Chapter 6
Celia folded the stack of sweaters mechanically, the coolness of the glass-topped counter contrasting with the soft warm feel of the wool. Body of the sweater face down, the sleeves crossed over the back, and the whole thing then doubled in half... one on the other in a neat stack, their edges even. Her life had once been like that, neat, planned, in sequence, no overhanging edges. But now it was a tangled, raveled, untidy turmoil, and there was no way to put it back as it was.
Sometime during the day, as she went through the motions of waiting on customers, clearing the fitting rooms, writing sales slips, polishing the glass cases, she had come to the inevitable conclusion that she would go home to Waxahachie. There was nothing else to do.
The sound of her father's voice had rung in her head since this morning; the ache over Web only increased; her shame over Patrick last night... any or all of these could have sent her home. But it was Hilda's call at lunchtime that had made the decision final. Peabody must not collapse as a school because Celia had depleted the available funds by taking a scholarship. Hilda hadn't wanted to tell her, of course, but had to when Esther, dear sweet soul, just wouldn't.
Sighing, Celia slipped the folded stack of sweaters neatly into the case. She supposed there was some kind of job in some kind of awful little dry goods store in Waxahachie that she could get. She'd have to. The rest of her life would be spent there.
The little back terrace was brilliant in the sunshine, and Esther could feel the heat of the sun through her thin batiste blouse on her shoulderblades. Everything sparkled, the white stones under her feet, the leaves of the trees, the grass beyond, the china and glassware on the old pink linen-covered iron table. Justin leaned across the table and took her hand and kissed the palm.
"Just trust me, my dear Esther. Hilda and I have made all the arrangements. The cast party will be a good sort of tryout for what we'll be offering later to the bored executives who come to Dallas on conventions."
"But I've never really gone to the cast parties much before. That's for the young people."
"Tonight, my dear, you'll get closer to your students than you ever have before... I promise you."
"All right," Esther sighed, pushing her doubts away. Her hand was tingling from Justin's warm palm. He'd enjoyed the lunch she'd made. The sun was warm. Her whole body still felt contented and expansive from the lovemaking behind the shuttered blinds of her cool high-ceilinged bedroom. It was foolish to keep nagging at him with her silly doubts.
The water in the big old-fashioned tub, ensconced on high tiptoe-clawed feet, was getting cold. Patrick leaned forward, turned on the hot water tap, and lay back, nursing his beer. The door banged open, and Bullock came barging in, whistling. He stopped short.
"Hey, old buddy. Didn't know you were here." He grinned at Patrick's immersed body, noting the hot water tap still running. "What you trying to do... boil your balls?"
"Just bring their temperature down to roughly that of boiling water, chum."
"Good session last night, huh?"
"Too good to let you know who with."
"Ah... you friggin' politicians are all the same... selfish." Brand turned to the toilet and took a leak.
Patrick leaned forward slightly, shut the tap off with his toe, and slid back, taking a gulp of beer. He wished the hell Bullock hadn't come in. He had some hard thinking to do, and fast.
"Guess what I did today?" Bullock paused for effect, zipping up his fly. "I got a job. I am now employed at the downtown office of the Unified Insurance Company. Start Monday."
Patrick twisted his head to peer up at him. "Sounds like you got it bad for Rosemary and you're preparing to become a solid citizen." Lifting his beer in a mock toast, Patrick said casually, "Speaking of solid citizens, I've been asked to run for city council."
"Jesus! That's great! Just what you've been waiting for! Goddamn! Congratulations, you bastard!" Patrick gave him a wet hand to shake.
"There's only one problem. Money. It has to be done right... and it takes money. I know. I've been running other people's campaigns. Know any likely banks or rich widows?"
"Shit, man, you got one right upstairs, and she's not even a widow."
"Who?"
"Hilda. Didn't you know her old man was in oil? She's got money coming out the ass."
"That doesn't mean she'd give it to me."
"If you can give it to her... if you know what I mean... she'll shell out, I think," Bullock said, remembering his quickie with her in the kitchen. "She's up there now, getting things ready for the cast party after the show tonight. Why don't you go try and give her a hand?"
"Good thinking, Brand. I may just appoint you to the public works commission," Patrick laughed, tossing his beer can at the wastebasket and missing. He grabbed the soap and began scrubbing vigorously.
Celia leaned forward to the makeup mirror in the dressing room, trying to steady her hand to do her eyes. Her face was pale and wan and exhausted, and her stomach was clenching. "The show must go on" was not a tradition she wanted to carry out now, but she must.
"Here you are, honey," Rosemary called as she came into the dressing room carrying a white paper bag. She pulled out a carton of vanilla milkshake and set it on the dressing table along with the cold creams, jars and pots of rouge and base and eye pencils.
"I don't know whether I can get it down or not. It'll probably come right back up."
"Try anyway. It'll give your poor tummy something to chew on besides itself." She began stripping off her slacks and shirt and putting on her costume. She looked at Celia as she changed. Poor little thing looked done in.
"You'll forget all about being tired when you get out there, honey. You always do. The audience is filling up fast. Looks like a good crowd."
Celia nodded dumbly, sucking on the straw, and felt the slow thick coldness hit her grateful stomach. She had to get through tonight somehow... some way. The thought of facing Patrick on that stage suddenly occurred to her... followed by the thought that Web would not be there. Oh God! The mess she'd made of everything!
"Looks like Hilda really knocked herself out on getting things ready for the cast party... for a change, I might add." Rosemary pulled a stool up to the mirror beside Celia.
"Yes... I guess she did."
"Come on, honey. Get with it. Those screaming bit players will be here soon, and you know how crowded things get in here. This is their big night, you know. Not the play... the cast party. Most of them only do this for the parties." Rosemary slapped on base and stroked it over her face until her skin was covered like a mask.
"Maybe we all do...." Celia said strangely, staring at her own stiff partially made-up face. Rosemary caught her eye in the mirror and looked at her queerly. Celia picked up the eyeliner and began to put on the rest of her mask. As it went on, she began to feel a little better. Celia was receding and Helena advancing... a gallant, virtuous heroine... a virtuous lady.