Desert Winter (7 page)

“On my
time off,
” Bonnie reminded him. “That means tomorrow. I couldn't get to it last night, so I'll make a batch tonight and bring it over in the morning.”

I was reluctant to ask, so I was relieved when Grant finally did: “What on earth is pink fluff?”

“Stewart just loves it,” Bonnie gushed, hand to bosom. “Nothing complicated,” she added in a whisper, as if imparting a secret recipe. “It's red Jell-O mixed with Cool Whip.” She licked her lips.

“A pedestrian concoction,” Pea said with a sniff.

Bonnie turned on him, flashing daggers. “If it's so damn easy, you might try making some for Stewart now and then.” While it seemed that Bonnie and Stewart's sparring amounted to nothing more than gaming, it was only too apparent that the hostility between Bonnie and Pea was deep and genuine.

While the big woman in white volleyed more insults with the little man in black, Stewart wheeled into the kitchen and planted his chair in front of the refrigerator. Reaching up, he grabbed the handle and began to tug. A collection of vintage chrome cocktail shakers displayed on top of the refrigerator wobbled and clattered as Stewart's tugging became more insistent. Soon, he was rising from the seat of his chair.

Seeing this, Bonnie abruptly ended her sniping with Pea—she flipped him the finger—then rushed to assist Stewart. Getting him seated again and wheeling him back a few feet, she said, “There's no pink fluff, but let's see what else we can find.” And she swung the door wide open.

Stewart wheeled himself forward, examining the shelves.

“There's some nice, fresh melba sauce,” Bonnie told him. “That's red, like Jell-O. Want some on ice cream?”

Stewart shook his head. Spotting something, he shrieked,
“Krispies!”

“Oh!”
Bonnie echoed his shriek. “I forgot we had these.” She handled the plate like hidden treasure, removing it from the refrigerator and setting it on the counter. “Would anyone care for a Rice Krispies square?” Stewart had already grabbed one and was gnawing away at it like a dog with a bone.

Grant and I mumbled no-thank-yous. The silence that followed was broken only by Stewart's crunching. Then that stopped.

Stewart looked up from his chair, as if waking from a dream. “No takers?” he asked, sounding mature and cordial. “They're really quite good. How about the young man? Kane, wouldn't you like one?” Stewart lifted the plate from the counter, heaped with a pyramid of the gooey treats, and proffered it to Kane.

Kane smiled uncertainly. “Well…,
yeah.
Thanks.” And he reached for one.

“Do take two,” Stewart insisted, leaning forward in his red robe, conjuring the disparate image of a licentious elf. “They're small. And I'm sure you need all the energy you can get.” He gave Grant a canny wink.

Grant rolled his eyes as Kane wolfed down the first of the two bricks of cereal. He sounded as if he was eating Styrofoam. Bonnie returned the plate to the refrigerator, shutting the door with a solid thud.

“Oh,” said Stewart, wheeling close to Grant and nabbing his arm, “I nearly forgot. I haven't shown you my most recent acquisition, have I?”

Grant laughed. “It's impossible to keep up with
your
acquisitions, Stewart.”

The old man led Grant back into the great room, saying how proud he was to have landed an entire collection of works by an overlooked Swedish artist. I followed with the others and couldn't help marveling at how quickly Stewart's behavior had been transformed after eating the Rice Krispies square. Maybe he'd needed sugar. Was he diabetic too? Bonnie, I mused, really had her hands full.

The easels I'd noted earlier displayed the paintings, some dozen of them, all smallish landscapes, scattered about the room. The compositions were all of the same general style, pleasant and colorful, but one in particular caught my eye. Stepping nearer to scrutinize it, I saw that it depicted an old-fashioned drawbridge, a crude wooden structure at the edge of a placid stream. A few cows grazed nearby. Spectacular clouds roiled overhead in a palette suggesting sunset.

“Isn't it delightful?” gushed Stewart, wheeling next to me. “Such mood and vibrancy. Per-Olof Östman deserves far greater recognition. Though a minor master from the relatively obscure Swedish neo-impressionist school, his pointillist style is among the finest, most precious I've seen.”

I asked, “When were these painted, Stewart?”

“They all date from the 1890s, at the height of the neo-impressionist movement. I'm sure Östman's work would be better known if this entire series hadn't been in the hands of a private collector for more than a century. We tracked it down in Stockholm, and according to the certified provenance, these little masterpieces have never been publicly exhibited.”

“Nor will they be,” Grant noted.

Stewart's gaze turned from the paintings to Grant. “Why do you say that?”

With a shrug, Grant explained, “Because they've been acquired by another private collector. They're all yours, Stewart, yours to enjoy.”

“For a while, yes.”

Grant's expression said that he didn't understand Stewart's meaning. Neither did I.

“I'm
old,
” Stewart reminded us. “Art endures, but I, alas, will not.”

Bonnie rushed to his wheelchair. “Now, now, Mr. Chaffee. That's no way to talk. You have many good years ahead of you. I'll see to
that.
”

Pea also flitted to his side, kneeling face-to-face. “Stewart, honey, don't say such things. We're all here for you. You have
friends.
”

“And family,” I added, trying to be helpful. But in the next instant, I recalled that Stewart had commented on Saturday about “bad blood” between himself and his family.

Stewart quickly set me straight. “I have little family left, thank God. When I went
my
way, they went
theirs.
They have never been supportive, and I have no intention of turning to them now. They can
all
go to hell.”

The room fell silent. In a limited sense, I could connect with Stewart's sentiments, as I felt highly conflicted with regard to my own familial ties, particularly my relationship with my mother, who, like Stewart, had seen her better years. Still, Stewart's open contempt for his family was shamefully harsh. I ventured, “I'm sure you don't mean that. There must be
someone
you relate to—emotionally, as well as by blood.”

He sighed. “I had a niece, Dawn, who showed the most promise. From what I understand, she became something of an art scholar in her own right. We have that much in common, but nothing else.”

“You ‘had' a niece?” I asked, having found his wording ambiguous. Was Dawn dead or alive?

He clarified, “Dawn lives in Santa Barbara, I'm told, but I haven't seen her in nearly forty years. She was a toddler at the time.”

“Then perhaps it's time to reach out to her.”

“Bah! She never once ‘reached out' to me. Why in hell should I open a door that's best left shut?” With a disgusted shake of his head, he wheeled away from his circle of listeners, parking himself near the kitchen, alone.

As we murmured some comments about the sad consequences of his bitterness, I recalled that Stewart had also mentioned Santa Barbara on Saturday. He'd asked his banker's secretary about a Monday appointment with someone from that city. Whoever he was planning to meet, it was surely not his niece.

Sounding a brighter note, Stewart spun in his chair, telling us, “I think young Kane might enjoy another Rice Krispies square.”

“Thank you, sir, but no, I've had enough.”

Stewart leaned toward him, stretching his neck. “You're quite sure?” I'd swear his eyes twinkled.

“Quite sure. Thanks anyway.”

Stewart rolled his chair toward the refrigerator, apparently deciding that he himself needed another treat, even if Kane didn't want one.

Pea cruised over to his master. “Really, Stewart,” he said under his breath. “Trying to lure children with candy—has it come to that?”

“Whatever it takes!” Stewart roared with laughter. Pea joined him.

The rest of us remained silent. Then Grant suggested, “We'd better be going.”

Stewart asked him, “But you're coming back tomorrow for the clock?”

“Claire will arrange to pick it up in the afternoon, but I won't be with her.”

Pea reminded him, with a testy edge to his voice, “You need to return that key. When will we have it?”

Since I would be returning anyway, I was about to offer to bring the key with me, when Kane volunteered, “I'll be going to campus early tomorrow. I can drop it off on my way. You'll have it first thing in the morning.”

Pea gave a curt nod; the plan apparently satisfied him.

“How too very
kind
of you,” Stewart told Kane, imagining God knows what.

We said our good-byes, moving toward the back door. Before leaving, Grant took Kane aside and playfully cautioned him, “Watch out for Stewart. I think he's interested in you.”

“Don't worry,” Kane replied through a grin. “If he tries anything, I ought to be able to fight him off.”

We again exchanged a few parting pleasantries, then headed out.

Glancing back, I saw Stewart tugging at the door of the refrigerator.

Up above, the chrome cocktail shakers wobbled and clattered.

5

D. Glenn Yeats had dangled
many carrots during his campaign to recruit me to his faculty at Desert Arts College. He offered a generous, steady income, complete artistic freedom, and the opportunity to help shape the next generation of American actors.

The most appealing of Glenn's carrots, however, the one I could simply not resist, was the theater he built for me. It was a true playhouse, as opposed to a concert hall or a musical theater, accommodating an audience of some five hundred, neither too large nor too small, with acoustics specifically designed for the spoken word. It featured a proscenium stage and seats of crimson velvet—very traditional—while at the same time employing state-of-the-art stage hydraulics and fully computerized lighting and sound systems. The building itself was designed, with my input and ultimate approval, by I. T. Dirkman, the same world-renowned architect who developed the master plan for the entire school. My theater figured prominently in the overall scheme, with its dramatic facade providing the visual focal point for College Circle, a huge public terrace at the center of campus.

How could I resist so magnanimous a gesture on Glenn's part? This was no mere promise. This wasn't lip service. This was steel and concrete and glass.

When I arrived at one o'clock that afternoon and entered through a stage door near the parking structure, most of the technical staff was already hard at it. Some of them, I knew, had worked late yesterday and again this morning, aiming lights, programming circuits, rehearsing cross-fades. The cast was straggling in, ready for a long haul. They were already capable of running through the whole show, focusing on timing, interpretation, and delivery. But today they would, in effect, take a step backwards. At this afternoon's tech rehearsal, the focus would be on lighting, sound, and costumes; the actors would frequently be forced to stop, wait, and repeat while the show's various technical aspects were cued and tweaked.

Fortunately, the technical demands of the
Laura
script were not complex. We were dealing with a single interior, with only a few special effects. But this was the college's premier production, the one that people had been buzzing about for over a year, since I had first agreed to leave New York and join the faculty, so everything had to be perfect. I had a reputation to uphold—my own.

Crossing the stage toward the auditorium, I paused to admire the set. No question, it was a stunner, heavily influenced by the film's setting of the successful young businesswoman's fashionable New York apartment. For the fabrics, furnishings, and even the costumes, we'd limited the palette to a muted, nearly monochromatic range, intended to give the audience the impression of watching the play in black and white—until Laura's unexpected entrance at the end of act one. Once it's known that Laura is alive, color is introduced to the costuming. Not too subtle, I admit. But dramatically effective.

Tanner spotted me onstage and called from the auditorium, “Well, where's the clock?”

I descended the rehearsal stairs at the stage apron and met him near the first row of seats. “It's perfect, but we couldn't fit it into the car.” With an impish pout, I added, “Can I impose upon you to help me get it tomorrow afternoon? After lunch, in your Jeep.”

“Of course,” he said, giving me a little hug. “Anything to help.” He was already in full makeup, but not in costume, wearing a pair of baggy shorts and an old white shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar turned in and under—his makeup smock.

Overhearing us, the stage manager asked, “No clock, huh? I'll find our understudy.”

I laughed. “Thanks, Tony. We'll have to make do with that awful old cabinet—just one more time.”

From behind, someone asked, “Will you need an extra hand tomorrow?”

“Hi, Thad,” Tanner greeted his fellow cast member. Turning to me, Tanner asked, “What do you think? Is the clock heavy?”

“Not sure. More awkward than heavy, I imagine. One thing's certain: it's delicate. We could probably use some help. Thanks for offering, Thad.”

Thad and Tanner conversed a bit, ironing out the logistics of our excursion to the Chaffee estate. Watching them, I noted that they represented the two extremes of my new theater program. Tanner Griffin, at twenty-six, was my oldest student and my most seasoned actor; Thad Quatrain, the kid from Wisconsin, was among the youngest, a freshman, just out of high school. They were equally committed, however, not only to their intended careers, but also to the needs of our opening production, both of them putting in long hours at the theater in addition to their rehearsal schedule.