I heard footsteps and hurried back to the table. She came in wearing a loose yellow blouse, baggy jeans, sandals-her hospital uniform. Her hair was loosely braided and her face looked scrubbed.
'Sorry. What a klutz,' she said.
She walked to the refrigerator. No independent movement from her chest region, no nipples.
'More iced tea?'
'No, thanks.'
She took a can of Pepsi, popped it open, and sat down facing me.
'Did you have a nice ride over?'
'Very nice.'
'It's good when there's no traffic.'
'Yes, it is.'
'I forgot to tell you, they closed off the pass to widen the road She continued to talk. About the weather and gardening, creasing her forehead.
Working hard at being casual.
But she seemed a stranger in her home. Talking stiffly, as if she'd rehearsed her lines but had no confidence in her memory.
Out the big window, the view was static as death.
Why were they living here? Why would ChuckJones's only son choose exurban quarantine in his own faltering housing development when he could have afforded to live anywhere?
Proximity to the junior college didn't explain it. Gorgeous ranchland and plenty of country-club communities dotted the west end of the Valley. And funk-chic was still alive in Topanga Canyon.
Some kind of rebellion? A bit of ideology on Chip's partwanting to be part of the community he planned to build? Just the kind of thing a rebel might use to dampen any guilt over making big profits. Though, from the looks of it, profits were a long way off.
Another scenario fit, too: abusive parents often secreted their families from the prying eyes of potential rescuers I became aware of Cindy's voice. Talking about her dishwasher, letting out words in a nervous stream. Saying she rarely used it, preferred gloving up and using steaming water so that the dishes dried almost instantly.
Getting animated, as if she hadn't talked to anyone in a long TIME
She probably hadn't. I couldn't imagine Chip sitting around for chitchat about housework.
I wondered how many of the books in the living room were hers.
Wondered what the two of them had in common.
When she paused for breath, I said, 'It really is a nice house.'
Out of context, but it perked her up.
She gave a big smile, sloe-eyed, lips moist. I realized how good-looking she could be when she was happy.
'Would you like to see the rest of it?' she said.
'Sure.'
We retraced our steps to the dining room and she pulled pieces of wedding silver out of a hutch and showed them to me, one by one.
Next came the book-lined living room, where she talked about how hard it had been to find skilled carpenters to build solid shelving, no plywood. 'Plywood gasses out-we want the house to be as clean as possible.'
