by Martin Brown
“What happened?” Debbie asked in an urgent voice.
“It all seemed to happen so fast that it just doesn’t make a lot of sense!”
Barbara recalled expecting to find Grant home Saturday night when she returned from the city. He wasn’t. Far worse, she suspected that he had been their earlier, likely when she was in the city working at the gallery.
She then told Debbie of the young woman named Kitty and the suspicions she had when she saw her and Grant together at the Gate Six artists’ reception.
It occurred to Debbie to express the thought that Grant would never do such a thing, but she thought it wiser at this point to simply sit and listen.
Barbara explained that she had made herself a margarita, then another, and another. That she drifted off on the couch and awoke before midnight to find Grant was still not home.
“I was angry and disappointed.”
Debbie held her hand and continued to listen.
“I looked at the clock, and then I looked at the front door. The longer I sat, the angrier I got. When Grant came home, I just flew into a rage. It wasn’t what I thought I would do, but all this anger just came out of me. I went at him, or threw something at him; I just don’t remember exactly what I did. Then, bang, I’m on the floor, and the next thing I know, this Sausalito cop is standing over me.”
Debbie squeezed Barbara’s hand as her eyes welled up again. Then, in a soft voice, Barbara continued, “There were more of these guys standing around me. They placed me on a stretcher. I wanted to ask where the hell they were taking me, but my throat just seemed to swell, and when it did, it swallowed my voice. Before that, I looked over and saw Grant with his arms behind his back and a police officer walking him out the front door. I thought I must have been having a nightmare.”
Barbara wiped tears away and added, “It was all so totally unreal. Nothing like this has ever happened to me or to Grant. Nothing, ever!”
“I know nothing about Saturday, other than what I heard from Ray, but I can tell you this,” Debbie said, as she continued to hold Barbara’s hand. “Grant and Ray went to the gym in the late afternoon, and then they went back to our house, cooked out, and both had, as Ray told me, way too much to drink.”
“Why didn’t Grant come home after the gym?”
“I asked Ray that, and he explained that Grant said you were staying late at the gallery for an open house.”
“That’s next Saturday night. I was home before seven and wondering why he wasn’t here,” Barbara said, relieved that finally some of what happened the night before was beginning to make sense.
On the 12-mile drive back from San Rafael, where Grant had been processed and released after a bondsman had posted his bail, Ray could not resist the overwhelming temptation to ask, “What the hell happened? If I realized you were going to go home last night and coldcock your wife, I would have told you to stay in one of our guest rooms and sleep it off!”
Grant, who had spent a sleepless night thinking about Barbara, wondered how in the world he had gone from a respected name in the art world one minute to sitting in a jail cell the next, charged with assaulting his wife. How could so much change in his life and in their lives in a matter of moments?
“I spent the night trying to figure out what happened. I know we both got kind of hammered. I know I came home and Barbara came at me like I was an axe murderer who just broke into our house, but the rest of it doesn’t add up.”
“Well, it sounds like a mess to me. Debbie is over at your place right now. Maybe together we can figure out what the hell actually happened.”
“I know one thing, Ray—as I walked through the door, my head was buzzing. I heard Barbara scream out something; I looked up and saw her coming at me with one of those oversized art books we have all around the house. I swung my arm out in the asshole move of my life to avoid getting whacked over the head, and caught her BANG, right on the jaw. She screamed, went down, and everything else after that happened pretty fast.”
“Okay, pal, I just gotta ask, anything like this ever happen before?”
“No, absolutely not. Absolutely not!”
When Ray walked through the door of the Randolph home, both he and Debbie froze for a moment.
Grant stood by the doorway and looked at Barbara.
Barbara silently stared at Grant.
The silence for a few moments was deafening. Then, Barbara stood and Grant rushed over.
They hugged and cried. Debbie began to cry as well.
Ray put his huge arms around Debbie’s shoulders and whispered to her, “I think that’s our cue to get the hell out of here.”
Debbie sniffed, nodded, and as she and Ray turned to leave, she looked back and saw her two closest friends in Sausalito holding each other, completely unaware of the presence of anyone else in the room.
After the Siricas left, Grant and Barbara slowly began to unravel the mystery of what had happened just twelve hours before. It took Barbara time before she could raise the issue of Kitty. Grant acknowledged that there was a sexual tension between the two of them, and that Kitty, in her free-spirited way, had made it clear that she was open to their following their desires wherever they led.
Having said that, Grant cuddled in beside Barbara on the couch and said, “Together, you and I have spent a lot of time around artists; we know they can be pretty free spirits. And I would be lying if I told you that I don’t find Kitty attractive and tempting, but it’s like this…”
Grant gathered his thoughts, and Barbara kissed him softly on the cheek.
“If you really love someone, you’re invested deeply in the relationship. Temptation comes along once, or more times than that, but if you give into that desire, it’s like cutting a hole in the bottom of your pocket. Everything you are together is because of what you have shared in the past and are likely to share in the future. If you’re not careful, all of that, just like gold coins, can fall out the bottom of your pocket and be lost forever.”
Barbara said, “Is that your way of saying you don’t want to lose what we’ve built together?”
“Absolutely. That would be such a foolish thing to do.”
Like any great challenge a couple faces successfully, Barbara and Grant emerged more fiercely devoted to each other than they had felt for a very long time. They spent the rest of Sunday afternoon in bed naked, wrapped tightly around each other.
Moving his head up from where his lips caressed her breasts, reaching for her mouth, Grant grazed her bruised jaw and saw Barbara wince. He gently kissed the wound and told her how deeply sorry he was.
“Perhaps I should lay off the strength training.”
“Are you kidding? I love your arms, and I love your shoulders! Just try hard not to take a swing in my direction. You can pack a helluva wallop.”
“It’s a deal. And you promise not to crown me with any coffee table art books because I’ve done something stupid.”
They kissed and laughed. Exhausted from two days and one very long night with little if any rest, they fell into a very deep sleep.
For the next few days, the Randolphs happily hid themselves from the world.
On Wednesday, with home delivery of the Standard, the darker side of Sausalito found them once again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ray Sirica was the first to notice the lead in Bradley’s “Heard About Town” column.
“Holy hell!” he called out, and then added, “Debbie, you’ve got to get in here!”
Debbie became so angry at what Warren had written that she started to shake.
“That malicious little man; this is just disgraceful! Raymond, what are you going to do about this?”
“What do you mean, ‘What am I going to do?’”
“I don’t know what I mean. When we were telling Grant and Barbara what a wonderful town Sausalito is, we never dreamed of anything like this.”
“What I’d like to do,” Ray said, “is pick up that nasty troll by the scruff of his neck and
slap him senseless.”
“But what you’d like to do, and what you can do, Ray, are two different things.”
They both sat silently for a moment, staring out at their picture book view of the bay.
Debbie spoke first, “Should we call Barbara and Grant?”
“I’ve never heard them say a word about looking at the Standard, although I’m guessing Grant sees it for coverage of the arts commission, if nothing else,” Ray said.
They toyed with the thought that perhaps their friends would not see the piece, but decided that was wishful thinking. If nothing else, one of his fellow commission members was certain to ask Grant about what happened.
“No,” Ray said, having clearly settled on his next move. “We have to let them know what this little weasel, Warren Bradley, put in the paper. Deb, call them and see if they’re home; tell them we have something to show them.”
The Siricas arrived at the Grants to find them blissfully enjoying their day. Barbara worked that morning for the gallery from home, and both she and Grant decided to spend the afternoon working together on the small garden area that hugged their side patio.
Debbie and Ray knew that they would be ruining what appeared to be a perfectly blissful moment, but they were resolved in their belief that it was better they heard about this from friends.
Barbara insisted that they both sit down at the patio table and she would bring out something to drink. Her guests sat down, but waved off the beverages.
The bruise along Barbara’s left jawline was already much improved, but still clearly visible. Grant, still uncomfortable over the embarrassment of what the two of them now called, “The mother of all misunderstandings,” pulled off the gardening gloves he had been weeding with, and sat down as well.
Debbie smiled and pushed Ray’s knee under the table, as if to say, Please, you start.
Ray pulled that week’s issue of the Standard out of his back pocket. He laid the paper out on the table, and opened it to Bradley’s column.
“That spat you two had was picked up in the local gossip column—”
The words were hardly out of Ray’s mouth when Grant grabbed the paper and started to read the first few paragraphs of “Heard About Town.”
With his voice rising, and with Barbara’s face reddening, Grant read, “Sausalito Police sources confirmed that the argument led to Mr. Randolph’s arrest and Mrs. Randolph being rushed to Marin General Hospital over concern that she had suffered life-threatening injuries.” Grant was greatly annoyed by Ethel’s suggestion that, “perhaps it was time we reconsider Mr. Randolph’s participation.”
“I’ll quit before they ever have the chance to ask me to leave!” Grant said, as his face reddened.
But what angered Grant and Barbara the most was Warren’s claim that “at press time, neither of them were available for comment.”
“That’s complete and utter bullshit!” Grant said, as he slammed the paper down on the table.
Barbara grabbed it off the table and reread the story in silence. When she had finished, in a quiet voice she said, “This is awful, just awful!”
After a few moments of silence, Ray, the only one of the three of them not intimidated by Grant’s anger, said, “I don’t like that little shit any more than you do, Grant, but we all know what he wrote isn’t a total fabrication.”
“I don’t mean what he said about the fight. That was mostly true—although I think he deliberately over-dramatized Barbara’s condition. What really pisses me off is this bullshit about neither of us being ‘available at press time,’” Grant explained.
“In other words,” Ray said, “you think the little prick was avoiding you because he didn’t want your comments, knowing you’d at least try to explain what happened.”
“Exactly! He wanted to put it in the worst light possible, right down to his wisecrack, making it sound as if we just arrived here off the set of Gangs of New York!”
“I have no doubt of that. With my having the last name of Sirica, Bradley would gladly imply that I’m a retired Chicago mobster. In truth, he’s lucky my dad was in the pajama game, and not in the syndicate, or Warren would be on his way to the bottom of the bay in a cement swimsuit.”
The four of them shared a much-needed laugh, and paused to imagine how much better a place their world would be if Warren Bradley was entombed in cement and deposited into the quiet waters between Sausalito and Tiburon.
Barbara, trying to take this new disaster in stride, said, “Between the hatchet job Bradley did on me for turning down the league’s invitation, and now our knock down drag out fight, maybe I should just get fitted for a burqa for when Debbie and I take one of our walks through town.”
That, along with fantasies of Warren going cement diving in the bay, broke the tension, to Ray and Debbie’s great relief.
At that moment, the four of them looked up as they heard the gate on the white picket fence open and shut. Oscar and Clarice Anderson were walking toward them. Clarice was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. After exchanging greetings and an introduction to Ray and Debbie, Oscar said, “Clarice and I just read what that awful man, Bradley, wrote about the two of you. We never read the Standard, and we didn’t even know about his column.”
“How’d you find out?” Ray asked.
“A friend called us to tell us that our names were in the paper!” Clarice explained. “So, we fished the paper out of the recycling bin. That’s what happens every week—it comes in the mail, we look at the front page to see if there’s any news that concerns us—street repairs, bond measures and such—then we put it in recycling.”
“Do you even know Warren Bradley?” Grant asked.
“Oh, sure. We’re on a couple of committees with him,” Oscar said.
“When he showed up at our house with a plate of brownies yesterday morning, we, of course, invited him in,” Clarice explained. “We were both surprised to see him. He’s never done anything like that before.”
“When we saw his column today, we, of course, realized why he was being so nice. He was fishing for information,” Oscar said with a scowl.
“I’m so sorry,” Clarice sobbed. “I’m even sorry that we called the police! But when we heard Barbara scream, we didn’t know what was going on.”
Barbara, tearing up, stood up and embraced Clarice. “Don’t cry, dear. This all started over a stupid misunderstanding; both of us had way too much to drink, and everything from that point on got out of hand.”
Grant’s face reddened with feelings of both anger and embarrassment.
After hugs were exchanged, the Andersons left. Clarice was still dabbing tears from the corner of her eyes as they walked slowly back toward the white picket fence.
“If I ever see Bradley again at a meeting of the arts commission, I’m going to wring the man’s neck,” Grant said, as Ray and Debbie got up to leave.
“Don’t do anything to make things worse, pal. This will all die down in a week or two,” Ray said, hoping silently that he was right.
Every Saturday evening in May, Sausalito held a Night at the Opera event at Gabrielson Park, just steps away from the ferry terminal and the Sausalito Yacht Club.
The mild evening air and selections from Verdi’s La Traviata brought out what was likely the biggest opening night crowd long-time attendees of the festival could remember.
All of those usually seen about town were in attendance: the five members of the city council, members of the city’s numerous commissions: planning, design review, historical, parks and recreation, and fine arts; also, the Sausalito Women’s League members, many of whom served on the committee that arranged refreshments for the night; and most notably Alma, and her Ladies of Liberty, who sat at one of several reserved tables for distinguished guests and local officials.
Grant decided not to sit at the group table reserved for the arts commission, choosing instead to join Barbara, Ray, and Debbie on a blanket spread on the park’s thick green grass. His suggestion to Barbara t
hat they go was at first resisted. It had only been three days since Warren’s column had appeared, and Barbara dreaded knowing that staring eyes would be pointed at them from all directions.
“I’m not sure yet that I’m ready to be seen in public. I’m still waiting for that burqa from Bergdorf I ordered,” Barbara said, only half-jokingly.
Debbie was also ambivalent about attending the event, but Ray and Grant separately presented similar arguments to their wives. “People like Warren Bradley are not going to spoil this, or any night in Sausalito, for us.”
Both Debbie and Barbara agreed to go and have fun, although they both would have preferred to do any one of a dozen other things. But now that they were there and the evening air was so pleasant and the wine and food they had brought was all so delicious, they began to relax. Barbara noticed a few raised eyebrows, mostly coming from Robin Mitchell and others seated at the Ladies of Liberty table. There were a few whispers into cupped ears and nods aimed in their direction, but she disciplined herself to focus on the music and the setting, and she pushed every other thought aside.
During intermission, Barbara noticed Warren flitting from table to table, smiling, laughing, and greeting those whom she knew he considered as all the right people. With each laugh he gave, she secretly wondered if she and her husband were the butt of his cutting comments. Again, she pushed aside her irritation and willed herself to ignore a deep and unwelcome sense of humiliation.
It wasn’t until an hour later, when everyone was packing-up their blankets and picnic baskets that Grant walked over and tapped Warren Bradley on the back. If Barbara, Ray, or Debbie knew what Grant was about to do, they would have stopped him.
Perhaps his original intent was merely, as he explained later, to say hello to a few of his fellow arts commission members. But when he passed so close to Warren that he could feel his own disgust and anger rising, he simply had to say something.