Dreaming In Color

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Dreaming In Color Page 10

by Charlotte Vale-Allen


  With Charlie's head resting on her breast as he dozed, Eva's brain traveled back to the island, and she remembered sitting with the children on the living room steps, reading to them from a storybook. Mellie sat on one side of her, Derek on the other, both of them listening attentively. Behind them, on the verandah, Deborah and Ian were arguing in fierce undertones. Outside, a torrential rain obscured the view. The open door at the bottom of the room rattled against the wall with each gust of wind. Suddenly, Eva heard scuffling sounds, the thud of some piece of furniture overturning. Frightened, she forced herself to go on reading, striving to keep her voice under control. She was anxious that the children should-n't be upset. The unmistakable sound of a hand meeting flesh. A muted cry—of rage or despair? Running footsteps. A blast of inrushing air as the front door was flung open. A few seconds of silence. The roar of the car engine starting, tires spitting up gravel as the car reversed into the driveway then went squealing off down the mountainside. Another brief silence, then the pad of bare feet as Deborah traveled across the living room, pausing to shut the door. She came down the living room steps and continued straight through the room where Eva sat with the children and out the door, into the master suite. The bedroom door closed noiselessly. Eva drew a shallow, ragged breath and went on reading.

  With no warning, Derek began sobbing. Grinding his rather grubby small hands into his eyes, his sturdy little body curving inward, he wept in gusting cries. Eva moved to put an arm around him, but he blindly ducked away. Shooting to his feet, he ran pounding through the empty room, out the door to the master suite. Finding the door locked, he banged on it with his fists, crying for his mother. Both Eva and Mellie watched as Derek, in a fury of stormy passion, kicked and beat at the door. After a long minute, the door opened and the boy launched himself at Deborah's legs, wrapping his arms around them and burying his face in her thighs. Deborah said something low, then the door closed.

  Dry-mouthed, Eva swallowed as Mellie looked up at her, her face wreathed in confusion, asking, "Mommy, what's the matter with Derek?"

  Taking her daughter on her lap, she said inadequately, "He's upset," and slowly rocked Melissa as she tried to think what she could do to help matters. She did very much want to help, but not only did Ian pop up every time she went to talk to Deborah, she was also fearful of becoming another of his victims. And there were the children to consider. More than anything else, she wanted to protect them. Were she to leap to Deborah's defense, all hell might break loose. The thought of the children being firsthand witnesses to mayhem held her back, as did the realization that she didn't actually know what was going on here. No one would talk to her. And even though she longed to say or do something in her friend's defense, on a deeper level she felt the wisest course of action would be to hold back while actively shielding the children as best she could from what was going on. Her combined fear and confusion had her constantly on edge, feeling guilty for her failure to do anything positive and, at the same time, justified in her concern for the children.

  God! This was intolerable. She dragged her thoughts back into the present, gently slid out from beneath Charlie, sat up, and reached for her glass.

  "What is it?" he asked cannily, as adept at reading her moods as he was at lovemaking.

  "I'm reliving ancient history," she said, wishing she'd asked for ice in her drink. She'd have liked something cool now to hold to her forehead. She took a mouthful of the Jack Daniel's, swished it around in her mouth, then swallowed. A glance at the clock radio informed her it was nine-fifty. "It's early," she said.

  "You sound surprised. Did you think it was much later?"

  "Uh-hunh." She put down her glass and turned to him. "Do you ever feel conflicted?"

  "Why, because I'm your aunt's internist? No. Now, if I were your internist, that would be a whole other matter. That is what you meant, isn't it?"

  "Yes." She took the glass out of his hand and leaned over him to put it on the table. "Do you dream in color, Charlie?"

  "Don't you?"

  "Not lately. Does it mean something?"

  "I'm not qualified to answer that," he said, his hand on her waist. "I doubt it's anything to worry about. If you weren't dreaming at all, that would signify something. What, I couldn't say. But I do know dream deprivation is considered a form of psychological torture." His hand covered her breast, the thumb stroking gently, the fingers applying a slight pres

  sure.

  "I thought that was sleep deprivation."

  "There's dream deprivation too. Although I can't imagine how that could be accomplished. I imagine they're one and the same thing. So you're reliving ancient history?"

  "Uh-hunh." Reluctant just now to talk about it and knowing he would-n't push her, she trailed her fingers back and forth across his chest, then put her hand to his face, came forward, and kissed him. "You smell wonderful," she said, shifting her face to his neck.

  "You smell wonderful," he said.

  "I smell of you." Smiling, she straddled his lap and sat back on her knees.

  "Then we both smell wonderful," he said equably, both hands on her thighs.

  "I suppose I should think about going home," she said, leaning back against his upraised knees.

  "I never like to have you think about going home. Maybe now that you've got another nurse you'll spend a night now and again. It's been a couple of months since the last time."

  "Maybe. I do like sleeping with you. You're a very tidy sleeper."

  "You're not, cupcake." He grinned. "You're all over the place."

  She laughed and said, "When I was little, Alma used to call me a windmill."

  "I'm sure she'd be gratified to know you haven't changed."

  "You could just arrive on Saturday night with a sign that says you and I are lovers."

  "Your aunt would probably love that," he said. "Alma's no dope."

  "No dopes in our family," she said. "Time to go home, chief."

  She kissed him again, then climbed off the bed and began collecting her clothes.

  As she was leaving, he caught hold of her hand and said, "I love you, you know, Eva. If you want to talk about that ancient history, I'm always willing to listen."

  "I know that, Charlie. Thank you. I'll get to it eventually, but right now I'm still trying to sort it out." She kissed him a final time. "And you know I love you, too. I'll see you Saturday."

  She waved to him before driving off. He waved back, then went inside and closed the door. She sighed deeply and headed for the turnpike, wishing he lived a little closer than Old Riverside. But she thought that every time she left him to drive the six exits up to Stamford. One of these nights she was going to have to stay with him again, enjoy an entire night at Charlie's side. For now, though, she felt much better.

  Eight

  At ten Saturday morning a station wagon with fake wood paneling pulled into the driveway and the horn honked.

  "I gotta go now!" Penny said, pulling away from her mother before her coat was buttoned.

  "You hold on a minute," Bobby said. "Let me finish doing up these buttons. They'll wait for you."

  A moment later the doorbell went and Bobby opened it to see a small girl with long blond pigtails and eyeglasses, clad in a forest green duffel coat.

  All smiles, Penny said, "Hi, Emma. I'm coming right now."

  "I need the phone number of where you're gonna be," Bobby said.

  Emma Whitton recited it on the spot.

  "Is that your mom in the car?" Bobby asked the girl, mentally storing the number.

  "Uh-hunh." Emma took Penny by the hand and the two of them started running toward the station wagon as Emma's mother opened her door and called out, "I'll have her back by five. Okay?"

  "Okay." Bobby waved.

  The children climbed into the back seat. Mrs. Whitton slid behind the wheel, refastened her seat belt, then the car reversed out of the driveway. Bobby closed the front door, wondering why Emma's mother hadn't come up to introduce herself, then decided that
the people around here probably didn't bother with things like that, so long as the children knew each other.

  Coming down the stairs at that moment, Eva said, "Don't worry. She'll be fine. And next week, it'll be your turn to go pick up Emma and bring her back here for the day. Your appointment's in half an hour," she said, checking her wristwatch. "Are you sure you know how to get there?"

  "Yes, ma'am … Eva."

  "Good. All you'll need is two dollars to tip the shampoo girl."

  "Okay." Bobby looked down at her feet.

  "Don't be nervous," Eva said. "Bruce is the best hairdresser in the area. He'll do a wonderful job."

  Bobby nodded, her eyes still on her feet.

  "Is there something else?" Eva asked.

  "I was just wondering what day I get paid."

  "Oh, right. Did I forget to tell you that? I usually pay the nurses on Mondays, unless you need money now."

  "No, that's okay. I was just wondering. Monday's fine. How do you manage on Sundays?" Bobby asked, thinking Eva seemed different this morning, friendlier and more relaxed. She really was very good-looking, especially when she smiled. And she dressed better than anyone Bobby had ever known. Today she was wearing navy slacks and a blue and white striped blouse, with a short sleeveless white wool sweater. Her hair ribbon was striped red, white, and blue. She looked real sharp, Bobby thought, feeling shabby in her old Lee jeans and a baggy green sweater.

  "I look after my aunt on Sundays," Eva explained. "After all, you've got to have a day off."

  "I don't mind," Bobby said.

  "You mean you'd work Sundays too?"

  "Sure, if it'd help."

  Eva was thinking quickly. If Bobby was willing to be on call seven days a week, she'd be able to get her writing back on schedule. The other nurses had been strictly by the book, claiming Saturday afternoons and Sundays for themselves. "That might work out very well," Eva said. "Let's talk about it later this afternoon. Of course, you'd be compensated."

  "I don't mind about that," Bobby said, glancing over to the living room, where Alma was in her wheelchair, reading the New York Times.

  For a second time, Eva was prompted to put a hand on Bobby's shoulder. The smaller woman jerked slightly, but this time Eva made good on the gesture, in a lowered voice saying, "You really like her, don't you?"

  Bobby nodded.

  "I'm so glad," Eva said fervently, then withdrew her hand from Bobby's childishly narrow shoulder, saying, "You'd better get going or you'll be late. And Saturday's a zoo at the salon. We'll sort out the details when Alma and I get back from the Y."

  The receptionist gave Bobby a smock and showed her where to get changed. In the closet-sized room, Bobby took note of the clothes people had left hanging and added her own coat and sweater to the tightly packed rack.

  When she emerged, the receptionist indicated the rear of the salon, saying, "Go on back and Peggy will get you washed."

  Self-conscious, convinced everyone was staring at the bruises she'd tried to conceal with makeup, she made her way to an area that had sinks on both sides.

  The girl used shampoo that smelled of apples and gave Bobby's hair a good washing. Then she applied a minty conditioning cream, rinsed it off, wrapped a towel around Bobby's head and with a smile told her she could sit up now. "That's Bruce's chair," the girl said, pointing. "Go on over and sit down. He just ran next door for coffee. He'll be right back."

  Bobby sat in the chair and tried to avoid looking at herself in the wall of mirrors. She could smell cigarette smoke and was dying to light up but did-n't dare in case there was some special smoking area or something. She looked over to the front of the salon and saw an amazing-looking man with long black hair pulled back in a ponytail and a black leather jumpsuit festooned with silver chains come hurrying in with a container of coffee in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. He bumped the front door closed with his hip and came striding forward in silver cowboy boots, his expression changing several times as he saw her. Removing the lid from his coffee, he said, "So you're Bobby. Eva said you were in desperate need and, sweetie, I can see she wasn't kidding." He took a swallow of the steaming coffee, his eyes never leaving her face, then set the cup and his cigarette down and came around behind her so that Bobby was forced to look at him in the mirror.

  "Honey," he said, holding up her hair with both hands, his expression one of greatly exaggerated dismay, "who did this to you?"

  "I had it done back home," she said in a small voice.

  "It's a disaster, sweetie."

  "I guess so," she agreed wretchedly.

  Parting her hair with his fingers, he gazed at her roots, then looked at her in the mirror and said, "Medium brown with red highlights. Am I right?"

  "That's right."

  "Well, dearest, here's what I think," he said, bunching the ends of her hair in one hand, his eyes on hers in the mirror. "I think first we'll get rid of all this Brillo on the ends, and bring it up about here." He laid the side of his hand next to her jaw. "Give it some shape that'Il go with what's left of the perm. Then we'll tint you back to medium brown. The tint'll take a lot of the dryness out. So," he said, reaching for the cup and taking another swallow of coffee, "what d'you think? Are we together on this?"

  "I uhm …"

  "Course," he went on, holding the cup now with both hands as he studied her face in the mirror, "we could straighten and condition it before we do the tint, get rid of that atrocious perm altogether." Freeing one hand, he looked at the enormous watch on his wrist that had an airplane's wings on the face instead of hands. "Let's do that, shall we, sweetie?" he said decisively. "I had a cancellation, so we've got the time. And God only knows you need my help." He put the cup down again and reached for a huge comb with long teeth and began drawing it through her hair.

  "Someone as petite as you shouldn't have such long hair. Your face is too small." He suddenly swiveled the chair around and bent to look at her close-to. "Honey," he said sadly, "that makeup only makes it look worse. If it was me, I'd just say, 'Fuck it!' and let them take me as I am."

  Bobby didn't know how to react. She thought he was being kind but couldn't tell for sure. She risked a smile and he smiled at her conspiratorially, then swiveled the chair around again and reached for the scissors, saying, "You'll be gorgeous, sweetie!"

  The cutting took more than forty minutes. Then the straightening solution had to stay on her hair for half an hour, followed by a rinse, then twenty minutes for the conditioner. After that Peggy washed her hair again with the fragrant apple shampoo, before leading her to the extreme rear of the shop where Bruce, his jumpsuit protected by a pale green smock, tinted her hair, the mixture cold each time it touched her scalp. When her entire head was covered with thick dark goo, he placed a rim of cotton batting all the way around her face, from one ear to the other. He set a timer, peeled off his rubber gloves, said, "I'll be back in thirty-five minutes, sweetie," and went to his chair in the middle of the salon to cut another woman's hair.

  Bobby sat reading an old issue of People, her scalp itchy, and feeling as if trickles of the dye were inching down the sides of her face. The level of noise in the place was high, what with the dryers going and everyone talking, the front door opening and closing, women coming and going. Between shampoos, Peggy got a wide-bottomed broom and walked between the chairs, sweeping up the hair. The itching of her scalp almost unbearable, Bobby resisted the temptation to plunge her fingers into the goo and give her head a good scratch. She read a piece on Madonna, then an article on some couple who'd written a best-selling diet book. At last, spotting an ashtray on the counter, she lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, thinking this was going to cost Eva a lot of money and wondering why she was willing to do it. Maybe it was just that she plain hated Bobby's hair. She hadn't much liked it herself. But Joe had told her to go get herself fixed up blond and curly, like the women on TV, and she'd done it because she knew if she argued he'd get mad and beat her up.

  The bleach had burned like
crazy. Then the setting-lotion burned on top of what the bleach had already done. She'd had to sit under a hair dryer with dozens of tiny rollers pulling the hair out of her scalp, her entire head on fire. And when the woman had finally removed the rollers and rinsed her hair, the relief had been tremendous. Until Bobby saw herself. She looked like one of those little troll dolls she'd had as a kid, a tiny squash-faced creature with hair twice as long as its body. Instead of the curls she'd anticipated, she'd come away with pure frizz. But Joe thought it was great. He got so excited he put his hand up her skirt, pulled down her pants right in the kitchen, bent her forward over the table—she knew better than to protest—and did it to her right there, where anybody could've looked in and seen. He'd grabbed hold of her hips and pushed himself into her and pumped away for what felt like forever until he'd finally finished. Then he'd pulled out of her, slapped her naked bottom, laughed, and gone off to Garvey's to grab some beers with the boys.

  The timer shrilled, and she jumped.

  Bruce came over and used a Q-tip to check her roots. "All done, dearest," he said, and summoned Peggy to give her hair yet another wash. More apple shampoo and more peppermint cream rinse. A fresh towel around her neck and another over her hair, and back to Bruce's chair, where he whipped the towel off her hair, presenting her with her image in the mirror.

 

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