Gwen, in Green

They took a nice little twin engine jet from the Port City, were hung up in a holding pattern waiting to get into LaGuardia, flew with the fantastic Manhattan skyline in their window for long, lovely minutes. Darkness came, and the lights sparkled up to enchant Gwen into a state of dazed appreciation. They moved at a hard pace for three days, walking the halls of museums until their legs ached, experimenting with different foods, and peeking into dark little shops, buying George a new trenchcoat at Lord and Taylor’s, Gwen new things along Fifth Avenue. The second night in New York was a nice one. After wine, Italian food, and brandy, they fell into bed. They were stuffed, tired, and full of talk about the eventful day. Gwen made the advances and, in darkness, she was warm, playful, and responsive. George slept peacefully. Gwen slept so soundly that they got a late start the next day, for George would not wake her. He sat in the chair beside the bed studying her peaceful face. She was smiling. No nightmares.

She was the old Gwen, even after they drove home, late at night, with Sam crowded into the M.G. with them. He was a paroled prisoner from the animal hospital, where he’d spent the time being wormed, shot, bathed, flea-­proofed, and clipped.

George remembered Dr. King’s advice. He bought the runt of a Boston litter, a pup so small that it could rest comfortably on his hand. Gwen’s motherly instincts were aroused. George protested playfully, on a cool late May morning, when Gwen served breakfast with the puppy tucked down inside her playsuit bra for warmth and closeness. “That’s my personal territory,” he growled, tweaking the puppy’s ear.

“Don’t be selfish,” Gwen said. “There’s plenty of me for both of you.”

“Slut,” he said.

“Why did you say that?” She had stopped in mid-­movement and was looking at him tensely.

“Honey, I was teasing. That’s all.” He jumped up. He kissed her. “It’s just that I’m infernally jealous.” He growled and chewed on her ears playfully. She giggled and pushed him away, but she took the puppy out of the bra and put it in its basket near the table.

Once, in Winston-­Salem, Gwen had gotten the African violet bug. In accordance with Dr. King’s advice, George brought home a dozen of the lush plants from the local florist. He supplied her with all the needs for African violet culture, foods and sprays and rich potting soil. “I thought the place needed a bit of greenery,” he explained.

Dr. Peter Braws and his wife were their first guests. Gwen did steaks and it was a nice evening. Then George invited two of the Ocean City fishermen and their wives, and the talk was salty and seemed to interest Gwen. She’d just returned from her second visit with Dr. King. She had gone alone, since George’s work was stacked up. In the bustle of preparing dinner they had little chance to talk. “I think he’s trying to determine whether or not I hated my mother and father,” Gwen said, with a shrug, when George asked her about the visit.

It is often possible to hide, even from one’s self, a deep and disturbing hurt. So it was with Gwen. The Boston puppy, as yet unnamed, was not eating well, had to be coaxed to drink milk from an eye dropper. Gwen was busy in a flurry of spring house cleaning. In jeans and sweatshirt, she tackled the windows inside and out, vacuumed down a few spider webs which had collected in the high corners, scrubbed fingerprints from the walls near light switches, and cleaned the carpet with a sudsy spray can and a machine rented from the Ocean City Building Supply Company. She scoured the tile of the bathrooms with Lysol, getting all traces of mildew from the joints. George, pleased with her apparent sense of well-being, worked long hours and had no time for the great American clearing operation. The African violets thrived.

“You’re talking to them,” George said, as Gwen muttered kind words one morning, feeding the plants which were lined up in the kitchen windows.

“Don’t knock it,” she said. “It works. See?”

Two of the plants were blooming. They looked healthier than when George had brought them home.

“Way to go, fella,” Gwen said playfully, touching one of the flowering plants with a fingertip. “You are valiant and quite beautiful.”

“Lady,” George said, “when those things start turning you on, out they go.”

8

June is the greenest month. By June, growing things have usually done their annual bit, pines shooting up, young pines, green, fresh, thick, a full foot. The annual weeds have come back, and woodlands which seem open in winter become clogged with verdant undergrowth. On George and Gwen’s two hundred and three and a quarter acres, gentle rains and warm sun had created a junglelike denseness. After long neglect, the cleared areas were greened by bracken, young oak seedlings, tufts of tough grass, and sprouting yaupons. Small trees cut below the ground had put out new shoots. However, it was all tender, young growth and fell easily to the whirling blades of the powerful mower.