Undo - Joe Hutsko (bearly read books TXT) 📗

realized that his spoon was halfway between his bowl and mouth. He did not know how long he’d been sitting there like that. He set it down and poured himself more wine. He looked at her over the rim of his glass, and felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. It was an agreeable feeling, and that in turn made it an adverse feeling. Thin ice ahead, if he didn’t watch himself. Friends, he repeated to himself, and don’t forget it.

“Did you hear me?”

Had she said something? “I’m sorry - you were saying?”

“I said, that’s what the course was about. I dropped it.”

“But you sound like an expert. Why the change of heart?”

“Nah. Music. This speech stuff. That’s what I told you when I met you, don’t you remember?”

In fact, he did not remember. What’s more, he realized, was that he didn’t know her last name either. Before he was aware of what he was doing, he asked her, “What’s your last name?”

She was pouring herself more wine. She stopped. Was she hurt?

She grinned. “You got me.”

His expression betrayed his confusion.

“I never told you my last name!” she said, as if that explained everything. Whatever everything was. “I see what you’re getting at: How could I ask if you remember that I dropped that course to get into this linguistics programming stuff when you don’t even know my last name. It’s because I never told you.”

He went to take another sip of wine, but then decided to hold off for a bit.

“It’s Green. Ivy Green. Can you stand it?”

“It’s certainly very Earth conscious.”

“Very funny. The only green I think Rick and Jeannette had in mind when they named me was reefer.”

He burst out laughing. “How come?”

“Oh, please. Don’t you get it? I’m a Sixties baby, like, ‘Make Love, Not War,’ ‘Give Peace a Chance,’ ‘If It Feels Good, Do It.’ Well, they did it. They met at Woodstock, no kidding, and, a few years later, they did it, made me, and got married and all. How it felt, I mean, good or not, I never asked. Quit laughing. They moved to California, lived right at the corner of Haight and Ashbury, and found peace and all that. Later, when my dad accidentally started his own herbal tea company - yes, it’s the brand you’ve got on the shelf there in the kitchen - they moved to Mill Valley. That’s where I grew up, with parents who told me to call them by their first names, so we’d get closer to where we visualized ourselves in the universe. Or some shit like that.”

“Sorry, I’m not laughing at the circumstances. It’s the way you tell it.”

“No problem. I’m still amused by the Rick and Jeannette Show.” From out of nowhere came a pout. Then: “But I’m not goin’ to live my life like they did.” She sniffed deeply. “Um, I’ll be right back.”

Had he offended her? He’d meant no harm in laughing. He was just amused by her deadpan delivery. While she excused herself, Peter got up from the table. Her talk about the Sixties had aroused some vague sentiment in him. Whatever. All of the sudden the place seemed too quiet. While she was away from the table he got up and loaded a compact disc into his stereo system. The first track was a folksy acoustic number.

Ivy returned to the table smiling. “Want more stew?”

“I’m stuffed,” Peter said.

She sat down.

“Here.” He poured more wine into her glass, trying for an apology if it was in fact called for. He had no idea.

The instrumental ended, then a lovely female voice filled the room with song. It was his absolute favorite. His eyelids lowered slowly, automatically, and a smile washed across his face. The artist’s sensual voice had an effect on him that was like easing into a warm bath. He sat there like that for a little bit, forgetting Ivy and his dinner and everything else.

Ivy turned her head to the source of his evident pleasure. Her frown went unnoticed.

Peter had met the vocalist one afternoon at a Sierra Club luncheon thrown in his honor after Wallaby had donated several computers to the noted environmental organization. Kate McGreggor, the “softly outspoken” folk-rock star, was the keynote speaker. He tried to be attentive to her words during her speech, but he constantly found himself drifting, starting at her warm green eyes, sighing when she casually brushed aside her hair, dark brown with sunned highlights and occasional strands of gray. In just fifteen minutes Kate had made an impression on him like no other woman ever had. Meanings for her wandered into his mind. Intelligent. Simple. Pure. True. What you see is what you get, he surmised. After the meal, she sang. Her voice was enchanting, perfect, and as she sang about pain and hope and love he knew that he had to get to know her personally. Immediately after her performance he introduced himself. At first she seemed disinterested. He suspected her judgment was influenced by his involvement in an industry notorious for destroying the environment. And perhaps also by the eight years difference in their ages. He invited her to visit Wallaby for a personal tour. She hesitated, but ultimately he persuaded her to accept after asking for a chance to prove that he and Wallaby were unlike all the rest. When she arrived a week later, she surprised him with a special gift: A bottle of wine from her parents’ obscure little vineyard in Oregon, where she had grown up. It was a Cabernet Sauvignon, bottled the same year he had founded Wallaby. He was touched by the thoughtfulness of her gesture, and told her she had to be the one to share it with him when the company was ten years old. Her tour was scheduled to last two hours, but as Peter expressed his own thoughts and concerns about the environment, the state of education, the future, they engaged in long and satisfying conversation, and by the end of the day their attraction for one another was evident. And had remained so to this day. They were two people comfortable with themselves and with each other. She maintained a home in Los Angeles, where she was constantly at work on her music or lending her celebrity status to political causes about which she felt strongly. She came to stay with Peter between recordings and projects, and her independence meshed perfectly with his own like composure, creating the foundation for what had become a lasting and loving relationship. They had been together for nearly eight years, and the distance between them imposed by their careers generated a constant longing that kept their affection for one another fresh and alive. Sometimes, like now, it was difficult and he wished they could be together more often. Especially now, with everything the way it was at Wallaby…

And with that thought, he opened his eyes and came back around to the present, and to his guest.

Ivy was lowering a coffee cup from her lips, staring at him. Had she made a pot? He hadn’t even heard her in the kitchen. In front of him sat a steaming cup of coffee. Perfect, he thought. That odd sense of dread he’d experienced earlier had returned, just for an instant, when he’d opened his eyes. He needed to sober up a little.

Abruptly she spoke.

“Is it true?”

“What’s that?” he asked. He met her azure eyes with a perplexed smile. She gestured with a nod to where the music was coming from. “That you two are lovers?”

“Completely.”

She nodded, added more coffee to her cup, very slowly, with considerable concentration. She emptied half a packet of Equal into her coffee. Addressing her immersed spoon, she said, “In everything I read, like “People,” or that story about you in last month’s “Esquire,” they say you’ll probably get married. To her.”

“I don’t know, it’s hard to say” Peter said, knowing the right thing to do would be to agree with the speculation, but choosing to answer truthfully instead. “We’re both very busy. She’s always recording or involved in some cause or another. And I’m at Wallaby.” The feeling of dread inside his heart rolled on its side. However this time, instead of striking quickly and fading away, its presence seemed to stretch out and linger as he sat watching what Ivy was doing with her half-empty packet of Equal.

She had dumped the remainder of the artificial sweetener onto the black enamel table. Using the straight edge of the little blue packet, she cut several fine, stark, parallel lines from the small white pile of grains.

Not very subtle, and not a good sign. He attempted to resume the conversation.

“Anyway, as far as marriage, we’ve never really discussed it seriously.”

All of the sudden, he understood the feeling assaulting his senses. Trepidation.

Something - no, a number of things - were going to happen. It was as though a crystal ball had bloomed in his mind’s eye, giving him a quick peek into the near future. It all came in a blurry rush, no single picture or image freezing long enough to grasp completely. But he caught the gist, just same. He would go through all the required motions, but in the back of his mind he knew he was helpless. What was coming, he realized with a throbbing certainty amplified by the wine, was only natural. Jesus, how sick that sounded to his private ear. Still, he wouldn’t give in without a fight, for that, too, was only natural. Quietly he stared at the lines she’d cut, mesmerized by their orderliness.

Ivy, too, studied the straightness of her lines, her upper lip hidden beneath the lower. She was the first to notice the silence, to sense its uneasy drift. With a great gust, she blew the white lines from the table and looked across the table at him with a renewed smile.

“Oh, hey. Sorry. I had a little skip down unhappy-memory-lane there for a second, is all. I hope I didn’t upset you.”

Peter looked at her. He shook his head, then rose without a word and carried his coffee cup into the kitchen.

“Hey, you want to open more wine?” Ivy was at his side, carrying their empty glasses. “I’ve been here only three weeks and already have a prototype of my speech interface working.” The trembling of her hand caused the glasses to steadily clink together, a fragile ringing sound. She didn’t seem to notice. “Come on, let’s celebrate.”

He rested his hand over the glasses, silencing them. “We’ve had enough.”

She narrowed the already small space between them, and he slid his hands into his pockets, not sure what to do with them. “Thank you for such a great meal,” he said, and made an attempt to get past her.

She giggled, held her ground.

He let out a frustrated breath. “Please,” he said. “I’ve got to get to bed.” There was no humor in his face.

“All right, then,” she said sullenly, and pressed her back against the doorjamb, making way for him.

Just as he was about to shut off the stereo he changed his mind, and decided to leave it on. To keep Kate there with him, he thought, humming along with her voice on his way to his bedroom.

He lit a single candle and placed it on the floor beside his futon bed. Except for the thick stuffed sleeping mat, some books piled against the wall, a Tizio lamp and the Zuni Indian sculpture of a bear that Kate had given him one birthday, his bedroom was bare, like the rest of the house.

He tossed his clothes onto the floor and sat in the lotus position on the soft cotton mat.