The day before the party, as Thomsen pounded the new "for sale" sign into his dying front lawn using the blade of a broken shovel, he declared his freedom from the fair sex, once again, to Huggins. He'd done everything society had asked: graduated, served, married, settled, fathered, worked, financed, paid and paid. For his diligence he'd been rewarded with, among other things, a Vietnam Campaign Medal, a caustic wife, two grown children with patent leather hearts, and divorce papers designed to stimulate gastric anarchy. The gods of just compensation now owed him. Thomsen had coming to him — according to his internal ledger — a long vacation from war, work, and women. Especially women. Life was just too complicated.
The party was out of the question.
But Huggins refused to listen, partly because listening was not something he did well, partly because it was his party. "I've seen too many of the species hide out and wither," said Huggins. "You've got to get out. See people. Talk. Rub elbows." Huggins held a sweating beer in front of an impressive gut. When he said the word "elbows" his hairy forearm pumped once, like a jackhandle, and his thick throat guzzled. This was as close to actual work as he ever got. "For that matter, rub anything you can get your hands on." He chuckled. "You'd be a fool to miss this party, Thomsen."
"No," said Thomsen. "I'd be smart. I'd be a frigging genius." He tapped his temple. "Remember this organ? The one above the belt?"
Since his separation, Thomsen had surprised even himself by sticking to his new life plan of abstinence and, in general, doing as little as possible. Not that he had ever been a whirlwind of activity. He hated jogging, tennis and swimming, but did enjoy riding in an electric cart when he played golf, which was not often.
Cruising on the manicured fairways usually made him feel a little like a general in his jeep, touring safely out of range.
His bachelor habits were untypically typical. He detested spur-of-themoment sprints to quick-stop markets, preferring the more leisurely trauma of once-a-month shopping. Omelettes, frozen pizza, beer by the pick-up load. Unlike Huggins, and despite his propensity for careless consumption, Thomsen managed to stay in respectable shape for his age — a phenomenon attributable to timely good fortune and favorable metabolism.
The one form of exercise he cultivated, not because he wanted to, was walking. An occupational necessity. In the beginning, years ago, he had not set the real estate world on fire, spending too much time in the office, on the phone. As a newcomer, he had to. Problem was, he punched out deals like an old typewriter. The keys kept getting stuck. There were too many properties to know well enough to be convincing. To make up for lost time, he turned to larger acreages outside the city, but not too far. Sell less, make more. He began walking farmland, acquainting himself with every square inch of soil. He walked boundaries, dry creek beds, fallowed fields. He waded through rare wetlands, hiked through foothill woods, trudged through cornfields. He took an interest in industrial zoned land for sale. He became intimate with underground pipelines. It all added up to the one thing he had learned from Vietnam which could be applied to the real estate business: know your ground.
His effort was misplaced, but not wasted. It was old energy that needed to find a new way out. In the end, almost all of his properties fell into the same marketing niche — old-guard farms with sinking homes built on archaic dollars. Historic potential, he'd tell his prospects. Tax write-off. Bed and breakfast. Roomy, real character Great place for the kids.
Thomsen's own family life had been disappointing. He had been a good provider and a faithful husband. That was about it. His children grew into little automatons, geared to the machinery of society, and Michelle, without warning, ran off with a salmon-lipped insurance salesman. The resulting vow came easily: No more marriage. No more entanglements. No more women. They were all too time-coming and complicated.
On the other hand, Huggins was his friend, as he was apt to make known from time to time, and loyalty did seem a rare commodity this side of jungle warfare. So, against his better judgment, Thomsen decided to go to the party after all.
*
The apartment hummed with fast-lane traffic. Thomsen idled next to the California fireplace with its fake log while Huggins, at his elbow, narrated the party. The main attraction was Sara, a sculptor. Her husband was a doctor, but Huggins said they had divorced but were still living together. Rumor had it they weren't getting along again. Rumor had it she was about to make a move. Rumor had it that she … but then, it was only rumor.
"You'd think she'd cruise around in a climate-controlled Cadillac or a Mercedes convertible," said Huggins. "But Sara's not like that. She rumbles in her old Jeep surrounded by five-gallon plastic buckets and chicken wire." Thomsen pictured her hell-bent on the freeway, clad in screaming colors, shark tooth necklace, sunstreaked hair waving like an electric flag. "Her house is crowded with life-size replicas of seals and walruses. You ought to get to know this lady."
"That's not why I came, pal. Remember?" Thomsen patted Huggins on a bulky shoulder.
Late, though — very late — Thomsen found himself eavesdropping on her conversation.
"I'm absolutely certain," she said, lounging on Huggins' overstuffed sofa next to an older man whose face listed toward her bare shoulder. "In a former life, Einstein had to have been a walrus. The thick drooping mustache, the deep sad eyes. He only lacked tusks. I'm certain of it."
"What about his brain, where'd that come from?" asked the man.
"I've studied walruses," she said. "They have a wonderful sense of their place in the natural order. With them relativity is behavioral. Surely one of them was destined for universal insight."
She waggled her legs when she talked, glanced at Thomsen, smiled, and sipped from her drink. Firm thighs sheathed in form-fitting red leather. Tan muscular calves. One foot pointed, as if aimed at a tightrope.
Something descended from Thomsen's abdomen, headed for the south pole. It was his brain.
A vacancy opened on the couch and he squeezed next to her. The room had ceased to be defined by walls. In the absence of strict boundaries, Thomsen's hands roamed. He was on automatic pilot.
"Seen any good butterflies lately?" His words oozed. Syrup on a swollen tongue. He had no idea where the butterflies came from.
"I don't like butterflies," she said. "They don't have foul breath or reptilian eyes. They're too graceful. What is your hand doing on my thigh?"
"My hand? Oh. Recovering from a stroke. Problem with innervation." He smiled, pleased with his diction, but did not remove his hand. "Right side of my body has a life of its own," he said. "Probably crossed wires."
"See that man talking to your fat friend over there?" she said, nodding. "My ex-husband? He happens to be a neurosurgeon. I'll bet he could fix that."
Thomsen removed his hand.
"Thank you," she said. "I hate to see grown men wasting their time making fools of themselves in public. They're so good at it in private."
"You know a lot about that, do you?"
She turned and looked at him. "Are you always this obnoxious, or is it the noon or the heat or — wait, I think I know. I'll bet you're one of those aggressive nocturnal drunks. At the first hint of sobriety or dawn, whichever comes first, Mr. Hyde sneaks back into his laboratory."
Such deft counterpunching would have collapsed Thomsen's diaphragm had his brain cavity not refused to process the signal. He merely smiled and wondered if this meant she would object to his fondling her thigh again. But vaguely aware that he was treading dangerously — he took a deep breath, cleared his head or whatever part of his anatomy had taken responsibility for implementing basal instinct, and managed to find his feet and walk outside for fresh air. He was the only one on the balcony.
To his surprise, she joined him.
"I didn't mean to hurt your tender drunken feelings," she said, leaning on the rail, looking out at the twinkling lights.
"Not even a bruise," he said.
"It's just so obvious you've had way too much to drink. I wouldn't think this is normal behavior for you."
"No," he said, making an effort to sober up. "Sorry about the hands. Maybe sculpting was on my mind."
"Oh, I see, someone told you. Your friend, probably. Did he tell you I do seals and walruses? They're my passion. Something about the feel of them."
"When I was in the 6th grade I sculpted a small dinosaur for Miss Pirot’s art period."
"Really, what kind?"
"Tried to make a penis on the thing's underbelly, but when it came out of the kiln all shiny green with red for blood smeared on its face, not only did Miss Pirot inform me that the brontosaurus was not a carnivore, she also mistook the penis for a glaze drip."
"Well, that's understandable. I've heard penises can be like that."
"Like what?"
"All shapes and sizes. No prototype, speaking platonically."
"How about Adam?"
"Adam Who?"
"Adam, the original."
"Never met him," she said.
"Me neither.” Thomsen leaned on the rail next to her. “So much for Art."
A siren wailed in the distance.
*
Thomsen stood at the kitchen window and gazed out across his jaundiced backyard. In the distance, gray mountains rose beyond the morning haze. The squeak of unfamiliar brakes pierced his reverie. He planted his beer amidst the graveyard of empty cans littering the kitchen counter, walked barefoot across the gritty carpet and peeked from behind the drawn curtain.
She slid out of the old Jeep with crock pot in hand and kicked the door shut. He watched as she strode up the walkway in her baggy bleached levis and white t-shirt smeared with paint blotches. He was struck dumb upon opening the door. No make-up. Hair tied in a sloppy knot. The woman had no eyebrows. Her face had been wrung like a threadbare washrag and left to dry in the sun.
"Well," she said. "How do you like me now?" She was not smiling, but her green eyes glowed with a steady confrontational sheen. "Take your time. I realize your tongue may be lagging behind after last night's massive kill-off."
Thomsen stared at her, clueless.
"Brain cells, Brighteyes, brain cells. You want to invite me in, or have I failed the entrance exam. You do like cacciatore, don't you?"
"Of course, come in," he said. Surely he had more to say to this scalpel-tongued woman who had teased his drunken libido only hours before, but for the life of him he couldn't imagine what it could be, until he caught a whiff of the warm dish.
"I'll take that," he managed.
"Good. I was beginning to feel like you were rejecting my offering." She surveyed the bare walls of the living room as he carried the crock pot to the kitchen. "Someone rob you?"
"My wife. Took the art and furniture. Whatever was paid for. Left me the rest."
"How long's she been gone?"
"Couple of rnonths. Seems more like a year."
"I see," she said.
"Don't get the wrong idea," he said, returning from the kitchen. "I didn't mean it that way."
"I'll bet," she said, plopping on the sofa. "I'd be happy to advance you a few seals. Wonderful conversation pieces." She looked around the empty room. "What a waste of perfectly good space." She crossed her leg and waggled it. The toe pointed. Only a portion of her ankle showed, but an image of a shapely calf popped into Thornsen's head. From a distance, she did not look all that bad. Careful, he thought, there is territory to protect. He eased down opposite her, feeling like a stranger in his beloved recliner. He would remain firm. This was as far as she would get. He'd draw a line in the carpet.
"Well," she said, dropping her hands in her lap. "Here I am. Seen any good butterflies lately?"
*
He heard the front door slam while sitting on the toilet reading real estate ads. "You here, Thomsen?" Huggins. The man hadn't knocked on a door since puberty. In the future world of evolutionary phenomena, Huggins' knuckles were doomed.
"I'm in here! Help yourself to a beer!" His voice caromed back and forth between tiled walls. Bathroom acoustics always fascinated Thomsen. Back in the G.I. Bill days, when all manner of implausible dreams stayed afloat as long as the checks kept coming, he had scrounged a dented tenor sax from a pawnshop and blown his brains out in the tiny shower of his onebedroom apartment. But no amount of acoustical boost could overcome a Sharpshooter's damaged hearing.
When Thomsen emerged, Huggins handed him a popped beer as compensation for commandeering his recliner.
"How'd it go with Sara?" The jackhandle pumped.
"Where'd you hear about that?"
"How'd you think she found out where you live?"
"We didn't do anything, if that's what you mean." Thomsen sank into the sofa.
"Why not? Wasn't that the purpose of the meeting?"
"Huggins, I didn’t initiate the meeting. Maybe the purpose of the meeting, whatever it was, has nothing to do with you."
"Nasty, nasty."
"The purpose of the meeting was to meet, I guess, that's all. It was her idea, not mine."
"Was she wearing panties? I hear she doesn't."
"For God's sake, Huggins. I wasn't moved to find out."
"I thought you were primed. At the party, I mean."
"I was drunk. It won't happen again."
"Did you promise her that?"
"What are you, some kind of voyeur-detective? Do you actually think a woman could get a promise like that out of me? I told you, I'm not going to get involved."
"I'd say you're already involved. You make a play at the party, she shows up on your doorstep the next morning. She's not getting along with her roommate. He's a doctor, for chrissake. Can you imagine a neurosurgeon picking his way through a hallway of unfinished seal sculptures to get to the bathroom? Something's wrong there. The woman's creative drive has run amok."
"It doesn't matter. It takes two to tango and I'm not interested. Not in her, not in anyone."
"Okay, okay, I get the picture. Here, I've got something for you." Huggins held a scrap of paper between chubby thumb and forefinger.
"What is it?"
"Phone number. Possible buyer."
"Just drop it on the floor. I'll pick it up later."
"Fine," said Huggins, watching the paper float to the carpet. "Kind of messy in here anyway. You should try vacuuming sometime. It's not that different from mowing."
*
Squeaky brakes again. This time Thomsen was fresh out of the shower, clad only in a towel. Eyes adjusting to bright morning light, no beer in the system. Doorbell. He padded down the hall to his bedroom, wrapped himself in a bathrobe, then went to the door.
"Surprise," she said. "Did you like the cacciatore?" Make-up and a tight sweater. Black slacks, glued on. "Well, did you?"
"It was … interesting." He opened the door and stepped back as she glided in.
"Interesting?" High heels, strapped around tan ankles. "Who cleaned up?"
"Elves." He shut the door. "Make yourself comfortable."
She went to the sofa, sank down and crossed her legs. The thought of sitting opposite her reminded him of testifying in court, so he chose the other end of the sofa.
"You know, it really is a shame," she said.
"What's that?" He settled into the sofa, trying to appear at ease. "This house. It's like a cavern. Hear the echo? You need a decorator."
“I need a buyer. I need money and time to myself. I never have enough time.
"That why your wife left?"
Thomsen looked at her. Her smile reminded him of a film image. Not quite real, yet convincing. The face seemed too good-natured for the tongue.
No idea," he said.
"That's a safe answer," she said. "Sometimes I think there's a little store in every city, every little town even, with this sign carved in rough oak that says, 'Men Only.' You go inside and they have racks and racks of little tapes you can buy. There's a slot in the back of every man's head. You put the tape in and whenever someone, especially a woman, asks a question that requires digging down a little, the tape automatically clicks on and says, 'no idea,' or 'not much to say,' or 'who knows?' But that's okay. I understand. It's not like we're lifelong buddies or anything."
"I could use a beer."
"There's another one of those tapes. I'm hearing that one more often lately. Must be on sale. Thanks, but I'll pass."
Thomsen padded to the kitchen in his bare feet. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and popped it, but lingered in the kitchen, wondering how to be polite without encouraging her. Maybe he should get dressed.
"You want me to leave?" she asked. "I don't mean to push myself on you. I'd be happy to leave. I just thought since you massaged my thigh in public the first time we met you might be mildly attracted."
Thomsen set his beer on the counter. Was he or wasn't he? Didn't matter. He had made a vow.
"I'll go," she said, already up and on her way to the door. He left his beer and followed her. She did have a good figure. A good steady walk, even in heels. A good mind, God forbid.
"Wait," he said. "I don't want to be rude." She waited for a moment with her hand on the doorknob, and when he came up behind her she turned suddenly and faced him, standing toe to toe. He could feel her breath on his face.
"What do you want? Really," she said. "Not what do you think you want, but what is it you really want right now."
Nice try, thought Thomsen. But no, he wouldn't be seduced by this confrontational approach. Suddenly she slipped both hands around his terrycloth buttocks, pulled him close, and kissed him. Then stepped back and looked at him.
"What did I do to deserve that?" he said.
"You looked at me."
"That's all it takes?"
"You looked like you meant it, if only for an instant. As an artist, I've learned to trust my subconscious. You should try it." "Are you always this impulsive?"
"Me? Impulsive? Let's get this right, okay? You're the one who pawed me at Huggins' party in front of the man I live with. I wouldn't exactly call that a reasoned approach." "I admit I was beyond reason."
"Look, I responded by bringing you cacciatore. Now here I am being friendly. She leaned close. "What more can I do?"
"I'm not sure."
"I know. Pretend I'm an interested buyer. Show me the house. Maybe we could start with the bedroom?" "Umm…
"Now you're thinking I'm a slut. Just like a typical egotistical man. I'm offended. I may never be able to forgive you. Is this the way?" She took his hand and led him down the hall.
Inside the bedroom she dropped his hand, stepped over tangles of towels, shirts and underwear and went straight to the sliding glass window that looked out on his dying lawn and the smog-smeared mountains in the distance. She drew the curtain closed. "Nice view," she said, kicking off her heels, peeling off her slacks, pulling her sweater over her head, revealing a push-up bra.
"Yes," he said, "it certainly is."
"Thanks," she said. "I try."
"You're going to have to. I haven't done this in a while."
"Not to worry," she said. "I have the hands of a sculptress." She held her palms outstretched for inspection. "With these hands I mold shapeless blobs of clay into vibrant works of art."
"Please," said Thomsen. "Nothing too exotic. I kind of like myself the way I am."
She moved to the bed, to Thomsen's favorite side, and noticed on the nightstand the slip of paper with the number Huggins had left. "Don't tell me. Your ex-wife."
"No. Someone who may be interested in buying the house."
"Maybe you should wait. Think about taking on a roommate."
Thomsen started to remove his bathrobe, but hesitated. My God, was she promoting herself as a roommate already? His stomach began to rumble.
"Nervous?" She removed her bra.
Thomsen tried not to stare, but found himself disrobing, as if driven by an invisible controlling force. "We're going to do this one time only," he said. "And then we're going to stay away from each other for at least a week."
"Whatever you say," she said. "You're the boss."
* The first seal arrived at 9:30 the next morning. Thomsen had just finished dressing when he heard the knock. A small pink man in coveralls and a short-brimmed cap, smoking a stubby cigar, brought the crate in on a piano dolly. At first Thomsen wanted to refuse it, but the place was barren, and besides, he'd never had a performance rewarded before.
He sat in his recliner, studied the seal, and wondered what kind of woman specialized in adipose art. He realized he knew very little about her. One thing he did know, though. She was different, especially nude. Her artistic touch was not confined to her hands.
But so much for momentary pleasures.
Once upon a time he and Michelle had wallowed in momentary pleasures for entire weekends, but it never added up to anything like a whole life. Most people spent more time sitting on the pot than making love. Life was truly mysterious.
The door opened again, and in came seal #2. It was quite different. El Stubbo removed it from the crate, placed it alongside #1, gathered the wood, and puffed his way out the door. Thomsen went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and reached for a beer. Then he changed his mind and returned to his recliner. He would have preferred a different location for the second seal, but the little fellow had insisted they were a matched pair. Funny, they didn't seem all that much alike. How did she manage to create human-like expressions on their dog-slick faces? Was there some kind of art shop that sold real whiskers and dark marbles for eyes with that life-like gleam? And what was this?...
Thomsen leaned forward in his chair and squinted. The new arrival had something hanging from its underbelly. He got down on his hands and knees, crawled underneath seal #2 and studied the appendage. Good God. This woman had talent. If only Miss Pirot could see him now.
And the female seal? He felt underneath it. Yes, there it was, the archetypal secret compartment, hidden in the carefully molded folds. No wonder he hadn't considered its gender when he first saw it. It had seemed like any other seal. Generic.
The doorbell rang. Thomsen did not want to welcome more Jehovah's Witnesses or multiple listing realtors, both of whom belonged to the same secret society unbeknownst to one another, so he chose to conduct a simple interrogation from his hands and knees.
"Who is it?"
"It's me," came the muffled voice. "Can I come in?"
"Of course."
The door opened and closed, and there she stood, wearing a lavender beret with matching eye shadow, pink lipstick, and a light trench coat.
"It's She-of-Many-Faces." Thomsen was still on his hands and knees studying the seals. He watched from the corner of an eye as she walked over, sat in his recliner, and crossed her legs. The trench coat parted above the knee. "Isn't it a little warm for that get-up?"
"Not if you're stark raving naked beneath it." Thomsen liked the way she put that.
He found a comfortable position lying on his back and felt the smooth underparts of the female seal. He knew she had not intention of leaving, perhaps for a long time. Sara sat contentedly in his recliner, waggling her legs. Life, forever revealing endless variations, did not seem so complicated after all. Perhaps seals in his living room might be a welcome change, at least for a little while.
***
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