The Witches of Eastwick

Fifty-seventh Street. It's not for me to promise you anything, Alexandra—O.K. if I call you that?—but if you could bring yourself to create on a bigger scale, I bel we could get you a show. Maybe you'll never be Marisol but you could sure as hell be another Niki de Saint-Phalle. You know, those 'Nanas.' Now those have scale. I mean, she's really let go, she's not just futzin' around.'

With some relief Alexandra decided she quite dis­liked this man. He was pushy, coarse, and a blabber­mouth. His buying her out at the Hungry Sheep felt like a rape, and she would have to run another batch through the kiln now earlier than she had planned. The pressure his personality set up had intensified her cramps, which she had woken with that morning, days ahead of schedule; that was one of the signs of cancer, irregularities in your cycle. Also, she had brought with her from the West a regrettable trace of the regional prejudice against Indians and Chicanos, and to her eyes Darryl Van Home didn't look washed. You could almost see little specks of black in his skin, as if he were a halftone reproduction. He wiped his lips with the hairy back of a hand, and his lips twitched with impatience while she searched her heart for an honest but polite response. Dealing with men was work, a chore she had become lazy at. 'I don't want to be another Niki de Saint-Phalle,' she said. 'I want to be me. The potency, as you put it, comes from their being small enough to hold in the hand.' Hastening blood made the capillaries in her face burn; she smiled at herself for being excited, when intellectually she had decided the man was a fraud, an apparition. Except for his money; that had to be real.

His eyes were small and watery, and looked rubbed. 'Yeah, Alexandra, but what is you? Think small, you'll wind up small. You're not giving you a chance, with this old-giftie-shoppie mentality. I couldn't belicve how little they were charging—a lousy twenty bucks, when you should be thinking five figures.'

He was New York vulgar, she perceived, and felt sorry for him, landed in this

subtle province. She remem­bered the wisp of smoke, how fragile and brave it had looked. She asked him forgivingly, 'How do you like your new house? Are you pretty well settled in?'

With enthusiasm, he said, 'It's hell. I work late, my ideas come to me at night, and every morning around seven-fifteen these fucking workmen show up! With their fucking radios! Pardon my Latin.'

He seemed aware of his need for forgiveness; the need surrounded him, and rippled out from every clumsy, too-urgent gesture.

'You gotta come over and see the place,' he said. 'I need advice all over the lot. All my life I've lived in apartments where they decide everything for you, and the contractor I've got's an asshole.'

'Joe?'

'You know him?'

'Everybody knows him,' Alexandra said; this stranger should be told that insulting local people was not the way to win friends in Eastwick.

But his loose tongue and mouth tumbled on un­abashed. 'Little funny hat all the time?'

She had to nod, but perhaps not to smile. She some­times hallucinated that Joe was still wearing his hat while making love to her.

'He's out to lunch every meal of the day,' Van Home said. 'All he wants to talk about is how the Red Sox pitching collapsed again and how the Pats still don't have any pass defense. Not that the old guy doing the floor is any wizard either; this priceless slate, practically marble, up from Tennessee, and he lays it half with the rough side up, where you can see the marks of the quarry saw. These butchers you call workmen up here wouldn't last one day on a union job in Manhattan. No offense, I can see you're think­ing, 'What a snob,' and I guess the hicks don't get much practice, putting up chicken coops; but no won­der it's such a weird-looking state. Hey, Alexandra, between us: I'm crazy about that huffy frozen look you get on your face when you get defensive and can't think what to say. And the tip of your nose is cute.' Astonishingly, he reached out and touched it, the little cleft tip she was sensitive about, a touch so quick and improper she wouldn't have believed it happened but for the chilly tingle it left.

She didn't just dislike him, she hated him; yet still she stood there smiling, feeling trapped and faint and wondering what her irregular insides were trying to tell her.

Jane Smart came up to them. For the performance she had had to spread her legs and therefore was the only woman at the gathering in a full-length gown, a shimmering concoction of aqua silk and lace trim per­haps a touch too bridal. 'Ah, la artiste,' Van Home exclaimed, and he seized her hand not in a handshake but like a manicurist inspecting, taking her hand upon his wide palm and then rejecting it, since it was the left he wanted, the tendony fingering hand with its glazed calluses where she pressed the strings. The man made a tender sandwich of it between his own hairy two. 'What intonation,' he said. 'What vibrato and stretch. Really. You think I'm an obnoxious mad­man but I do know music. It's the one thing makes me humble.'

Jane's dark eyes lightened, indeed glowed. 'Not prissy, you think,' she said. 'Our leader keeps saying my intonation is prissy.'

'What an asshole,' pronounced Van Home, wip­ing spit from the corners of his mouth. 'You have precision but that's not prissy necessarily; precision is where passion begins. Without precision, beaucoup de rien, huh? Even your thumb, on your thumb position: you really keep that pressure on, where a lot of men crump out, it hurts too much.' He pulled her left hand closer to his face and caressed the side of her thumb. 'See that?' he said to Alexandra, brandishing Jane's hand as if it were detached, a dead thing to be admired. 'That is one beautiful callus.'

Jane tugged her hand back, feeling eyes gathering upon them. The Unitarian minister, Ed Parsley, was taking notice of the scene. Van Home perhaps relished an audience, for he dramatically let Jane's left hand drop and seized the unguarded right, as it hung at Jane's side, to shake it in her own astonished face. 'It's this hand,' he almost shouted. 'It's this hand's the fly in the ointment. Your lowing. God! Your spiccato sounds like marcato, your legato like ditachi. Honey, string those phrases together, you're not playing just notes, one after the other, biddledy um-um-um, you're playing phrases, you're playing human outcries!'

As if in silent outcry Jane's prim thin mouth dropped open and Alexandra saw tears form second lenses upon her eyes, whose brown was always a little lighter in color than you remembered, a tortoiseshell color.

Reverend Parsley joined them. He was a youngish man with a slippery air of doom about him; his face was like a handsome face distorted in a slightly warped mirror—too long from sideburn to nostril, as if per­petually being tugged forward, and the too full and expressive lips caught in the relentless smile of one who knows he is in the wrong place, on the wrong platform of the bus station in a country where no known language is spoken. Though