Woolworth designs of raw color so terrible they were wonderful. This one featured giant orange and yellow nasturtiums on a black ground. Its garishness shocked all color from Oliveâs bare legs and wrinkled arms and face. As she entered the tool room, she smiled and waved at him. He wondered what she was going to shoot in there with the Rolleiflex. Olive, strictly an amateur, did some passable work. He opened the back of the station wagon and retrieved his duffel bag and paint box. Heâd packed extra shorts and socks and his razor, but he hadnât stayed anywhere, had turned around again and come home.
He had driven north toward the wine country and Russian River on a sudden whim, wanting to get away, but somethingâboredom, a sense of uselessnessâhad made him head back again. He had felt as confined in the car as he had felt in the studio; the same stifled sense of captive panic heâd had after the war when he marked time in England for three months without any action. Driving north, he had changed his mind about going to Russian Riverâthe place stirred too many memories. Heâd wondered why the hell he had thought he could go there, and he had cut off 101 suddenly onto the narrow road to Bodega Bay.
He and Alice had gone to Russian River before they weremarried, in the middle of winter, and pitched a tent. They had had the place to themselves. Theyâd cooked on a campfire and had swum nude in the icy river. The first night, Alice spilled chocolate syrup in the sleeping bag, and for a week afterward they had made love and slept engulfed by the smell of chocolate.
Heading for Bodega Bay, passing green pastures where dairy cows grazed, he had let his mind stay numb and blank. At the shore heâd walked along the beach for several hours not thinking, watching the sea, trying to become a part of whatever it was out thereâthe rhythm of the waves pounding, the emptiness of sky and sea meeting unbroken, hinting at some kind of meaning he couldnât touch. Alice had loved the sea, she would have been running out in the cold water picking up shells, would have sat on a rock shivering, drawing the gulls and plovers.
Now as he carried his bag and unused sketching things across the terrace to the studio, he glanced up the hill again toward the open tool room, trying to focus on Olive Cleaver, get his mind off Alice. He was aware of flashes of light from inside the tool room as Olive worked with her flashbulbs, likely shooting still lifes of the garden tools, arranging earthy little studies.
He went into the studio, dropped his bag and paint box, and made himself a sandwich and opened a beer. When he came out of the house onto the terrace again, Olive was crouched before the oak door, taking pictures of the catsâ faces. This should have amused him, but suddenly he wanted to tell Olive to stop it, stop taking pictures of the cats, stop fooling around with the door. He wanted to tell her to leave the cats alone, that they could be dangerous.
He didnât like that kind of thought in himself; he didnât like these crazy notions. Why the hell did he focus on cats? Everywhere he looked, his attention was drawn by cats; heâd gotten his mind fixated on cats. Even on the beach before he left Bodega Bay heâd seen a cat trotting along the sand, hunting among the seaweed, and he had to stop and stare at it. Black-and-white cat. It had stopped, too, and looked athim. Alice would have coaxed it to them, petted it, talked to it, given it part of their lunch. Watching the stray cat, he had imagined Alice there so clearlyâher pale hair blowing in the sea wind, her fine-boned face concentrated as she talked to a stray cat. Alice had needed animals around her, had been more at home with animals than with people.
Annoyed with himself but unable to stop brooding, he got some stretcher bars and a roll of canvas and set to work stretching canvases, working on the terrace where it
He had driven north toward the wine country and Russian River on a sudden whim, wanting to get away, but somethingâboredom, a sense of uselessnessâhad made him head back again. He had felt as confined in the car as he had felt in the studio; the same stifled sense of captive panic heâd had after the war when he marked time in England for three months without any action. Driving north, he had changed his mind about going to Russian Riverâthe place stirred too many memories. Heâd wondered why the hell he had thought he could go there, and he had cut off 101 suddenly onto the narrow road to Bodega Bay.
He and Alice had gone to Russian River before they weremarried, in the middle of winter, and pitched a tent. They had had the place to themselves. Theyâd cooked on a campfire and had swum nude in the icy river. The first night, Alice spilled chocolate syrup in the sleeping bag, and for a week afterward they had made love and slept engulfed by the smell of chocolate.
Heading for Bodega Bay, passing green pastures where dairy cows grazed, he had let his mind stay numb and blank. At the shore heâd walked along the beach for several hours not thinking, watching the sea, trying to become a part of whatever it was out thereâthe rhythm of the waves pounding, the emptiness of sky and sea meeting unbroken, hinting at some kind of meaning he couldnât touch. Alice had loved the sea, she would have been running out in the cold water picking up shells, would have sat on a rock shivering, drawing the gulls and plovers.
Now as he carried his bag and unused sketching things across the terrace to the studio, he glanced up the hill again toward the open tool room, trying to focus on Olive Cleaver, get his mind off Alice. He was aware of flashes of light from inside the tool room as Olive worked with her flashbulbs, likely shooting still lifes of the garden tools, arranging earthy little studies.
He went into the studio, dropped his bag and paint box, and made himself a sandwich and opened a beer. When he came out of the house onto the terrace again, Olive was crouched before the oak door, taking pictures of the catsâ faces. This should have amused him, but suddenly he wanted to tell Olive to stop it, stop taking pictures of the cats, stop fooling around with the door. He wanted to tell her to leave the cats alone, that they could be dangerous.
He didnât like that kind of thought in himself; he didnât like these crazy notions. Why the hell did he focus on cats? Everywhere he looked, his attention was drawn by cats; heâd gotten his mind fixated on cats. Even on the beach before he left Bodega Bay heâd seen a cat trotting along the sand, hunting among the seaweed, and he had to stop and stare at it. Black-and-white cat. It had stopped, too, and looked athim. Alice would have coaxed it to them, petted it, talked to it, given it part of their lunch. Watching the stray cat, he had imagined Alice there so clearlyâher pale hair blowing in the sea wind, her fine-boned face concentrated as she talked to a stray cat. Alice had needed animals around her, had been more at home with animals than with people.
Annoyed with himself but unable to stop brooding, he got some stretcher bars and a roll of canvas and set to work stretching canvases, working on the terrace where it
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