Grant Roberts - The wayward wifes

"And so do you," Patty returned.

Smiling comradely, they went out to Marcia's car and drove across the city to St. Francis Woods, an extremely fashionable section of San Francisco. Marcia pulled to the curb on Buena Vista Terrace, in front of a white stucco, Spanish architectured home with iron grillwork balconies and a spacious, well-tended green lawn bisected by a red-brick path. The two girls followed the path to a wide set of double doors which formed the entranceway, and Marcia rang the ivory bell inlaid into the stucco; faint, melodious chimes echoed throughout the interior.

Almost immediately, a Chinese houseboy, smiling pleasantly, admitted them into a hallway. “Mister Renault is in the study, ladies,” he said. “This way, please.”

He led them down the high-ceilinged hallway and through a door into a darkly furnished room; the motif was Spanish, with luxuriant tapestries and a brooding mural on one wall. On the right was a set of French doors in an ovaled archway, opening onto a patio grown with oleander bushes and other shadowed plants. A lush garden grew beyond it. Inside the room itself, on a thick muted rug, a series of cushiony pillows of a dark gold color were arranged in a wide circle before a leather couch. The only light came from the moon, shining through the glass doors, and Patty could see four people sitting cross-legged, Indian-fashion, on the pillows, three men and one girl. As they entered, one of the men rose slowly and started across the room toward them; the Chinese houseboy slipped out and closed the door behind him.

"Why is everybody sitting on those cushions?" Patty whispered to Marcia.

"Mr. Renault is kind of an eccentric," Her friend answered. "He's very involved in Meditative Transmigration."

"What's that?"

"A mystical Eastern sect which believes in truth, beauty and the eternity of the human soul."

"That doesn't sound very mystical to me," Patty responded. "It sounds lovely."

"Oh, there's more to it than that," Marcia whispered. “It becomes very complicated if you listen to all the little intricacies which comprise it.”

"Oh, I see," Patty said, not really seeing at all.

The man who had gotten up approached them now, his hand extended in greeting. He was thin, short, and possessed a lined, leathery face that disclosed his age as sixty or thereabouts; he had thick wavy gray hair and a precise dove-gray mustache. He wore a velvet lounging robe, a deep wine color.

"Hello, Marcia, my dear," he said, touching hands. Then he turned to Patty, taking her hand and holding it for a moment. "I'm Richard Renault," he introduced himself to her. “Rick, to my intimates. And you must be Patty Jennings.”

"Yes, she answered, smiling, a little flustered.

"Marcia's told me so much about you."

"I hope it was complimentary."

"Very complimentary indeed," Renault said. "Please come join the Circle. I'll introduce you to my other guests."

They followed him across the study to the cluster of pillows. He said then, "I would like to present two very lovely ladies, Marcia Allen, whom you already know, and Patty Jennings."

Neither of the remaining two men stood, but both smiled up at Patty and Marcia. Renault said, indicating the nearer of the two, a tall, distinguished man with close-cropped blond hair. "This is Val Robbins, a rather successful advertising executive. And the other gentleman "… he swept his hand to the shorter man across from Robbins, who had long, almost shoulder-length hair and very wide, bushy sideburns “is Frank Harrel, a not-quite-so-successful but very talented artist.”

Patty nodded to the two men, noticing that Robbins' eyes remained on her, moving slowly up and down her body; she flushed a little, feeling somewhat embarrassed and yet somewhat pleased, too, that he found her so obviously attractive. He was, she decided, quite a handsome man in his own right.

Renault said, “The young lady is, ah, a guest in my house on a regular basis, Miss Barbara Davis.” The lone girl nodded up at them, tossing her rich brown curls carelessly. She had large, finely defined breasts encased in a thin black dress; her legs were bare, without stockings, and the hem of the dress had hiked up to expose most of her full white thighs; she seemed not to notice, or if she did, to care.

Renault went over and sat on the pillow next to Barbara, and then raised his hand to the two friends. “Marcia, come sit next to Frank; and Patty, please sit by Val if you will.”

They obeyed, and Patty smiled at Val as she sat down next to him and crossed her legs in the fashion of the others. She sensed then a certain oddly unexplainable tension in the darkened air, as if all the others even Marcia were waiting for something to… begin. She really couldn't understand it, though; she merely shrugged mentally and sat waiting.

They sat in silence for a long while, perhaps five minutes. The aging head of Rick Renault was bowed and his eyes were closed, as if he were in a deep trance; Patty wondered if he was meditating, remembering Marcia's words. Finally, Renault raised his head and smiled at each of his guests in turn. Then he reached down between his cushion and the one on which sat Barbara Davis and produced a sculptured silver cigarette box. He held it up in both hands for a moment, as if he was offering it for blessing to some unseen deity; then he opened the lid and took a thin brown cylinder from inside, muttering chanting words under his breath that Patty couldn't understand. He passed the box to Barbara after a moment, and she also took a cylinder and passed it on to Frank Harrel, who repeated the ritual. When the box came to Patty, she took one of the rough, grainy items and saw in the gloom that it was a cigarette. She frowned, looking at it, as the box passed back to Renault. Their host returned it between the cushions and produced then a series of small china cups which he passed around, so that each member of the group had one.

Not wanting to sound naive, but at the same time completely puzzled by the ritual of which she was a part, Patty turned to Val Robbins and whispered, "What… is this all about? I mean, I'm not sure I…" She faltered, blushing a little.

Val smiled reassuringly. "Rick is a strange sort of person at times," he answered. "You just have to bear with him."

"What kind of cigarette is this?" Patty asked, and as she did so she knew the answer even before Val told her. She had heard stories, read articles, watched news programs on the subject, heard all the pros and cons, the constant arguments, the vernacular terms: pot, weed, grass, muggle, hash, reefers, Mary Jane, "Marijuana, of course," Val said, somewhat surprised. "You mean you didn't know? Really?"

"Well, I…" Patty was blushing feverishly now, and she was glad of the darkness so that Val and the others were unable to see her. She felt confused, extremely indecisive at that moment; she had never had any desire to try marijuana, drugs of any kind, she had always said when asked her opinion on the subject that such things were probably fine for other people but not for her. Yet, she didn't believe that pot was harmful, that it led to addiction to such things as heroin and cocaine and morphine; that was just old-fashioned nonsense. And the idea of trying the relaxing drug for the first time, experiencing its effects was somehow wickedly exciting. I really shouldn't, she thought, it's against the law, but if I don't I'll seem like such a child to the others.

Renault had produced a silver lighter which matched the cigarette box, and had flicked the wheel. Flame burst into the air-flickering eerily in the darkness, making each of the six faces seem to be grotesquely satanic, as if this little circle was a cult of devil worshippers. Renault lit his muggle with the lighter and then passed it on to Barbara Davis, the flame still burning. Patty watched the girl light her cigarette, pass it on to Frank Harrel; she turned to Val again, having made up her mind to go through with it, after all, marijuana didn't make you unaware of what you were doing, she knew that much about it at least.