Astrid Magnussen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
white_oleander) wrote2019-11-23 08:18 am
white_oleander) wrote2019-11-23 08:18 am
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Hollywood, California, 1993. Saturday [11/23].
It was a relief when Ron finally came home again. Claire got up, took a shower, cleaned the house. She made food, too much of it, and put on red lipstick. She took off Leonard Cohen and put on Teddy Wilson’s big band, sang along to “Basin Street Blues.” Ron made love with her at night, sometimes even in the afternoon. Neither of them made much noise, but Astrid could hear the quiet laughter behind their closed door.
Then, early Saturday morning, when Claire was still sleeping, Astrid heard him on the phone in the living room.
He was talking to a woman, she sensed it immediately when she came in, the way he smiled as he talked in his striped pajama bottoms— wrapping the phone cord around his smooth fingers. He laughed at something she said. “Flounder. Whatever. Cod.”
He started when he saw Astrid in the doorway. The blood bleached out of his rosy cheeks, then returned, deeper. He ran his hand through his hair so that the paler strips sprang back under his touch. He talked a bit more, arrangements, flights, hotels, he scribbled on a scrap of paper in his open briefcase. Astrid didn’t move. He hung up the phone.
He stood up, hiking his pajama bottoms. “We’re going to Reykjavik. Hot springs with documented healing powers.”
Reykjavik. Astrid felt a substantial tug of longing in her chest.
“Take Claire with you,” she said, wanting to say us, but knowing that would be too much to ask. Even with just Claire, it was too much.
He threw the paper into his briefcase, shut it, locked it. “I’d be working all the time. You know Claire. She’d sit in the hotel and cook herself into some morbid fantasy. It’d be a nightmare.”
Reluctantly, Astrid saw his point. Whether he stayed out of town as much as he could to screw around, or just to avoid dealing with Claire, or even on the off-chance he was what he claimed to be, just a tired husband trying to make a living, it would be a disaster to bring Claire along if he couldn’t spend time with her. She couldn’t just wander around by herself, see the sights. She’d sit in the hotel and wonder what he was doing, which woman it was. Torturing herself.
But it didn’t let him off the hook. He was her husband. He was responsible. Astrid didn’t like the way he talked to that woman on the phone in Claire’s own house. She could imagine him with a woman in a dark restaurant, seducing her with that same smooth voice.
Astrid leaned in the doorway in case he decided to try to go back to bed and pretend nothing had happened. She wanted to make him understand that Claire needed him. His duty was here. “She told me how she would kill herself if she wanted to.”
That got his attention, made him stumble a bit in his smoothness, a man tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, an actor who’d forgotten his lines. He brushed back his hair, playing for time. “What did she say?”
“She said she’d gas herself.”
He sat down, closed his eyes, put his hands over them, the smooth fingertips meeting over his nose. Suddenly Astrid felt sorry for him too. She'd only wanted to get his attention, make him realize he couldn’t simply fly off and pretend everything was normal around her. He couldn’t just leave Claire all alone to Astrid.
“Do you think she’s just talking?” he asked, fear in his hazel eyes.
He was asking her? He was the one with the answers. The man with the firm grip on reality, the one who told them when to get up and when to go to bed, what channel they were watching, what they thought about nuclear testing and welfare reform. He was the one who held the world securely in his smooth hands like a big basketball. Astrid stared at him helplessly, horrified that he didn’t know whether or not Claire would kill herself. He was her husband. Who was she? Just some kid they’d taken in.
Astrid couldn’t help but picture Claire lying on the bed, clad in her jewels, pearls welled in her mouth. What she had given up to be with Ron. The way she cried at night, arms pressed tight around her, bent almost double, like a person with stomach cramps. But no, she still waited for Astrid to come from school, she wouldn’t want her to find her dead. “She misses you.”
“It’s almost time for a hiatus,” Ron said. “We’ll go somewhere. Really get away, just the three of us. Camping in down south, something like that. What do you think?”
The three of them, riding horses, hiking, sitting around the campfire, memorizing the stars. No phone, no fax, no laptop computer. No parties, meetings, friends coming by with a script. Ron all to herself. That would be something to look forward to. She wouldn’t want to miss camping with Ron. “She’d like that,” Astrid finally said. She'd believe it when she saw it, though. He was a great reneger.
“I know it hasn’t been easy for you.” He put his hand on Astrid's shoulder. Smooth. There was heat in his hand, it warmed her whole shoulder. For a moment she wondered what it would feel like to make love to Ron. His bare chest so close she could stroke it, the gray hairs, the quarter-sized nipples. He smelled good, Monsieur Givenchy. His voice, not too deep, sandy and calming. But then Astrid remembered, this was the man who was causing all the problems, who didn’t know how to love Claire. He was cheating on her, she could feel it in his body. He had the world, all Claire had was him. But Astrid couldn’t help liking his hand on her shoulder, the look in his eyes. Trying not to react to his masculine presence, solidity in his blue pajama bottoms. She’s a young woman, he told Claire. It was just part of his act, the appreciation thing.
Astrid bet he did it with all the lonely spoonbenders.
She stepped away, so his arm dropped. "You better come through,” she told him.
[[ continuing along from Chapter 19 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch, modified slightly for context. as always, NFB for distance, open if anyone would like to poke ]]
Then, early Saturday morning, when Claire was still sleeping, Astrid heard him on the phone in the living room.
He was talking to a woman, she sensed it immediately when she came in, the way he smiled as he talked in his striped pajama bottoms— wrapping the phone cord around his smooth fingers. He laughed at something she said. “Flounder. Whatever. Cod.”
He started when he saw Astrid in the doorway. The blood bleached out of his rosy cheeks, then returned, deeper. He ran his hand through his hair so that the paler strips sprang back under his touch. He talked a bit more, arrangements, flights, hotels, he scribbled on a scrap of paper in his open briefcase. Astrid didn’t move. He hung up the phone.
He stood up, hiking his pajama bottoms. “We’re going to Reykjavik. Hot springs with documented healing powers.”
Reykjavik. Astrid felt a substantial tug of longing in her chest.
“Take Claire with you,” she said, wanting to say us, but knowing that would be too much to ask. Even with just Claire, it was too much.
He threw the paper into his briefcase, shut it, locked it. “I’d be working all the time. You know Claire. She’d sit in the hotel and cook herself into some morbid fantasy. It’d be a nightmare.”
Reluctantly, Astrid saw his point. Whether he stayed out of town as much as he could to screw around, or just to avoid dealing with Claire, or even on the off-chance he was what he claimed to be, just a tired husband trying to make a living, it would be a disaster to bring Claire along if he couldn’t spend time with her. She couldn’t just wander around by herself, see the sights. She’d sit in the hotel and wonder what he was doing, which woman it was. Torturing herself.
But it didn’t let him off the hook. He was her husband. He was responsible. Astrid didn’t like the way he talked to that woman on the phone in Claire’s own house. She could imagine him with a woman in a dark restaurant, seducing her with that same smooth voice.
Astrid leaned in the doorway in case he decided to try to go back to bed and pretend nothing had happened. She wanted to make him understand that Claire needed him. His duty was here. “She told me how she would kill herself if she wanted to.”
That got his attention, made him stumble a bit in his smoothness, a man tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, an actor who’d forgotten his lines. He brushed back his hair, playing for time. “What did she say?”
“She said she’d gas herself.”
He sat down, closed his eyes, put his hands over them, the smooth fingertips meeting over his nose. Suddenly Astrid felt sorry for him too. She'd only wanted to get his attention, make him realize he couldn’t simply fly off and pretend everything was normal around her. He couldn’t just leave Claire all alone to Astrid.
“Do you think she’s just talking?” he asked, fear in his hazel eyes.
He was asking her? He was the one with the answers. The man with the firm grip on reality, the one who told them when to get up and when to go to bed, what channel they were watching, what they thought about nuclear testing and welfare reform. He was the one who held the world securely in his smooth hands like a big basketball. Astrid stared at him helplessly, horrified that he didn’t know whether or not Claire would kill herself. He was her husband. Who was she? Just some kid they’d taken in.
Astrid couldn’t help but picture Claire lying on the bed, clad in her jewels, pearls welled in her mouth. What she had given up to be with Ron. The way she cried at night, arms pressed tight around her, bent almost double, like a person with stomach cramps. But no, she still waited for Astrid to come from school, she wouldn’t want her to find her dead. “She misses you.”
“It’s almost time for a hiatus,” Ron said. “We’ll go somewhere. Really get away, just the three of us. Camping in down south, something like that. What do you think?”
The three of them, riding horses, hiking, sitting around the campfire, memorizing the stars. No phone, no fax, no laptop computer. No parties, meetings, friends coming by with a script. Ron all to herself. That would be something to look forward to. She wouldn’t want to miss camping with Ron. “She’d like that,” Astrid finally said. She'd believe it when she saw it, though. He was a great reneger.
“I know it hasn’t been easy for you.” He put his hand on Astrid's shoulder. Smooth. There was heat in his hand, it warmed her whole shoulder. For a moment she wondered what it would feel like to make love to Ron. His bare chest so close she could stroke it, the gray hairs, the quarter-sized nipples. He smelled good, Monsieur Givenchy. His voice, not too deep, sandy and calming. But then Astrid remembered, this was the man who was causing all the problems, who didn’t know how to love Claire. He was cheating on her, she could feel it in his body. He had the world, all Claire had was him. But Astrid couldn’t help liking his hand on her shoulder, the look in his eyes. Trying not to react to his masculine presence, solidity in his blue pajama bottoms. She’s a young woman, he told Claire. It was just part of his act, the appreciation thing.
Astrid bet he did it with all the lonely spoonbenders.
She stepped away, so his arm dropped. "You better come through,” she told him.
[[ continuing along from Chapter 19 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch, modified slightly for context. as always, NFB for distance, open if anyone would like to poke ]]