The Playing Fields

Chapter 24

"Did you hurt yourself Carlos? Your father told me you had an accident at the theatre." Carmela inventoried her son with a concerned perusal.

"No mamma, I just slipped off a stool and knocked one of the spotlights out of kilter, I didn't hurt nuthin'"

"Anything Carlos, you didn't hurt anything. You must learn to speak properly, a college boy now."

"Sorry momma." He nodded, patting her cheek and stripping off his Mercer College t-shirt and tossing it on the bed. Carmela picked it up immediately, turning it right side out, folding it neatly and setting it on his dresser.

"Momma please, you don't have to keep picking up after me."

"That's what wives and mothers do." She smiled benignly at her son.

Carlos loved his mother, but he couldn't get beyond an angry sorrow for the way she let his father treat her. Even he received more respect around the house than she did, in spite of the fact she washed, ironed, cooked and cleaned every single day, as well as working in his father's precious little vineyard at the bottom of the property. He felt her eyes following his every move as he readied for bed, wishing he could find the nerve to tell her how he felt.

"Night momma, I'm going to bed now."

"Sleep the sleep of the angel you are, my son." She cooed, pulling up his sheet and brushing a cool hand across his forehead.

"Night momma." The words caught as he watched her leave the room, closing the door after her.

"I won't have my brandy tonight, just put my slippers away and turn out the light." Antonio crawled under the covers and bounced around until he found a suitable position, closing his eyes and snoring almost immediately.

Carmela tiptoed quietly about the room folding clothes, putting things away, and taking the dirty items to the laundry hamper in the bathroom. She closed the door and slipped off her robe, arranging it on a brass hook, then went to the sink and turned on the water. As she waited for the sink to fill, she examined her face in the mirror, undoing the clips in her hair and letting fall down over her shoulders. She made her self-appraisal without vanity. At fifty-two, her olive skin retained the taught, smoothness of youth; only a feathery hint of fine lines bracketed the wide set, dark eyes and the generous mouth. She twisted her head, studying with pride, the long, straight nose that marked the aristocratic heritage of her ancestors. Carmela washed, brushed her teeth and spent ten minutes brushing out the thick strands of her dark hair, smiling at the first faint signs of grey about her temples. With the lights out, she crept quietly to her side of the bed and climbed in, careful not to disturb her husband, and lay back staring at the ceiling, a tiny smile forming as she relived Ivan Bader's masochistic passions from their afternoon in the shed at the bottom of the garden.

*****

"You should have come, Melaine, the rehearsal was quite exhilarating. I think I have my part well in hand." Milo belted his dressing gown and swaggered over to his state-of-the-art Lazy Boy.

"I had some things I wanted to do." She said, casually.

"Well I hope you'll have time to come for the first dress rehearsal. Cheer your husband on, and all."

"When is it?"

"I don't know yet, that Stainway fellow is a bit of a plodder. He questioned one of my scenes tonight and Victoria came out in my support." A smug smile spread across his face, and he smoothed his moustache with two dainty fingers.

"Hmmmm."

"What is that... hmmm?"

"Nothing, just hmm." Melaine rose from her chair and wandered to the window overlooking the side garden. "Looks like one of our garden lights has burned out, I'll go out and check it."

"I can do that, my dear." He started to get up.

"No, don't bother, I'll do it. I feel like a breath of air anyway." She went to the kitchen and rummaged in the cupboard for a new bulb.

"Well it's pretty late. Be careful out there." He said automatically, not really paying attention, as he fiddled with the remote for the television.

Melaine switched off the outdoor lights and let herself out into the side garden. A sickly moon offered its wan smile through strings of black cloud and the air smelled of soil and wet grass. She picked her way along the flagstone walk to the rear of the house and stood peering across at Cal Amarca's bedroom window. She watched patiently, a sad smile settling in her eyes. Cal Amarca, nicknamed Captain America by the male neighbours because of the rigorous exercises he performed ritually in his back garden, was just about the only resident on the Pathway that she knew well enough to like- and she did- a lot. He always displayed a boyish charm when he was around her and she suspected that he was also carrying a bit of a crush. The thought actually gave her a tinge of excitement. It was nice to feel desired. . . instead of expected. A shadow passed behind the curtains on his window, pausing, and she could see the blurred shape animated with the piston like movements of his evening exercise. Melaine watched for a few moments more then sighing deeply, she walked back up the side of her house and went in.

*****

"So, Mr. Decker, did you enjoy your rehearsal with Miss Thelma O'Brien?" Jean sat rigidly among the cushions of a wide armchair, her arms folded tightly about her waist. Allen wagged his head tiredly and flopped over to his own chair, dropping into the down filled cushions with an air of exasperation.

"It was just one of the scenes we had to run through for Nigel." His voice sounded laboured and bored.

"And was Nigel pleased?" Brittle.

"C'mon Jean, we're acting. Everyone's acting, it's a play for cryin' out loud."

She didn't respond, staring silently instead at a space between the edge of the table and the shag throw rug that covered the stripped hardwood floor.

"You could have had a part if you wanted," Allen spoke, using her silence as a defense, "you chose to help with the music instead."

Her eyes swung sideways and she sneered, "You mean I could have auditioned for a little kissing orgy of my own?"

"Ah shit," he pushed himself out of the chair and stomped across the room, "it's no use tryin' to talk to you. I'm goin' to bed."

Jean remained sitting, listening to him bang around in the kitchen before heading down the hall to their bedroom. For some time now, she'd suspected that there was something going on between her husband and Tiffany. Tonight, in her mind, that suspicion became a fact. It hadn't required a degree in brain surgery. The cul-de-sac appeared haunted in the diluted amber glow of the streetlamps; the lock stone roadway glistening with a slick of evening dew. Jean pressed her head against the cool window glass, doubt, mixed with a curious tug of excitement thudding in her brain. Helping with the music had not been an arbitrary choice. Ever since Ellen's party, when she had stayed by the piano trading subtle innuendos with Ross, Jean had sensed a stirring- unfamiliar, but exhilarating. A feeling that stiffened her resolve to shun the role of spurned wife and instead, join the ranks of self-satisfying coquettes.

*****