A Flash of Green

by John D. MacDonald

  “I had the idea of doing it as a sort of double interview, Mortie. One with a teacher, and one with one of the kids.”

  “But you’ll have to clear the final draft with me, Jimmy. I have a very cowardly board of directors, you know. Let me see. I have just two teachers this summer. Peter Trent is sweet, but he’s practically inarticulate. I think Nat Sinnat would be really ideal. And she’d look better in a photograph than Peter would, with that grimy beard.”

  “Then I have your permission to set it up with her?”

  “Natalie! Come here a moment, dear!”

  A girl at the far end of the gallery turned and came walking toward them, brushing her dark hair back with the back of her hand. She wore salmon-colored shorts and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her sun-dark legs were almost but not quite too thin. She walked well, with grace and assurance. As she came close Jimmy saw that she looked flushed and hot. Her hands and shirt and chin were smudged.

  “Natalie, dear, this is an old friend of mine, Jimmy Wing, from the newspaper. We can spare you for a little while here, so why don’t you take Jimmy into my office. He wants to interview you for a newspaper story about the children.”

  “How do you do?” Natalie said. “I’ve heard Mrs. Hubble speak of you, Mr. Wing.”

  “I don’t want to take you away from your work, Natalie.”

  “She’s earned a break, Jimmy. She’s done as much as any two of the others.”

  The girl picked her purse up from a bench by the arch and, as they walked out into the lobby, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to wash up. I don’t know how the paintings get so filthy. If you’ll wait for me in Mortie’s office, I won’t be long.”

  Morton Dermond’s small office was a sweltering jungle of books, easels, paintings, sculpture, mobiles, magazines, posters, sandals and strange hats. He turned on the window air conditioner, cleared the junk from two contour chairs and positioned them near the only clear corner of Dermond’s desk.

  The girl came in, closing the door behind her, and went to stand in front of the cold wind of the air conditioner. “This is my first summer down here,” she said. “It’s really wicked, isn’t it?”

  “Once we start getting some rain every day it won’t be so bad.”

  “That’s what my father keeps telling me.”

  She came over and sat near him. He asked questions and made the few notes which would cue his memory. He made it clear to her that Dermond had suggested her as the person he should interview. She was quick, intelligent and more poised than he had expected. When he asked about the caliber of the children she was teaching, she said, “They are all recommended by the art teachers in the public schools. I probably shouldn’t say this, but the ones who’ve had the least instruction are the most rewarding ones. What they get in the public schools seems to sort of tighten them up. They’re afraid of their materials. Peter and I seem to spend most of our time getting them to open up, to be bold with their colors and forms.”

  “Are you planning to become an art teacher, Natalie?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know, really. I’ve had just one year of fine arts. I’ll be a sophomore when I go back. I like this better than I thought I would. I want to be a painter. I know I have a knack, but maybe I haven’t much talent, really. I guess you better put down ‘undecided.’ ”

  As he had talked to her he had become aware of a curious duality about her. Though her expression was placid, he thought he could detect the marks of tension in her young face. And her poise was a little too nearly perfect. She began to seem more guarded than poised. He guessed there could be a great amount of neurotic tension beneath the surface, the understandable product of sensitivity and a broken home. After he had told her he would make arrangements for photographs, and had gotten from her the name of a child who would be a good one to talk to, he put his notes away and said, “Aside from the climate, Natalie, are you having a good summer?”

  “A very nice summer, thank you.”

  “Kat Hubble seems very fond of you.”

  “She’s sweet.”

  “Her husband was one of my best friends.”

  “My father told me what happened to him. It seems so terrible and so pointless.”

  “Your people have been wonderful to Kat.”

  “They like her a lot. And her children are wonderful kids.”

  “Do you think you’ll be coming down every summer while you’re in school?”

  “I don’t really know. I needed … a complete change of scene this summer. I asked if I could come down.”

  “I guess it was up to Claire.”

  “What has this got to do with the interview, Mr. Wing?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” he said, smiling at her.

  “Claire is one of the warmest, most generous people I’ve ever met.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll come back every summer, Natalie. You improve the local summer scenery.”

  “Thank you,” she said, startled and blushing slightly.

  “Have our local young men gathered around with understandable enthusiasm?”

  “I haven’t been dating,” she said, and stood up. “I better get back to work before they finish all of it.”

  After she was back at work he talked to Morton Dermond again. The young people had almost finished hanging the show.

  “Get what you need?” Dermond asked.

  “Yes indeed. It should make a good story, Mortie.”

  “Nat is articulate and she’s a darling and I love the way her mind works. She’s superb with the wretched little children. I can’t endure them myself.”

  “I got the idea there’s more to her than meets the eye.”

  “Oh, you are so right! She arrived down here shattered, just getting over an absolutely sickening affair with some pig of a graduate student up there in Michigan, and her mother was no help to her at all. Recriminations and so on. That’s why she came down. She told me about it in confidence. Broke down completely when I was criticizing her drawings, and it all came out. She seems to be coming out of it now, bless her. But she’s terribly vulnerable. That pig destroyed her confidence. I think she yearns for someone to appreciate her. Too bad you’re a little too old for her, Jimmy. Right now, to kill time, and maybe to help get herself back together, she seems to be running a little lovelorn anonymous club, being sweet and motherly to some dreary high-school boy, who seems to worship her. I saw him once in her car. I have no idea who he is. He’s rather a beautiful boy, but he has a sort of bovine look. You know the type. Natalie is a very complex little person, and very troubled, but I can’t tell you much about her because she spoke to me in confidence. You know how it is.”

  “I know. Like a sacred trust.”

  “Exactly, Jimmy. Did she tell you what child to talk to? Good. Do give us a nice big spread on this if you can, old man.”

  “Will try. Are you saving the bays again, Mortie?”

  “What? Oh, that dreary meeting yesterday, of course. It was all sort of spiritless. You know? Actually, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth it. People down here seem to despise natural beauty. It seems to make them terribly uneasy. They don’t really feel secure until they can see asphalt in every direction, and they don’t trust a tree unless they’ve grown it themselves. Oh, we’ll fight the brave battle, mother, but I haven’t as much zing for it this time, and I don’t think the others do either. Except Tom Jennings. He’s incredibly warlike, you know. And little Kat Hubble is very dedicated. Will you be helping us this time?”

  “It won’t be as easy, not with the owner in favor of the fill.”

  “All done?” he called to the young people. “Splendid! It’s an absolutely glorious show, isn’t it? And beautifully hung. Thank you all so much! And I want you all at the reception tomorrow, please. Four o’clock. You come too, Jimmy, please.”

  “If I can make it, Mortie.”

  “Do try. When will the photographer come?”

  “Next week some time, Mortie,
during her class.” He started away and turned and said, “How were her drawings, anyway?”

  “Eh? Oh, they were competent. But very constricted. Tight little exercises, as if her darling little knuckles were bone white when she did them, and she bit her lip until it bled. Absolutely virginal, actually.” Mortie giggled. “But, gracious, that certainly isn’t accurate!”

  Until Jimmy Wing had driven a few blocks, the steering wheel of his car was so hot he had to keep shifting the position of his hands. It was too late for a chess game with Haas. He drove out to Cable Key, showered and changed and had time for a beer before driving to the Halleys to see Kat.

  Ten

  EXCEPT FOR THE FOUNDATION PILINGS and the post and beam frame, trued and bolted, Ross and Jackie Halley had built their house themselves. It was an oblong eighty feet long and thirty feet wide, set on slender pilings which raised it four or five feet above raked shell. It was on a small bay-front lot, and was nested so closely against a fringe of water oak and mangrove that the highest tides came up under the structure. It had a big roofed redwood deck on the water side, looking out toward Grassy Bay, and an unroofed deck on the other side, facing the parking area. The central part of the structure was one big living area, with a kitchen island in the middle completely encircled by a bar. The bedroom and bath were to the left, and Ross’s studio was to the right.

  From the parking area the whole side of the building was alternating rectangles of fixed glass, glass jalousies, and panels painted chalk blue, yellow-white and coral.

  As soon as Kat had stopped the car, Roy and Alicia piled out, yelping and running toward Jackie’s fond loud greeting. She was good with children, and Kat knew how desperately disappointed they were to be unable to have any.

  “Go climb into the stuff Ross laid out on my bed, Kat, then yell for the mahster. I’m putting your brats to work. We’re going oystering. The one that gets the biggest one gets to wear the straw sombrero.”

  Kat went into the bedroom and changed into the fussy yellow blouse and wide vivid skirt. When she called Ross, he came out of the studio with camera and sketch pad. “Hi, Lady Kat. Mmmm. Just about right.”

  “This shade of yellow makes me look like death.”

  “I don’t want it for the color, m’am.”

  “Hair?”

  “As is, I think. No, you better sleek it back a little. Give me more ears.”

  “I’ve got horrible ears.”

  “I’ve got a whole file drawer full of ears.”

  Smiling, she went and fixed her hair. Ross took her out into the side yard and had her sit in a garden chair under the shade of a punk tree. He squatted on the corner of the deck above her and had her move the chair a few times until the angle was right and the play of light and shadow was what he wanted. He was a square quick man with a metallic voice, a tall black brush cut which looked dense and harsh as a nylon brush, a solid bar of black eyebrow, little black shoe-button eyes.

  “Little more toward me. Chin up. You’re looking up at a guy you didn’t expect to see, but you’re glad to see him. And you’re going to get out of the chair. Lean just a little forward. Okay. Now start to reach out a little with the right hand. Okay. Chin higher. Okay. Not so much smile. Okay. Pull your feet back a little. Okay.”

  The camera ticked. Ross perspired in the sun. He changed angles slightly. He took two rolls of film, then made a few quick free sketches of details. After they went back into the house, he paid her in cash and she signed a receipt form. Jackie came back with the children, and a bucket of oysters. After Kat had changed back into her sun dress, she found that Ross had gone back out onto the oyster bar with the children.

  “Can he take the time off to mind those two?” Kat asked.

  “Heck, he’s way ahead of the art directors for a change. Let’s get going on our gals. I got the file out last night. Take turns? Here’s your stack. I’ll go first.”

  By five o’clock on that Saturday afternoon, Kat Hubble and Jackie Halley were depressed and concerned. They sat on stools at the kitchen bar, the phone between them, their file cards and notes in front of them. Roy and Alicia were out at the end of the Halleys’ narrow dock, catching bait fish on tiny hooks and putting them in the bait well of Ross’s old skiff at the customary rate of two cents a fish.

  Ross came out of his studio into the living room and said, “I developed the roll of black and white, Kat. It’s fine. Hey, are you two about to break into tears or something?”

  “Shuck the oysters, dear,” Jackie said in a weary voice.

  “Shuck the oysters, please, dear,” he corrected. “Where’s the oyster knife?”

  “Please, then. Where it always is.”

  “Hey, Ross, we got eleven!” Roy yelled.

  “Good work, men! What’s with you sad ladies anyhow?”

  “We’re not scoring so well,” Jackie said.

  “Some of our best gals won’t do it this time,” Kat said.

  “Word seems to have gotten around,” Jackie explained.

  “They don’t even want to be members any more.”

  “Twelve!” Alicia yelled.

  “Just one card left?” Jackie said. “Go ahead, dear. Who is it?”

  “Donna Armstrong.”

  “Hmmm. Whose husband happens to be a car dealer,” Jackie said. She laughed bitterly. “Make three guesses. Go ahead.”

  Kat dialed. “Donna? This is Kat Hubble. The S.O.B.’s are declaring a state of emergency, and we’re calling you back onto active duty. What? Yes, it’s Grassy Bay again. How did you know? Oh, I see. Well, you will help us …? I’d like to know, of course.”

  Kat put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked hopelessly at Jackie and said, “She doesn’t want it filled, but …” She listened for a few more moments and then said, “We’ll miss you, Donna. You were so wonderful last time. But if Si really says you shouldn’t, I guess there isn’t much you can do. But please do ask him again, will you? And let us know if you can. Thank you, dear. I’m sorry too. ’Bye.”

  Kat hung up. “It seems a Mr. Flake buys his cars and trucks from Mr. Armstrong’s agency. And it even seems that Si Armstrong has a teeny tiny piece of Palmland Development. And just last week Si let her in on the secret and laid down the law.”

  “Well, that’s it. Let me check this thing. We called forty-two women. I’ll mark Donna for a flat no. At least she’s more honest than the ones who got so terribly vague about the whole thing. Thirteen acceptances. There is a nice lucky number. Fifteen refusals. Excuse me. Eleven refusals. Plus Donna is twelve. Nine couldn’t be reached. Six gave us that let-you-know-later jazz. So out of the group who worked like dogs last time, it’s twenty-one to thirteen against. So we should pick up maybe three more out of that nine—sixteen when we’ll need forty. And we’ve lost some of the very best ones, dammit!”

  “I keep thinking about Hilda.”

  “I’d rather not think about her.”

  “Just how did she word it?”

  “Oh, she just gave a merry little ho ho and said, ‘But, Jackie, lamb, I’ve promised to organize a telephone campaign in favor of this project. This will be a delicious program, and it won’t hurt Grassy Bay a bit, and my Danny says only the forces of reaction will be against it.’ And so on and so on. Ugh! Her Danny was dragging his feet the last time. Remember? Eight hundred potential customers for dear Danny’s appliance business. Do I sound like a snob? I’m not. Selling appliances is a good wholesome way to make a living in America. But damn if I like them filling the bay so they’ll have a place to put them. Hilda was our best man, Kat.”

  “So we’ll find other women just as good.”

  “You have considerable jaw on you when you shove it out that way, honey.”

  “And we’ll make the sixteen work twice as hard as last time, and you and I will work four times as hard. And, as Tom says, if the commissioners vote the wrong way after the public hearing, we’ll take the fight to Tallahassee.”

  “Stop glaring at me, for goodness’ sa
ke! I’m with you. Don’t you think we’ve earned a drink?”

  “I guess so. Weak for me, please.”

  “It’ll have to be something with rum. Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  As Jackie fixed the drinks, Kat walked out on the deck. The kids were quarreling over their fish count. Ross was finishing the oysters down on the dock. As she watched, he scraped the last one into the pan and waded out with the two buckets of shells and dumped them back onto the oyster bar.

  “Jackie, would it cover that oyster bar?”

  “Probably not that one, but it would cover the big ones out there, and it would block the tide flow to this one so that it would probably die. Here’s your drink.”

  The first tall tree shadows were reaching out toward the dock, the intent children, the old skiff. The thunderheads were over the mainland, far inland, piled seven miles high, suddenly as monstrous in her mind as the tree shadows. “Seventeen!” Alicia called, her voice unbearably clear and sweet in the first silence of the coming evening. “That makes seventeen! Take him off my hook, Roy.”

  Kat felt a coldness along her back, like a leathery touch, reptilian. “Everything changes,” she said. “Everything dies.”

  “Hey now,” Jackie said gently.

  “I’m sorry. Everything seems … like some kind of a dirty trick on people.”

  Jackie gave her a quick, rough, shy hug, a one-armed gesture which spilled some of Kat’s cool drink on the back of her hand. “In the deathless words of my husband, dear, you can’t win ’em all. He has a crapshooter’s approach to eternity. He says he’s small time at a big table. He drags back when he wins, and he covers so many numbers they can’t ever hurt him too badly.”

  Kat turned and stared at her. “What does that make me?”

  “The same as me, dear. We’re hunch bettors. We win big and we lose big.” She cocked her head. “Now who the hell is that dropping in?”

  “Oh, I forgot. It’s Jimmy Wing. I should have told you.”

  “Jimmy is welcome here any time, honey. You know that.”

  As they walked toward the front door, Kat said, “I wonder how Jimmy fits into that dice game idea.”