me.”
(It scares me , dear!) “I love you, darling.”
“But we do it for nice old boy dying, not to save studio. Understand?”
“Roz indeed! Joe, you’re the nicest husband a girl ever had.”
He did not answer and got a pained scowl, which she recognized as birth pangs of creativity. So she kept still. Presently he sighed. “Down off ceiling. Problem what to do for Boss solves inspiration that put me up there. Tomorrow you’re a mermaid.”
“All right.”
“And tonight. Upper body seagreen with rosy glow showing through on lips and cheeks and nipples. Lower body golden fish scales blending at waist. Undersea background with sunlight filtering down. Traditional seabottom symbols, romantic. But upside down.”
She hesitated. “So?” (Hard to know when to ask, when to keep quiet, when Joe was creating.)
He smiled. “Fool-the-eye. You’re swimming. Diving straight down to bottom, back arched, hair streaming, toes pointed—main light dapple-scrimmed for water. Beautiful. But can’t wire you, even if had wires—no way to hide harness, and hair would hang down and buttocks and breasts would sag—”
“My breasts don’t sag!”
“Chill it, Jill. You got beautiful breasts and you know I know. But masses of flesh sag and artist sees it. Everybody sees, just don’ realize. Something wrong, don’ know why. Eye not fooled. Has to be real dive, or it’s fake. Bad art.”
“Well,” she said doubtfully, “if you borrowed a stepladder and dragged the mattress under your background, I suppose I could dive off and roll out and not hurt myself. I guess.”
“I don’t guess! Break pretty neck, little stupid. Dive up. Not down.”
“Huh?”
“I said . Background upside down. So jump straight up in air. Like going for hot return in volley ball. I shoot stereo stop-action, a thousandth. Shoot six, seven, eight, nine times till just right. Turn pic upside down—lovely mermaid diving for sea bottom.”
“Oh. Yes, I’m stupid.”
“Not stupid, just not artist.” He started scowling again; she kept quiet. “Too much for one night. Tomorrow paint background, tonight paint you for drill. Then maybe stereo-mug some jumps against any background, more drill. Bed early, up early—paint you again for Boss.”
“Fine,” she agreed. “But why paint me twice, dear, if I’m to be a mermaid for Boss tomorrow? If you set up the cot for me and I slept alone, I wouldn’t disturb paint job much. Then you could touch it up in the morning. Not get up as early.”
He shook his head. “Won’t paint quite same way for Boss. But won’t let you sleep in paint anyhow.”
“My skin won’t break out.”
“No, my darling. Your skin don’ break out because I don’ paint you too much, or too often, or let paint stay on too long—and always damn sure you get it all off, then oil you. But you see, I see, everybody see what happen to girls who paint too much. Pimples, blackheads, itching, scratching—ugly. Sure, we’ll paint you for Boss from ears to toes—but not too often and scrub you minute you’re home. That’s official.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So scrub jet and scarlet off, while I flash pizza.”
A few minutes later she shut off the shower and called out through the door of the bath unit: “What did you say?”
“Forgot. Big Sam stopped by. Pizza ready.”
“Cut me a chunk, that’s a dear. What did he want? Money?”
“No. Well, I let him have a fin. But stopped to invite us. Sunday. All day meditation. Gigi’s pad.”
She stepped out into the room, till toweling. “All day, huh? Just us four? Or his whole class?”
“Neither. A Seven Circle.”
“Swinging?”
“Suppose so. Didn’t say.”
“Swinging.” She sighed. “Darling, I don’t mind you lending him a five you’ll never see. But Big Sam is no guru, he’s just a stud. And a bliffy.”
“Big Sam and Gigi share what they got, Eunice. And nobody has to swing. Ever.”
“Theoretically, yes. But the only good way to break
(It scares me , dear!) “I love you, darling.”
“But we do it for nice old boy dying, not to save studio. Understand?”
“Roz indeed! Joe, you’re the nicest husband a girl ever had.”
He did not answer and got a pained scowl, which she recognized as birth pangs of creativity. So she kept still. Presently he sighed. “Down off ceiling. Problem what to do for Boss solves inspiration that put me up there. Tomorrow you’re a mermaid.”
“All right.”
“And tonight. Upper body seagreen with rosy glow showing through on lips and cheeks and nipples. Lower body golden fish scales blending at waist. Undersea background with sunlight filtering down. Traditional seabottom symbols, romantic. But upside down.”
She hesitated. “So?” (Hard to know when to ask, when to keep quiet, when Joe was creating.)
He smiled. “Fool-the-eye. You’re swimming. Diving straight down to bottom, back arched, hair streaming, toes pointed—main light dapple-scrimmed for water. Beautiful. But can’t wire you, even if had wires—no way to hide harness, and hair would hang down and buttocks and breasts would sag—”
“My breasts don’t sag!”
“Chill it, Jill. You got beautiful breasts and you know I know. But masses of flesh sag and artist sees it. Everybody sees, just don’ realize. Something wrong, don’ know why. Eye not fooled. Has to be real dive, or it’s fake. Bad art.”
“Well,” she said doubtfully, “if you borrowed a stepladder and dragged the mattress under your background, I suppose I could dive off and roll out and not hurt myself. I guess.”
“I don’t guess! Break pretty neck, little stupid. Dive up. Not down.”
“Huh?”
“I said . Background upside down. So jump straight up in air. Like going for hot return in volley ball. I shoot stereo stop-action, a thousandth. Shoot six, seven, eight, nine times till just right. Turn pic upside down—lovely mermaid diving for sea bottom.”
“Oh. Yes, I’m stupid.”
“Not stupid, just not artist.” He started scowling again; she kept quiet. “Too much for one night. Tomorrow paint background, tonight paint you for drill. Then maybe stereo-mug some jumps against any background, more drill. Bed early, up early—paint you again for Boss.”
“Fine,” she agreed. “But why paint me twice, dear, if I’m to be a mermaid for Boss tomorrow? If you set up the cot for me and I slept alone, I wouldn’t disturb paint job much. Then you could touch it up in the morning. Not get up as early.”
He shook his head. “Won’t paint quite same way for Boss. But won’t let you sleep in paint anyhow.”
“My skin won’t break out.”
“No, my darling. Your skin don’ break out because I don’ paint you too much, or too often, or let paint stay on too long—and always damn sure you get it all off, then oil you. But you see, I see, everybody see what happen to girls who paint too much. Pimples, blackheads, itching, scratching—ugly. Sure, we’ll paint you for Boss from ears to toes—but not too often and scrub you minute you’re home. That’s official.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So scrub jet and scarlet off, while I flash pizza.”
A few minutes later she shut off the shower and called out through the door of the bath unit: “What did you say?”
“Forgot. Big Sam stopped by. Pizza ready.”
“Cut me a chunk, that’s a dear. What did he want? Money?”
“No. Well, I let him have a fin. But stopped to invite us. Sunday. All day meditation. Gigi’s pad.”
She stepped out into the room, till toweling. “All day, huh? Just us four? Or his whole class?”
“Neither. A Seven Circle.”
“Swinging?”
“Suppose so. Didn’t say.”
“Swinging.” She sighed. “Darling, I don’t mind you lending him a five you’ll never see. But Big Sam is no guru, he’s just a stud. And a bliffy.”
“Big Sam and Gigi share what they got, Eunice. And nobody has to swing. Ever.”
“Theoretically, yes. But the only good way to break
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