he muttered, kicking a piece of broken dish halfway across the room. “Son of a bitch.”

  He thought about having a beer, looked at the shit all over the floor, and changed his mind. He was tired. The hell with it. He turned and went into the bedroom, threw off his clothes and flopped on the bed. Tomorrow after work he'd go over to that goddamned Lor's place, get the bitch and the kid, bring 'em home. He was getting sick and tired of her running off every chance she got. Maybe it was time to teach her a lesson once and for all. But first he'd make her clean that goddamned kitchen on her hands and knees, lick the floor clean with her tongue, boot her in the ass a couple of times while he had her down there.

  Maybe she'd found herself a new boyfriend. He wouldn't put it past her. She was always coming on to guys, like the way she sucked up to that weasely nerd who managed the Burger King. Thinking he wasn't clued in to what she was up to, the dumb bitch. He caught her with another guy, he'd whack the both of them, shove the double-barreled up the guy's ass and blow him to kingdom come. Then he'd break every bone in her fucking body before he made her eat his .38. Closing his eyes, he saw a radiant slow-motion explosion of blood. It got him hot, picturing it. If the bitch had been there just then, he'd've put her down on her hands and knees and fucked her brains out.

  Tomorrow, he thought, feeling sleep turn his body heavy. Tomorrow five on the dot he'd get in the car and go to Lor's, get the bitch and drag her home by her hair. He'd fix her but good, teach her once and for all who was boss, teach her to say how high when he said jump.

  Three

  Eva was remembering Montaverde. It was the last thing she wanted to think about, but the memories had more strength just then than she did. It was almost two in the morning and she'd awakened from another in a series of bizarre black-and-white dreams she'd been having lately. They were scenarios spawned, she knew, by anxiety and had started a few months earlier, soon after Melissa had a minor accident with the car. A broken headlight and a mashed fender; no one had been injured, yet the incident triggered the dreams. Her interrupted sleep and the additional workload—caring for her aunt full-time after the departure of the last nurse, as well as trying to keep on schedule with the latest book—was wearing her down. Which was why, perhaps, she lacked the energy to push away these scenes from the past.

  Very vividly it all came back: the sagging armchair out on the wide verandah where she'd so often sat and gazed at the tangled, wildly overgrown brush in the immediate foreground and, beyond, at the mountainside sloping downward to the sea. The air had, for much of her stay on the island, been heavy with unshed rain, yet cool because of the altitude. In the kitchen to the right beyond the verandah she could once again hear Deborah slamming pots on the tiled counter and muttering angrily to herself; she could feel the dense air weighing her down as scurrying noises in the underbrush made her heartbeat quicken. She saw the tall grass bend in the wind, and felt once more the overwhelming confusion and helplessness that had gripped her almost from the moment she and Melissa had arrived on the island.

  Deborah. She moved into center stage in Eva's mind, and Eva felt anew the pain she'd successfully buried for so long. She remembered with perfect clarity their first meeting. She'd been spending a semester of her senior year at college in London, living in a bed-sitting room in a big old house in West Kensington. On a Friday afternoon about three weeks into her stay she'd gone down to the ground floor to use the telephone but had to wait because the most beautiful girl she'd ever seen wa
s making a call. Eva had sat down on the stairs, trying not to gape when the girl turned, gave her a brilliant smile, and signaled she'd be finished in a minute or two.

  Deborah. Tall and slim but with an aura of strength; wide-eyed, enormous brown eyes above pronounced slanting cheekbones, full lips over flawless, very white teeth, dimples in her cheeks; skin the color of creamy coffee; thickly curling black hair cropped almost to her well-shaped skull. She had radiated health and energy and extraordinary self-confidence.

  The call had lasted another four or five minutes. Then the girl put down the receiver and, with another dazzling smile, said, "Sorry. He did rather go on and on."

  "Oh, that's okay," Eva had said, taken by her low mellow voice and charming English accent.

  "You're American?"

  "That's right."

  "What part of America?" Deborah had asked with interest.

  "Connecticut."

  "My dad was American," Deborah had told her. "From Virginia. He was in the navy and Montaverde was one of his ports of call. I never knew him, actually," she said thoughtfully, leaning on the banister.

  "That's too bad," Eva said, assuming the man had died.

  "He already had a family in America," Deborah explained. "But he did evidently care very much for my mum. And he sent money for my care for years. Until Mum and I came over here, actually." She was silent for a moment, then gave a soft laugh and said, "Here I am nattering away at you and we haven't even met. I'm Deborah," she'd said, extending her hand.

  Eva introduced herself, then, unable to suppress her curiosity, asked, "Are you a model?"

  "Model, singer, actress, what-have-you." Deborah had glanced at her watch, then said, "I must run. I've got an audition in the West End in forty minutes."

  "I'm in room five," Eva said. "Let's get together sometime."

  "Lovely. Sorry about taking so long on the blower." Deborah started up the stairs, then turned back. "What about a drink later at the pub over the road?"

  "Great. I have a class this afternoon but I should be back by five."

  "So should I. Perfect. I'll come knock you up then."

  And that was the beginning.

  Remembering was like ripping the stitches from a newly made incision. Eva couldn't bear it. She threw off the blankets and went into the bathroom, switched on the light, and stood shielding her eyes with one hand, blinking rapidly. Why was all this coming back to her now? The sight of that small battered woman and the knowledge that she was going to be living here in the house had unblocked her memory. She grabbed a Dixie cup from the wall dispenser, ran the cold water, drank down a cupful, then turned to the mirror.

  She looked like hell, the shadows beneath her eyes deepening with each passing day. Every night she prepared for bed, longing to lose herself in seven or eight hours of untroubled sleep. And instead she found herself dreaming in black and white, like some film noir from the late forties—all slanted shadows and sudden unsettling pools of blinding light. And now Deborah. It was too much.

  With a weary sigh, she turned off the light and went downstairs to the kitchen. In the dark, she filled the kettle and put it on to boil. While she waited, she sat, head in hand, at the table and, unable to help herself, studied mental snapshots of her old friend.

  Anticipating having a child in the house again led Alma to thinking of Randy Wheeler. Her eyes fixing on an indefinite point in the darkness, she saw the two of them sitting on the glider on the porch of the old house in Greenwich, holding hands and rocking gently. It was 1948, she was twenty-four years old, and she and Randy were discussing their plans for the future. He'd gone back to Yale shortly after being released from the army, and he'd be graduating, finally, in a few weeks' time. He already had several job leads, one in Hartford, two in the city. As soon as he secured a position, they'd steal away and get married. And she'd stop feeling immoral and guilty. They'd be able to sleep together in the same bed for the rest of their lives. There would be no more furtive lovemaking in dark places, no more seedy cabin courts, no more secrecy. She'd never been happier. The years of anxiety were over, ended with the war. He'd come home intact, an answered prayer. She had her teaching job. Soon he'd be working, too. The very air was rich with promise, scented with the fragrance of lilacs. His hand was large and finely shaped, the long fingers laced loosely through hers.

  The glider swayed gently back and forth in her recall. She sat on the darkened porch with her head on Randy's shoulder, breathing in his scent and the sweetness of the lilacs. Music from the radio drifted through the living room window where her parents and her sister were talking quietly, and she hummed along softly. She was young and healthy, and felt incredibly fortunate. The future was waiting, its invitation in the breeze, in her veins. She lifted a hand and touched it to Randy's face, her fingertips reading the strong angle of his jaw, the smooth plane of his cheek, the uptilting corner of his wide mouth. "I love you," she whispered, willing herself to remember forever each detail of this quiet moment. "I'll always love you," she told him, "always."

  She shook her head suddenly, shoving aside the memory. Why bother rehashing ancient history? It was pointless, self-defeating. Yet, in the past year she'd been caught up in a review of her life that occupied quite a number of her late-night hours. The stroke had forced her to reevaluate, to look backward, trying to pinpoint critical moments, trying to find the juncture at which she might have taken another direction in order to have arrived at an altered present.

  It was ridiculous. The stroke had been her destiny. Nothing she might have done earlier in her life would have prevented its happening. Yet, arbitrarily, she couldn't stop conjecturing on the possibilities. It did no good reminding herself that she was satisfied with the course her life had taken, because on a certain level that simply wasn't the truth. Yes, she'd had a successful career. And, yes, she'd derived pleasure from her single lifestyle. But because of Randy Wheeler she'd made choices that had taken her in a direction she'd never thought to go. If she'd been asked upon turning twenty-four about her expectations, she'd have quickly replied that she was looking forward to being a wife and a mother. Having a career that spanned forty-five years wasn't at all what she'd anticipated.

  She and her younger sister, Cora, had grown up in a happy household. Father was a transplanted Scotsman who'd come to America as a young man hired to teach English at a private boys' school in Greenwich. Mother had been a secretary at the school. They'd met within days of his arrival, married six months later, and become parents just over a year after that, in 1924, when Alma was born. Mother continued to work until she got pregnant again when Alma was three. Thereafter she remained at home to take care of her girls, while Father went on to head the English department of the school and, ultimately, to take over as headmaster.

  It was a household filled with books and music and laughter, even through the Depression years. Father was a cheerful man who seemed perpetually surprised by his good fortune in having a trio of females under his wing. He would, without warning, suddenly burst into song and scoop up one or both of his daughters to go dancing around the room. Mother was a clever, imaginative woman, whose thinking was ahead of her time. She encouraged her girls to be independent and self-reliant, to stand firmly on their own two feet. There was never any doubt that both girls would go to college and acquire marketable skills.

  "You never know," their mother often told them, "when you'll need to provide for yourselves. With a good, solid education, you'll always be able to work."

  Alma was the more academic of the two sisters, invariably to be found curled up in some corner with a book in her hands. Cora had a romantic nature, was given to long idle hours spent on the window seat, humming to herself and dreaming of the wonderful husband she'd one day have. She did well enough in school but not nearly so well as Alma, who, while harboring somewhat romantic dreams of her own, was too pragmatic by nature to place her faith entirely in some nebulous fantasy of the future. She wanted to be like her tall, strong-featured father,
whom she so much resembled: principled yet fair, dedicated but open-minded, generous but not foolish, fun-loving but not frivolous.

  She and her sister got along well as youngsters, but when Alma turned thirteen she began to be at first irritated and later contemptuous of what she perceived as serious flaws in Cora's character. Cora had a tendency to be lazy, both physically and mentally, and she spent what Alma considered an inordinate amount of time studying herself in mirrors. Cora was vain, and Alma had no time for vain, silly girls. Cora was small, like their mother, with their mother's tidy features and milky skin. Cora took pride in ridiculous things, like her tiny feet and narrow wrists. Alma would have found her altogether unbearable had it not been for Cora's contagious laugh and her adventurous nature. Cora was good company, always ready to go off on the spur of the moment, always willing to give in to impulse. There were countless occasions when Alma's displeasure was eradicated by Cora's suddenly, in the midst of an argument, exclaiming, "I know! Let's go get the train into the city and see a show," or, "Let's bundle up and go tobogganing." They could be ready to tear each other's hair out when Cora would suddenly smile and say, "Let's do some baking. I have a craving for peanut butter cookies." Alma could never resist her sister's impetuosity. And most of the good times they had growing up were a result of Cora's sudden inspirations.

  But they continued to grow further apart during Alma's high school years. The three years separating them were almost unbridgeable by the time Cora was a freshman and Alma was a senior. Cora's concerns were primarily social. She worried aloud over crushes she had on this boy or that one, while Alma studied college brochures and worked to keep her grades at the highest possible level. Since Alma had never had anything remotely resembling a crush on any of the boys she met prior to her departure for college, she deemed Cora's behavior to be addle-headed and female in the worst possible sense. And Alma's contempt for cute female behavior was limitless. She disliked simpering, coy, helpless-acting women, and Cora was becoming one of them. By the time Alma began college, the sisters had nothing left in common; they'd evolved into politely interested strangers who maintained a civilized attitude toward one another out of deference to their parents.