This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of Down in the Dirt magazine.
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It is evening. I hurry up the front steps needing a drink before anyone arrives. In the semi darkness I see a couple at the end of the screened porch that surrounds the front and sides of the house. They are dancing to soft music from a small radio. The man’s hand slides up the woman’s leg, lifting her short skirt. I smile, knowing how my in-laws, Esther and Fred Mathews, would react. When they lived here they were considered models of respectability.
Roy Mathews and I own the big old house now, kind of. When the senior Mathews’ gave it to us Esther decreed it be available for use by community organizations.
She and Fred were will known for their generous contributions to the arts, but now they’re retired and live at the coast. Among other things, Esther directed me to assume her philanthropic projects. The way she talks makes me want to stand at attention and salute. But I don’t mind. It makes her think I care. More important, it gives me something to do. I’ve arranged a musical soiree’ for tonight. Specially invited high donors will come and listen then donate to the Valley Music Festival. Musicians from the Festival are in town rehearsing. Hopefully I’ll complete a project of mine too.
We don’t live in this house. Ours is the re-modeled caretaker’s house in the peach orchard close by. I liked super respectable Fred better when I found out he used to sneak over there when the caretaker’s wife was alone. Every family I know has its back story. This one makes me want to laugh every time I see Esther.
Roy is the only one of the four Mathews sons who returned to the valley after college. When it comes to running the large peach orchards his parents still own, he is demanding and successful. However, in bed he’s not demanding and often not successful. Our czardas in his college dorm room changed to a horizontal gavotte after we got married five years ago. And
I’ve had enough gavottes. Roy says its not my fault but won’t talk about it.
I miscarried a few weeks before the wedding. I suppose I could have canceled it but I didn’t have a job and the invitations were already out. Plus, of course, Esther would have gone ballistic. That’s how she is when something doesn’t go exactly the way she wants it to.
The day after graduation we were married in St Luke’s Episcopal. Some call it St Mathews’ Episcopal. Every time the Esther Mathews carillon goes off we’re reminded of all the money they’ve contributed to St Luke’s. The carillon sounds good. Esther saw to that. The whole town suffered for five days while the damn thing played Jesus Loves Me over and over with different settings before Esther had the sound she wanted. Something to make Jesus love her, I guess. I think her secret hope was that the carillon would get her an entrance ticket to the pearly gates.
The Festival musicians haven’t arrived yet, giving me time to go to the linen closet and take a quick swig from the bottle of vodka I keep there. I’m waiting for a particular musician to arrive. I have an additional agenda for this gala evening.
Three locals are struggling through a dismal Haydn trio. Their fumbling efforts are out of place in Esther’s living room with its antique furniture, authentic Tiffany lamps and oriental rugs all on a polished hard wood floor. The violin and viola players in the trio are high school students not used to sight reading and I’m glad I’m not sitting in. I’m a dilettante viola player.
The cellist is Donald Blabon. Esther used to invite him because he is a college professor and she thought he added status to a gathering. A young lady is sitting close to Donald, one of a series who evidently enjoy being seduced by a father figure. I’m guessing her bonus is a guaranteed A in his class. Donald’s offensive body odor permeates the room. I wonder how often he takes showers, alone or with one of his conquests. He didn’t bring his acquisition du jour with him until Esther and Fred moved to the coast.
I go to the linen closet for another drink. Mercifully, the Haydn trio ends when several musicians from the Festival arrive and Donald’s wretched cello playing is no longer needed. The enchanted high school couple retreats to a divan. They’re trying to be cool but it isn’t working. There is more than music on their agenda and I doubt it is a gavotte.
The dancers from the porch come inside. I recognize the woman as universally available Ilene Davenport, one of the back row violinists in the Festival orchestra. Her skirt lifting friend is a bass player in the orchestra. Sometimes I wonder why she doesn’t hang out a sign that says: Help Wanted.
In the middle or everything I’m the gracious hostess fluttering around acting like I’m the doyenne of all the philanthropic activities in the valley. I’m wearing my wealthy patroness uniform, Italian flat shoes and expensive cotton print dress with cashmere sweater thrown over the shoulders and all screaming Saks Fifth Avenue.
The center piece of the evening is Sidney Rosenfeld, a New York musician and concertmaster of the Festival orchestra. He’s my center piece too. He takes off his coat and tie and unbuttons the top button of his silk shirt. He knows I’m watching him. We talked at the opening reception for the orchestra members last week and I liked the way he brushed against me in the crowd there. I wouldn’t mind a dance or two with him. But no gavottes.
I’m guessing Sid is lonely. His wife passed away recently. She was wealthy and that explains Sid’s expensive violin and antique Rolls Royce convertible.
The two elderly ladies who keep up the place are in their usual chairs, smiling but never speaking. Not one strand of their blue hair is out of place. Recently I caught them drowning their lemonade with gin bought out of the house budget. They are Esther’s relatives so I can’t fire them, but they don’t know that. I’m successfully blackmailing them into not making their usual reports to Esther about my activities.
Four musicians from the Festival start playing one of the dull early Mozart quartets. Bored, I look around the room then focus on the books in the glass front book case. The complete set of Tom Swift fits in. But Lady Chatterley’s Lover and a book of Genet plays? Don’t make me laugh. The boys must have put them there as a joke. For sure, Esther hasn’t read either one.
Roy is usually helpful and during the first break I go out to the porch were he is mixing the punch. Ilene has discovered him and is twitching her butt more than usual. Maybe she is attracted to Roy’s prematurely gray hair, but more likely it is the Mathews money.
I go to the kitchen for more ice and another bottle of white wine for the punch. Everyone is crowded in there eating sandwiches. Sid rubs against my back, actually lower than my back, when I slide through to the refrigerator. I turn, face him and press gently against him. Maybe he’ll get the idea. He smiles and tells me what a nice evening it is. I touch his hairy arm and rub it ever so slightly. His mouth is close to my ear. An invitation to dance? A tango would be good.
Later during the break I see Sid and Roy talking together. Roy doesn’t know anything about music. Probably he’s just being the gracious host. They watch Ilene, her practiced eye checking for who might be available.
Roy leaves after mixing the punch. It’s the height of the picking season and 4:00AM comes early for him.
After the break the best players start on the Beethoven Opus 59 number three. I could play its great viola part but I’d have to practice and that’s a bore.
During the Beethoven, one of the fixture old ladies holds the phone and points to me. The mother of the high school girl violin player is calling to see if her daughter can stay the night. Something I had expected. They live thirty miles up the river and want to pick her up when they come to town in the morning. No doubt daughter had carefully choreographed this. Not a problem with me.
During the next break I go upstairs to check the guest room. The bedrooms are completely furnished as if waiting for the return of all the family. I can imagine Esther standing at the end of this long hall, her stentorian voice calling the boys. I heard that voice once during the Spring vacation when she caught Roy and me getting dressed after doing our dirty boogie.
The master bedroom and bath is at the head of the main stairway. Its massive bed has a tall head board inlaid with several hard woods. I’ve never been able to imagine Esther and Fred in it together.
Esther invited Sid to stay in it during the festival. She told me after she had done this. For once, she did something I agreed with.
Sid had said he wanted to change out of his sweaty shirt. I peak through the partially open door and see he is changing out of his swaty pants and shorts too. Everything inside me revs up.
I go down stairs and outside hoping to find cooler air. Donald Blabon is standing in the Wisteria arbor, his fondling hand under the tank top of his latest. He is admiring Sid’s beautifully restored Rolls Royce convertible. It is bright yellow, has wide white side wall tires and newly shined silver radiator. Roy admired it too and Sid let him drive it the other day.
I hear laughter. In the darkness behind the Wisteria two couples are passing a home made cigarette between them, Its smoke hangs in the hot, still air and it isn’t tobacco. I wish I could join them. The high school couple is out there too and nothing about their kisses is virginal. It isn’t gavotte time for them either.
The evening concludes with the third Mozart string quintet and I play second viola, an inconsequential part for a patroness the guests might feel obligated to ask. I watch Sid. What are his eyes saying? I cross and uncross my legs.
Ilene and her bass player leave together. Her Help Wanted sign is nowhere in sight. Sid stands with me at the door, his shoulder touching mine, thanking everyone for coming. Has the moment arrived? No. He kisses me on the cheek, says he is tired and goes upstairs. So ends my plan. On well. I go to the kitchen to look for more vodka.
It is 3:30AM. Roy gets up. Faking sleep, I watch him put on his hickory shirt and denim pants held up by his trademark red suspenders. He leaves. Then I put plan B into operation. I take off my nightgown, do the perfume thing, put on a peignoir and slippers then hurry through the orchard. I sneak into the side door and up the back stairs. When I go past the guest bedroom I hear muffled laughter in the shower.
I tip toe down the hall and push open the door to the dimly lit master bedroom. A worn floorboard squeaks.
The scene could be from a shadowy film noir. Sid watches me from the bed. A lewd smile spreads across his face and he makes no attempt to cover his hairy nude body. My peignoir slides off my shoulders and drops to the floor.
Suddenly everything inside me goes cold. Someone is in the bathroom. Then, in the dim light, I see a hickory shirt and denim pants with red suspenders attached lying on the floor at the end of the bed.
