Veronica looked unassured to Ginny, “I don’t really know.”
“We’ll come back whenever,” Ginny grandly answered.
“That tells me a lot,” Stewie razzed. “I do have my client’s business interests to manage, you know.”
“You have your vanity to manage, through representing a famous artist,” Ginny balked. “That’s all you have.”
“I’ll call you every night,” Veronica promised. “Keep working on those Abrams people for the book thing, and push for the show at MFA. I want that one bad.”
“Have no fear, O beloved business interest.” Stewie jokingly kissed her fingertips. “Your future is in my hands.”
“Thank God the rest of her isn’t.” Ginny started the car. “And lose the boots, Stewie. The Musketeers are dead.”
“I’ll give them to you for Christmas, along with a new vibrator, which you’re obviously in need of.”
“Would you two please stop it?” Veronica pleaded.
“Have fun girls,” Stewie offered.
He watched the car pull out of the lot and disappear. He stared after them for quite some time. It was just a morose feeling, like a sudden shadow on a sunny day. The feeling, for some reason, that he would never see them again.
Twice they had to stop for deer. My God, my God, was all Veronica could think. She’d never seen deer for real in her life.
Ginny, typically, had forgotten her directions. They used the ones Veronica had gotten from the secretary on the phone. The place was an hour or so out of the city, in the northern part of the county. Long, winding lanes took them up the ridge through forests and orchards and quiet little homes set back off the road. Seeing all this at once, Veronica came to a chilling conclusion — her artist’s sanctuary had made her forget that beauty like this existed. What is beauty? the existential instructors had always asked. Beauty is what your work must always communicate. Beauty is not what you can see, it’s what you feel. In her paintings, she’d always tried to find beauty through emotions — through human things. But this was different beauty: the trees, the landscape, the blue sky, and all that those things summated visually as a result. Even the silence was beautiful, the air, the spaces between the poplars and pines. Veronica felt lost for a moment, adrift in awe.
“I haven’t been laid in two weeks,” Ginny announced.
The comment’s frankness blew Veronica’s muse to bits. Was Ginny making another innuendo? To Khoronos?
“Thank God I brought rubbers,” Ginny added.
Her intentions were plain. Veronica’s own sex life had been rather shunted before Jack. She’d always felt it inappropriate for a woman to be anticipatory, but now she wondered why. It had been a terrifying decade. Before AIDS it was herpes, and before herpes a dozen different strains of VD. Jack had been the only lover in her life she’d not used condoms with, because the department required drug and STD tests every six months. It wasn’t easy for a woman to feel safe nowadays, but it was a pretty safe bet when a guy pulled out five years worth of negative blood analysis reports from the county health services department. Yes, bringing condoms made Ginny’s intentions plain, but Veronica could not help but blush. Secreted into her own suitcase was a twelve-box of Trojan ribbed. This was the first time she’d even admitted it to herself. Ginny’s not the only one with anticipations.
Ginny was rambling on behind the wheel, “I mean, I can’t even sit down without squirming. You know what I’m talking about? I’m…mushy.”
“And crude.”
“Crude? What about you? Isn’t that why you broke up with Jack? Because you weren’t sexually fulfilled?”
“No, it is n—” But the rest never left her mouth. “It was a bunch of things,” she said instead. She didn’t dare tell Ginny about her own condoms. “Maybe we’re just a pair of sluts and don’t know it.”
“There’s no such thing as a slut, Vern. There are only women who like to come and say so, and women who like to come but don’t say so.”
“That’s pretty thin wisdom from an acclaimed novelist.”
“Not thin. Concise. Axiomatic.”
Ginny always got the last word, and it was usually a big one.
More of the world passed behind them. Ginny’s orange 450SL sucked down onto the blacktop through each winding turn. Then Veronica, without even knowing why, asked, “Have you ever, uh—”
“Have I ever uh what?”
“Have you ever done anything…with a girl?”
Ginny’s eyes thinned. “Are you making a pass at me?”
“No!” Veronica exclaimed. Why did I ask that? “I just—”
“Yes,” Ginny said.
Veronica felt her face turn pink. What had compelled her to ask such a personal thing?
“I did once,” Ginny continued. “Some girl I met at a mixer in college. I didn’t even know her. It was funny. We were doing shots of ouzo and next thing I know we’re in bed.”
Veronica didn’t know how to place the next question, nor did she understand its necessity. “Was it good?”
Ginny’s face looked calm. “In a lot of ways it was real good. I didn’t really want to do it, but I did it anyway.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? You’re an artist. Why do you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do?”
“I don’t know,” Veronica said.
“Experience. All of life is experience. Isn’t that what gives artists — writers, painters, or whatever — their desire to create? It doesn’t matter if the experience is good or bad, wise or stupid — that’s irrelevant. Without experience, and the curiosity behind it, we’d have nothing to give our art meaning.”
Experience. The word echoed in Veronica’s head.
“I probably came ten times,” Ginny said.
“Any guilt?”
“Why should I feel guilty? It’s a free country. People can do what they want and what they feel.”
Veronica fell silent. Suddenly she felt guilty. But why? For dumping Jack? For flying away from conformity? Or was it more?
“You still love him, don’t you?” Ginny asked.
“I don’t—”
“Vern, the guy’s a washed-up gumshoe. That case he had last year, that Longford guy, it put a zinger on his head. You don’t need the frustration of being involved with a guy who can’t cope with his own life.”
Was that it? Frustration? No, she felt sure.
“He drinks way too much, smokes three packs of Camels a day. If he lives to be forty it’ll be a miracle of science. Plus, he’s belligerent and narrow-minded.”
Veronica didn’t want to hear this, but—
“But you still love him,” Ginny said. “It’s all over you.”
More confusion. Experience, was all she could think.
The road wound up. The 450’s 5.6 liter V-8 purred. Later Ginny asked, “Why did you ask me if I’d ever been with a girl?”
More silence. More of the world blurred past. Then Veronica ventured: “Do you believe in premonitions?”
“Oh, God!” Ginny broke up behind the wheel. “You’re a trip, Vern! A real trip!”
They both laughed the rest of the way to the estate.
It seemed queerly out of place: a white Bauhaus monolith in the middle of the woods. Dada, Veronica thought: she hated reactionary architecture. Its lambency blared like an eyesore. Who would build such a thing, here of all places? Rigid geometries and hard ninety-degree angles composed an edifice that appeared dropped from the sky. Gunslit windows and a black door rose like a disparate face as they pulled up the long drive.
“Jesus,” Ginny whispered. She slowed to a stop. The house’s whiteness seemed to vibrate like blurred vision. As they went to retrieve their bags, the black front door clicked open.