11.15 The Abyss of WonderLand
Penelope (continued) “Simone, I never asked for any of this, and I can’t pay for it. Even if I raided my bank account and completely emptied it out, there wouldn’t be enough to cover the cost of all this. I signed for it, I know, but that was because I was in shock. I need you to send someone to take it back. I’m not rich!” She cut me off with a laugh. “My darling Penelope. No worries. You will be soon. Timothy is richer than the proverbial Midas. He has already instructed me to buy whatever I think will suit you. This is only the beginning. I’ve got to go. Bye. She left me stuttering, still holding the phone up to my mouth, even though I saw that she’d disconnected. I was about to call her back and demand her once again to pick up the clothes when the doorbell rang. Nobody should be at the door. We had a safety feature. The box downstairs was the first inhibitor. I looked through the door and saw a man in livery. In his hands was a huge bouquet of roses, red roses. I shouldn’t have, but I opened the door, expecting to hear that he’d mistakenly come to the wrong apartment. He spoke my name and started to hand me the flowers. Then, when I didn’t reach for the heavy crystal vase they occupied, he said, “Would you like me to carry these inside?” Alarm bells were going off. That was something that should never happen. I was just about to tell him no when he stepped into the living room and marched forward toward my coffee table. He set the roses on top of a table coaster, from the small basket on the side. The table coasters were the result of one of our art museum visits; each one showed a famous painting. The uniformed and head-capped man turned about like a military man, said that he hoped I’d enjoy the roses, suggested that I add more water to the vase, then walked out, closing the door behind him. I scurried over to lock it, but that was the only sensible thing I’d done. I was still in shock from the clothing delivery, followed by the arrival of three dozen red roses. How did so many roses fit inside one vase? Once my brain absorbed my surprise over the bouquet and the unbelievable beauty of so many vivid dark red roses, I realized that I was one gasp away from fainting like the heroine of some old-time melodrama. I plopped down in the chair across from the flowers and simply stared at them.
11.14 The Abyss of WonderLand
(Timothy continued) Andrew teases me, but he isn’t cruel. We’ve been friends too long for him to push. He recognizes that I am committed and has resigned himself to the change in my aspirations and ambitions. There is now the assurance of a wife in my plans, and the faint prospect that Penelope and I might be lucky enough to have children. Although that is not always assured, which is the one reason my lineage is dying out, it is a possibility, and if the normal method doesn’t work, there will be medical treatments which might aid in that endeavor. Yes, my whole life has changed from Judy’s last effort at matchmaking, and I have already sent evidence of my deepest gratitude. I deposited a mighty sum into her bank account, not because it was owed to her for her deed, but because I am and will be forever indebted to her for bringing Penelope into my life. Penelope: If my friends had still been around to discuss this situation, they would probably be telling me to back away, to ponder the idiocy of such a complete and total falling into the love pot. It would have been good advice; except I had to admit that it was already too late. The joining of hands, the sharing of art lore, the way we two had cliqued in every way: it had bonded us. I felt like I’d always known Timothy, like he’d been the missing part of me that had wandered off. Silly romantic drivel, but my soul recognized him. That was undisputable. Even when we parted later, the link between us remained. It was the tether of a fishing boat, tied to land. (Or maybe in his case, a yacht tied to its dock, an analogy which sent chills down my spine because the fact that Timothy was not only gorgeous, but wealthy enough to buy a museum (even if the backers came up with a sizeable percent) was a gigantic no-no in our relationship.) ***** All the dresses that Simone had pulled aside for me to try on were delivered the next day. I signed for them in a blank, mystified way, then I rang her up. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Why did you send over all these clothes? There are dresses, slacks, blouses, even shoes that I never saw. The delivery guy even brought boxes of jewelry.
11.13 The Abyss of WonderLand
And the smile that Timothy gave me when he lifted his lips from my hand, sent another tremor deep inside me. I was far too awed to fight this sudden dependency. If someone had told me that this man was as essential as the air I breathed, I’d merely have nodded. That was my conviction. I’d been hooked and landed. Full consciousness was no longer relevant. Timothy She is in a trance from our interaction. That doesn’t please me greatly. I do not want an artificial relationship fostered between us. The males of my line could and probably have taken advantage of such saliva and proximity infatuations. She could easily be brought to the altar without being free from the compulsion of my heritage, but I do not want that. I want her love to blossom. I desire the full commitment of her soul. It will come, I tell myself. She will soon fall in love with me naturally and wholeheartedly, but such an assumption is risky, and I tremble with doubt in case I should be wrong. Yet the Fates have spoken. I do not believe they would allow our severing now. Andrew continues to mock me. He says to tell her that I’m rich, to offer her jewelry and trinkets, but I can already sense that Penelope is not fashioned that way. She is the woman I dreamed of, the one whose morality is as firm as her resolutions to be independent and strong. She is shy, modest, and well-read. She shares my passion for art. We meld perfectly. However, the two components that I respect the most in her may prove the greatest challenge. I have lived a long life, seeing fashion change along with the rights and customs of females. I respect the current viewpoints. In fact, I cherish them because they are part of who Penelope is, but I will admit that it is difficult for me to stand away and not swoop in and save her from her current semi-poverty. She is so alone, so destitute of family and friends. I know I could easily trample her resistance, but I will not.
11.12 The Abyss of WonderLand
My nervous twitching only popped out another of Timothy’s dimples, as he smiled at me like he was utterly fascinated by my actions. “You are a delight, my sweetness,” he said. Eventually the dinner passed with some kind of fruit torte brought out. I figured if I even tasted it, I’d be sick. I shook my head when Timothy tried to feed me a bite. “I’m full,” I said. “I can’t.” I know there was a whole conversation going on between Timothy, Ed, and Judy. I vaguely listened now and then but commented little. I tuned in only when I heard that Timothy had just bought a new art gallery in the downtown area. Caldwell Fine Arts it was to be called. And then mortification set in. I’d been discussing art with a connoisseur. Apparently, a rich connoisseur. “I’m so sorry I babbled on with my inexpert opinions as if I knew something about art. You must think me a fool.” Another breathtaking smile, a pat on my hand, and reassurance followed. “Your sentiments are as worthy as any art museum professional. You have emotion in your heart. You dip into the soul of the artist and feel. That should be the cornerstone of any great expert, my dear.” Maybe so, but it didn’t keep me from suspecting that my words had been amateur hour at a children’s art class. “I really know nothing. I shouldn’t have . . .” “Sh,” he said. “I enjoyed our discussion. In fact, you’ve convinced me that I need to buy at least one Turner for my little neophyte Gallery. We must expose our city to the passion of darkness and chaos.” The man was smiling into my eyes. The deep soul-searching of his intensity was vacuuming up every thought I had inside of me. I couldn’t open my mouth to argue. I could barely think. Timothy reached out, took up my hand, and turned it over. “You were made for me, my Penelope.” Then, once more he kissed the soft part of my palm, and argument was the furthest thing from my mind. I dissolved into a new kind of air-floating amoeba, one dependent on pure sensation and in total disconnect from both surroundings and reality.
11.11 The Abyss of WonderLand
“We were sharing our thoughts,” Timothy said. “But in so doing, we became stupefied by the process of soul matching. Getting knocked out with the suddenness of Cupid’s arrow befuddles even the most solid of individuals. “I do beg your forgiveness for my earlier rudeness. I know you tried to prepare me, Judy. I only half believed, and then . . . Well, you were absolutely right. There is no doubt. Penelope is the one I was waiting for.” As if my brain hadn’t been, what had Timothy called it? — ah yes, befuddled. . . Hearing his words and the sincerity in his delivery of them, I was suddenly doubly befuddled, if there was such a thing, or call it flustered, swimming in a tide pool that sucked you downward, screaming in a white straight jacket of hopefulness. Somehow I found myself planted on a chair beside Timothy, and in a minute, dinner was being served. First, we were served an arugula green salad with carrot shavings, pieces of orange, and goat cheese. I could barely bring my fork to my mouth I was shaking so visibly. Timothy stabbed up a bite and carried it to my mouth, then fed me several mouthfuls as if I were a two year old toddler. When the salad dishes were carried away, we were given plates with servings of tortellini in a hazelnut sauce. It was incredibly delicious with morsels of sweet potato inside each tortellini. Yet, I found my appetite gone. The shock of what had preceded dinner was too new, too raw. My stomach clamped down as it deliberated the shocks administered to my nervous system. Once again, Timothy hand fed me until I took the fork from his hand and shook my head. “I can do it myself, you know.” “Yes,” he laughed. “You have fed yourself without my attendance. I am aware, but I am at your side now. Surely you are not so cruel as to deny me the pleasure of taking care of the one who has given my life new meaning.” Once upon a time, women had fans in their hands to hide their confusion or the blush such words brought them. I didn’t have one of those fans and sorely missed it, although I’d never owned one. But taxing days require special benefits. Denied my soft, old nightgown and fuzzy cat slippers, I was left without any pseudo security blanket and could only harness wishes and longings as a buffer for my trauma. Timothy bent forward and kissed me on the cheek, right in front of Ed and Judy. I was positive that act alone exceeded my limit for both excitement and wonder. I clutched the navy blue cloth napkin in my lap and twisted it into strange shapes, entirely oblivious to proper table manners.
11.10 The Abyss of WonderLand
Oh my. I couldn’t see any of that, so where was my mental image coming from? Why did I have a sudden desire to rip off the man’s clothing in order to confirm my predictions? Perhaps I was simply recalling the images of the statue that Cara had painted endless editions of. That must be what it was. Timothy had stopped moving forward. His eyes stared down at me. The smile he cast was knowing, as if he were cognizant of my thoughts. That wasn’t possible. I wasn’t indicating in any way that I was thinking of a certain nude statue. “Yes,” he said. “I modeled for Michaelangelo, you know. That is exactly what I look like beneath this shirt and pants. Would you like a peek?” Oh, my. I wanted to break my handhold and fan my face. Heat was burning me up. I’d turned into a dragon, full of flame. Embarrassment kicked me in the stomach. I should tear my hand from his, dash away, curl up and hide. Yet, I did none of those. I just stared at him, speechless. It was crazy the things he’d said. Modeling for Michaelangelo? He was pulling my leg while searing me with the heat of desire at revealing what I yearned to see. Because despite his brag, I knew, as sure as coffee was the right drink to start off each morning, that underneath his clothes, Timothy did look like the statue of David. “You blush like a virgin. I find that enchanting, my dear. Do not fear my words. I will woo you slowly. Flowers and chocolates. Many nights out on the town. We will dance and see movies. We will dine in the finest restaurants. I will take my time with you, my love, but know this: from this moment, you are mine.” Timothy walked a zombie to the table where we found Judy and Ed sipping brandies. They didn’t look angry or even impatient at the lateness of the hour. “Are you alright, Penelope?” Judy asked. What could I say? I was overwhelmed, happy, confused, frightened, and ecstatic. Which should I say? I glanced at Timothy and said nothing. I’m not sure I could have spoken anyway, not with his hand holding mine and our recent conversation about the statue of David in my mind. Plus there was that other thing he’d said — the possessive nature of it, the way my body reacted to his words, and the fact that I hadn’t argued with his statement, nor wanted to.
11.9 The Abyss of WonderLand
But that was a subject I wasn’t about to go into. For one thing, I was sitting in the living room of Mr. Sandars’ house, which I instantly reminded Timothy. Suggesting I find another job while I was sitting on the couch, inside my employer’s own house, was certainly not appropriate. And, for another, I didn’t have the educational background for working in art. No art courses, no BA in Art History. Everything I knew was self-taught, spurred on by my interest in what Cara was working on and then by my friends’ and my joint explorations of the various local art museums. (We’d taken every tour they offered in multiple museums from San Jose to San Francisco. We’d even planned a trip to the two Getty museums in Los Angeles and were going to go to LACMA, as well, but then Sammy got the offer for Bakersfield and Carmel with its artsy lifestyle had drawn Cara’s attention, and she’d suddenly hitched a ride with one of the guys in her art class and just like that, they were both gone.) My stomach suddenly growled, reminding us that we’d come for dinner. “Sorry,” Timothy said. “I guess I need to apologize to Judy and Ed. I was very discourteous to them, but something hit me at the sight of you. I couldn’t hold onto politeness at that moment. I had to get to know you.” My brain was in a haze of endorphins, the kind that come from the first stirrings of infatuation. I didn’t know how that had happened. I hadn’t even liked the man an hour ago. I’d thought him cruel and rude, but in our conversations, in his appreciation for my sharings, something had wedged itself inside me. It was an awakening, an opening up of secret wishes and the buried hope for a relationship that I’d never suspected I possessed. When Timothy reached out and took my hand, I didn’t quibble. I accepted his fingers enclosing mine. There was a rightness to it, a feeling that this was the way life was meant to be. I abruptly felt like I needed to spend the rest of my life with my hand inside Timothy’s. A strange thought struck me, coming out of nowhere. It said that the two of us were now bound by this simplest of touches, the warmth of our hands, our entwined fingers, the contact of skin against skin. How ridiculous. Besides, none of this made sense. Love at first sight. No — it most definitely hadn’t been like that. I’d been repelled at my first glimpse of Timothy, his sophisticated and arrogant attitude, his hair, his David nose, his full lips . . . Did I mention that his body matched that of Michaelangelo’s David, as well? Burly shoulders, bulging arms, a stomach flat as iron, and . . .
11.8 The Abyss of WonderLand
That brought a smile to the man’s face. Not the fake or polite kind, but a genuine Duchenne smile, one that lit up his face, invoking laughter lines at his eyes, cheek movement, and of course, an open-mouthed, teeth-displaying genuine expression of enjoyment. I eased the stiffness of my back and relaxed slightly. Caldwell might be rude and dictatorial, but he had a nice laugh, one that had some residue of warmth in a city of hardness and an abundance of fakery. Timothy: My chauffeur, Andrew, who was also my best and only friend, would have made some snide comment about love at first sight. He knew my heritage and my supposed abilities. He’d even seen me exhibit some of them, but concerning the knowing within five minutes (or at the touch of a hand bit,) he’d be as skeptical as a barber whose client said he wasn’t losing any hair. (No, male baldness didn’t run in my family line. Even the aged males, if there were any still alive in some backwoods settlement, would probably have every hair they were born with.) What hit me first with the lass, was that my forewarning system had failed me. I’d met my future bride with an attack of rudeness. Not a good way to stage a first encounter. She’d been suspicious for a good half hour, until her enthusiasm for art had eased her resistance to the magnetism in my genetics. My saliva on her palm should have crept into her blood to some extent, but the fated one was always resistant to such things. It would take great skill and perfect wooing to win this woman to my side, but I was up the challenge. Besides, I had no choice. She was the one. Penelope: We talked about artists and trips to various museums. He told me about visiting different countries, which galleries were his favorites, and the ones he planned to return to soon. He wanted to know about my job with Ed. Since my boss was a friend of his, I tried to be diplomatic about my lack of enthusiasm. Timothy, never Tim, he’d told me, suggested that I might be happier as an art curator or in the management of a gallery.
11.7 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Does that mean you find me pleasing?” he asked as he moved a chair closer and sat down in it, directly across from me. Being less than a foot from a person of such overwhelming beauty played havoc with my already unbalanced senses. I tried to scoot back, but the couch permitted not even an inch of retreat. “If you haven’t been to Florence, why are you so familiar with the statue?” he asked in a manner that showed he was interested. I noted the way his body suddenly leaned forward, and his eyes fixed on mine as if he could read the answer there if I failed to respond adequately. “My artist friend and my former roommate, a nurse studying for her exams, introduced me to various subjects such as the analysis of body movements, facial expressions, and the labeling of numerous body parts. It was serious for them due to their chosen fields of study, but it was also a game to see how much I’d processed while helping them learn what they were studying, They often quizzed me on my knowledge. Not that I objected. I like to learn. Only such things are not a common thread of most conversations.” Had I jabbered on too long? By now most of the men Judy had drawn into her web for matchmaking purposes would have been yawning and scooting their eyes about the room in search of someone more interesting. I had very few social skills and a stark inability to lie. When someone asked me something, I told the truth. Not wise in today’s world. But Mr. Caldwell seemed intrigued. “Do you still have the nursing roommate and the artist friend in your realm? You spoke of them in past tense.” My, he was a good listener. How had he picked up on that? “They’re still good friends, but sadly, no. My roommate, Sammy, got a job in a hospital out in Bakersfield. The artist friend moved to Carmel where there’s a whole community of people painting al fresco. Since Cara never gained any skill with David, she decided to dedicate her art to ocean scenes, to become a real Turner, or at least she’d like to be.” “Ah, yes. Fishermen at Sea. Turner liked angry waves, sea monsters, dark and doubt — chaos, even.” “Yes,” I said, surprised that this man even knew of Turner’s art work. “His paintings seemed to scream for order, yet he couldn’t find any, thus the shadows and vortexes of troubled waves haunted his paintings.”
11.6 The Abyss of WonderLand
I suppose that once my eyes were finally freed from the couch’s design and texture, it was only natural that my glance moved from the raised, commanding hand to the man’s face. Exquisite. I can’t thoroughly understand what makes someone’s face look model perfect. Symmetry, I’d once read, but wouldn’t that require some special instrument to measure the exact twinness of each side? This man’s face carried an aquiline nose, not an overdose of one and definitely not one with a bump on it. His was the purest of all Roman noses, the very image of Michaelangelo’s David. His cheeks were not as pudgy though. His brow was not as brooding or as dark. He was not a carbon copy of anyone I’d ever seen, only gorgeous to the extreme. Beyond the clear skin, the lack of an evening shadow, stubble, or shaving tics on his chin and face, the fine ebony hue of his full head of hair, and a perfect mouth that . . . I gulped and moved on with my examination. His eyes seemed brilliantly golden making me think of sunflowers in the sunshine. Yet, as I stared into them, I saw a ring of bronze. I suppose the man’s eyes weren’t truly gold. Such a thing wasn’t even possible. It must have been the lamp’s light which had cast a flash of light. Perhaps, his eyes were hazel with that hue’s ability to change color as light reflected off them. “Are you finished absorbing?” the man asked with a voice that sent a second batch of goosebumps up and down my back. I coughed, wiggled my bottom, trying to find a more comfortable position, but I couldn’t feel my body, not really. I was too busy absorbing as Mr. Caldwell had put it. “I’m sorry. I was just analyzing how much you looked like the statue of David in Florence, Italy. I’ve never actually been there to see it in person, but my artist friend drew it often, or tried to. You look like you could have modeled for that statue. Perhaps Cara’s sketches would have improved if she’d had your body to draw.” Why had I said body? Too much verbiage. I felt my face accumulating heat as it did when I became embarrassed and fell into the nervous babble syndrome.