Lovely Summer Smoke Deluged by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 4

Desirous of spending more time outdoors Kale and Posie went walking in their neighborhood. That day they found still life preferable to Jackson Pollack. They didn’t hold hands or any other parts of the other, for that matter, as they wished to keep their secret. They were still too young to have learned the impossibility of this endeavor. They walked slowly under an apathetic morning sun, which was continually hampered by stationary, gray, bulbous clouds, which seemed to dare being resolute devoid of wind, but actually were quite ready to be ushered to a new locale. Their resultant humidity had no chance of becoming saturation until they stirred. (A la Bob Marley.) Posie kept her hands clasped behind her back, sometimes fidgeting with the tied bow of her light blue dress, which accentuated her hourglass figure. Her eyes riveted on the path immediately ahead and her shoes. Kale’s gaze alternated between the houses and her face. He wondered what she was thinking, but didn’t want to disturb the calming silence to ask. A reasonably perceptive eight-year-old could discern the “secrecy” of their togetherness.

After passing six “colonials” Kale was compelled to remark;

“The other houses are alike. Ours is the one that’s different.”

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Having been there longer, Posie took that for granted and previously paid it no attention. She made a tiny laugh and only said; “Yes.”

Kale was compelled to expound on his powers of observation and added; “These were all built recently and are just like each other. The only differences are the facades and whether the garage is placed on the right or left.”

“A Warhol-esque silkscreen with subject matter less stimulating than Marilyn.”

“Functional?”

Posie shrugged.

On the ensuing front lawn Kale saw a painted statue of a black jockey, replete with wide grin. Not wanting to point, he nudged Posie and getting her attention, his eyes directed her to the object. He said; “I didn’t think anyone would have the nerve to display that in this time of civil rights.”

“Time is ignored in Long Valley.”

Kale recalled what Dad told him, but didn’t think she was referring to that. Actually, he had no idea what she meant, but also did not have anything bright to say or ask. He lowered his eyelids and mildly nodded, affecting the posture of one sophisticated, hoping it would not be confused with ignorance.

Posie laughed and said; “I don’t know what that means either. Mom and Dad say it regularly.”

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“He told me of the concept behind the lack of clocks; now or never, but time itself? Do you like them?”

“What a silly question.”

“I’ll admit it’s a bit forward, but I’m curious. I know that we both appreciate their dedication to needy kids. I’m wondering if we’re all on the same wavelength.”

“They’re fine. Their main priority is appearances, and I don’t think we share that priority. Michelangelo versus Cezanne.”

“That’s good. I didn’t expect them to be mirror images.

Excepting his movies I have my reservations about Cocteau. Are they tolerant?”

“They will tolerate anything that doesn’t openly violate local customs.”

“The joy de vie must be occult?”

“In its first meaning.”

Kale noiselessly surveyed the ground near his feet.

Posie must have seen his consternation and added; “They’re not the type to try digging up dirt. In fact they would be more likely to sweep it under the rug. ................ But, if you are dumb enough to put something right in their face

...........................”

“Petit bourgeois in the mental sense as opposed to the economic one?”

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“Surface on both. Don’t ever forget that we are in America.

When in Rome ..........”

“I was born in Maine where there is a heavy French influence.”

“Courir en liberte.”

“Courir en liberte.”

They foolishly and openly embraced in complete disregard of any watchful eyes.

After lunch, they entered the well-stocked library to see that Marian Meridonald, part time maid, cook, piano instructor, etc. was already there, perusing “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” The fortyish widow sat in a light blue, tufted, Chippendale wing chair and seemed to be engrossed. Posie interrupted her reverie by tapping her bare shoulder and saying; “Lawrence takes you away, doesn’t he?”

Marian grimaced at being rudely brought back to “reality,”

and absently said; “Mellors can trim my garden.” She looked up to see Kale and quickly closed the book while exhibiting a pink glow on her lightly freckled white, Irish face. She placed it face down on the Queen Anne card table in front of her and stood.

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Posie introduced the two while Kale overtly ogled Marian’s long, meaty legs, barely covered by white short shorts. He said;

“You must try ‘Aaron’s Rod.’”

Marian thought that was a cute remark, coming from a fourteen year old, and answered; “I have many times and will again.”

Posie’s face became a severe minimalist painting in red and green while her eyes became that of a stoic sculpture.

Marian and Kale took seats on the golden-red, Phyfe meridienne, while Posie trudged to and sat on Marian’s wing chair.

Marian asked if the pair was familiar with the “other worlds,” and Kale asked; “Like Huxley or Burroughs?” Posie shook her head; “No,” seeming disinterested, while in actuality her curiosity was awakened, but she didn’t want to encourage Marian.

Marian crossed her legs, her top foot tapping Kale’s knee.

She convincingly smiled in Kale’s direction and said; “Strange.

I heard rumors about them for much of my life, and last year Carolyn Frichton wrote a book about them titled; ‘Down There.’ I assume you like fantasy. Most everyone does.”

Kale said; “Yes, most certainly. That sounds very interesting. Please tell me ......... us, more.”

“They are all below the surface of the earth and each has further political subdivisions. The first I’ll mention is called

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Tierra del Fuego, Land of Fire. Many consider this to be based on the concept of hell. Frichton refutes that, saying that the people there are happy and that people here have difficulty with the idea of it being ruled by a woman, a queen. The fires don’t burn flesh, but provide extreme heat. Consequently, no one wears any clothing at all. In the absence of secrets, revelation is continuous, and men are unable to hide that they revere their insatiable rulers. They are well rewarded.” Marian eyed the single cut flower standing stiffly in a vase across the room and said to Kale; “You are unable to conceal. Actually, I too am unable to conceal. You might detect that were I naked in Tierra del Fuego.”

Kale felt embarrassed, but also unchained. He leaned back and got very comfortable with his legs apart. He asked; “What if you were naked right here?”

“That depends on a number of things, including degree of experience, both yours and mine. But, you’re getting me off the fantasy story. The political subdivisions arise primarily from the desire of the male. At the extremes, in some provinces men are equals and in others they are slaves. ”

Posie said; “Just like here.”

Marian replied; “Here it is hidden.”

Posie and Kale caught each other’s gaze and followed it to the ceiling.

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Posie asked; “That’s like Plato’s world of perfect forms, here being only poor, corrupted reflections, correct?”

Kale said; “Not Cocteau, I hope.”

Marian said; “I really don’t know. Frichton didn’t go into that.”

Posie was petulant in saying; “She certainly should have.

It’s elemental.”

Kale said; “Or, you might have said elementary.”

Posie fumed and Marian shrugged. Kale eyed his pants.

Bee buzzed into the room and said; “Marian, good afternoon.

I was expecting you in the kitchen a bit earlier.”

Marian said; “I’m sorry. I got a bit carried away,” and followed Bee out. Kale watched the shimmying crease in her shorts and Posie lividly watched Kale’s eyes. She said; “You’re so vulgar. She’s a maid.”

“Your book isn’t exactly demimonde and I didn’t complain.”

“My book is precisely that; a book; a fantasy. It also has the air of Reage and I know you enjoyed it.”

Kale smiled and briefly showed the tip of his tongue, then reached for Lady Chatterley’s open book. Posie joined him on the meridienne and stretched for “Aaron’s Rod.”

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Later, Arthur made his signature (bang, bang ....... bang) knock on the open door and entered. He announced his acerbic surprise at again finding the duo together “like Dick and Jane.”

Surprised at the directness of his commentary, neither replied.

Arthur buoyantly continued; “I understand you are writing a book,” directing the journalistic statement to no one in particular.

Posie said; “Where did you hear that?” perhaps giving some credence to what could have been a wild cast.

Arthur smiled as he said; “Ah, I don’t reveal my sources.

Posie, you should know by now that there are no secrets in this house.”

Kale did not yet have a feel for the statement’s accuracy, or the lack thereof. He looked at Posie with concern and she looked back with weariness.

Arthur shrugged at the no-comment and said; “If you decide that you want to make some money, I know a publisher who might be interested. He’s hot to do something in the juvenile area.”

He left.

Kale said; “Juvenile!”

“That’s what passes for a sense of humor with those of his ilk.”

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They read to each other from a Lewis Carroll collection, laughing at the caustic political observations which still apply today, but having the most fascination with going down the rabbit hole.

Amber breezed in and cooed a breathless; “Hi,” which the duo puffingly echoed. She sat between them and seemed to have a need to balance herself by placing her hands on their upper thighs. She slowly shook her blonde hair, much of which relocated from the back of her white sundress to the front, settling in the cleavage. She slowly placed some of it on the outside and said; “Whooo. Sometimes it really hits you weird, doesn’t it,” trying to sound very Southern down-home friendly-stoned, and hoping no house paparazzo would report her linguistic impropriety to Mom and Dad.

Kale was flattered and mildly amused when he responded;

“Yeah, you know, like right now I’m sittin’ here, kind of spaced, not feeling my body, and the whole little world and two great big chicks are revolving around my head. Fucking weird but nice.” He helped Amber move the remainder of her misbehaving hair.

Posie was still groggy and was content to watch the kaleidoscopic dream unfold.

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Amber said; “You guys have the right idea. Books are fine.

But, music is super fine. When I get into this space Robert Johnson singin’ “Spoonful” goes right through my head and I want to move my feet. Slow, like Bessie Smith, if you know what I mean.”

Kale said; Honeyboy Edwards lippin’ “I’ve Been Around.” He took Amber’s hand, kissed it and licked the palm.

Amber playfully raised Posie’s dress and moved her hand to the zenith. She whispered; “What do you say. Three is the perfect number.”

Kale lifted Amber’s dress revealing a two inch scar on her left upper thigh. It was a simple healed line, far from repulsive, but the area got Kale’s interest and he leaned in for a drowsy close-up. Posie’s eyes opened widely and for the first time she was fully aware of what was going on. She became fully aware of having someone’s hand on her crotch and that her boyfriend had his head near a scar on the owner of the hand’s thigh.

She bellowed; “What the .........,” and rudely removed the hand and the head. She added; “Is this some kind of joke?”

Amber’s first reaction, having been boorishly brought back to sobriety from a very mellow high was one of being insulted; as it seemed to her that they were compatible until they saw her loathed scar, and were only then turned off. The issue with

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which she was most sensitive, like a teenager with a face full of pimples, was obviously what had fouled the tete-a-tete-a-tete. She hated them for gauchely making that so obvious. She stood up, fought off tears and ran from the room.

Posie said; “Would you please tell me what is going on.”

Kale extended his hands to the sides and answered; “If I knew, I would.”

Not quite satisfied with that response, Posie re-phrased, saying; “Would you please tell me what you think was going on.”

Her tone was serious and assertive.

Kale took a few seconds to collect his thoughts and came up with; “I think Amber was in a partying mood and changed her mind when you did.”

“I didn’t change my mind.”

Kale sighed and looked in her eyes.

Posie added; “I didn’t have a mindset to begin with.” She laughed for a variety of reasons, stimulated primarily by her last Gracie Allen type of observation.

Kale said; “Neither did I.” As his eyes diddled her nether region, his gut felt it was the moment to go ahead with gourmand gluttony.

After brunch Kale and Posie were greeted by two other book lovers teamed to even out affairs. Otis and Tory joined hands

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after they entered the library and Tory shut the door behind them.

They say that opposites attract, and if that is true, Otis and Tory are a perfect example of this “wisdom.” While he gives the outward appearance of being California laid-back, quiet and easy-going, internally he is oversupplied with thoughts and feelings which he has not yet put into any order, maybe never will, and maybe doesn’t care to. Tory is gregarious and out-going. Raised in small town New Mexico (which is no different from Smalltown, Anywhere) she has accepted the cultural norm of being outwardly polite to all, thrilled to greet them and refers to those with whom she says a chirpy “Hello” as friends. She plays the external role superbly and is a popular member of the

“Hello Club.” When she gets privately stoned she often wonders what she has of a true self, if anything, and if it wouldn’t be more conducive to meeting trusted mates to show that to the world. In the meantime she spends some time with Otis, fully realizing that the thing he likes most about her is her proximity and availability. She finds something vaguely wrong with having so many “friends” while she is predominately solitary. She suspects that the small town definition of the word is misinformation. Not wanting to be viewed as anti-social, she reverts to Ms. Cheerleader in company. Though she chastises

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him for it, she is fascinated with Otis’ “whatever” approach and he is fascinated with her ass.

Posie was a trifle tired of visitors, and in a desultory manner said; “The room has become as popular as Peter Max, hopefully with the same staying power.” She sarcastically smiled like George Scott playing Patton, shuffled in her seat and made undue importance of straightening her dress.

In an attempt to counter the thinly veiled affront Kale called out; “Courir en liberte,” to which Otis responded in kind, still not fully aware of the precise meaning.

Tory said; “Good afternoon,” and was cognizant of the reason behind the chuckles. She was annoyed, let go of Otis’

hand and said; “Would you prefer my saying drop dead?”

Posie answered; “I’d prefer you being more entertaining than the automat.”

Otis questioningly said; “Automat’s cool.”

Kale said; “Lichtenstein.”

Otis replied; “Yeah, comics.”

Posie was now amused, partially because Tory’s face indicated that she wanted to say something, but no words were at her disposal. In frustration Tory blurted; “You think you are so smart because you write books. Any idiot can.”

All eyes were on her. All mouths were closed and Posie’s lips were pursed. Tory shook her head despondently and said;

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“I’m truly sorry and apologize sincerely. I hope you’ll accept that. I’m not acting properly. This is what happens when one speaks freely.” She took Otis’ hand and led him back to the door.

After they were gone, Posie and Kale looked at each other with tired eyes and sighed. They held no grudge as they didn’t care what anyone else thought of their books. They were only intended for each other. But they were now fully aware that their existence was public knowledge. Hiding or destroying them was of the essence of practicality when the mood arose.

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