Tatjana Soli - The Forgetting Tree

At the best of times, Claire was an ambivalent partygoer, but now she stood paralyzed by the thought of her lopsided chest, shielded by the frail camouflage of a gauzy, knotted scarf. Perhaps Gwen was right and a “boob man” was in order. The absurdity of such self-consciousness did nothing to mitigate it. At her age, in her condition, what did it matter anymore?

Minna moved through the room toward the bar like a lioness prowling her territory. One noticed her skin, its burnished golden brown, her long neck, her powerful stride, her softly dropping feet like sleek paws. The sensation of her nakedness still lingered, but it held no hint of shame, rather a crude-cut beauty, lacking the slightest artifice. It was the rest of them, with their pale skin and bluish veins, their thin legs and bound breasts, who required covering, modesty, and shame. Minna disappeared to the end of the line out the door.

* * *

On the couch, holding court, sat Donald Richards. He and Claire had been distant friends over the almost thirty years of his owning the ranch, although he was only there part-time. They pretended an intimacy at parties that was never followed up on. Claire imagined his debauched lifestyle had little in common with her cloistered one, but they enjoyed being bored together at parties.

The valley regularly attracted celebrities searching for the anonymity they had so eagerly shunned before fame found them. The longtime locals prided themselves on taking no notice of these Hollywood types, carrying it so far as to ignore them, and sometimes past that to outright rudeness. Often after enough ego drubbings, FOR SALE signs would spring up like dandelions, and the celebrities, full of the new hurtful knowledge that, after all, they wanted attention and fawning, would return north to where they would be courted.

One got inured to seeing movie stars in the grocery, or TV hosts pumping their own gas. One got used to the everyday fact that in person they were always shorter and had worse skin, that they were kinder and more fragile than one imagined.

Claire was fond of Don, even imagined they had a mild flirtation going over the years made of equal parts his compliments and her mockery of his stardom. She had grown protective of him. Like a particularly noxious weed, he persisted and flourished on neglect, and the whole community came to accept him.

His eyelids fluttered as Minna passed by while he listened with rapt attention to Mrs. Carsey (talking with hearing-aid loudness) about her late poodle. It must have been a handy gift to have, being an actor, portraying one thing in public while one’s private self attended to its own interests. Minna took a drink to the soldier, stopping only briefly to talk, much to his obvious disappointment.

Don motioned Claire over with an impatient wave. “Who’s your friend?”

“My new … assistant.”

“Introduce. She looks like Halle Berry. But more rustic.”

“She’s way out of your league,” Claire said, hurt pride and motherly solicitude neatly merging.

A line of autograph seekers had formed behind her. Donald’s latest movie had been released the month before. Although he was in his late forties, he played a soldier in the First Gulf War. Claire hadn’t bothered to read the reviews, although she noted in the posters that they had outlined his eyes in kohl, giving him an aging, dissolute Rudolph Valentino look that seemed at odds with the image of the wholesome, young American soldier he was supposed to be playing. In the movie, he goes AWOL, and while escaping into the desert, he meets and falls in love with a Kuwaiti princess, played by a busty Italian starlet. A jaded Romeo and a loose Juliet, and an indictment of war to boot. Claire wouldn’t say it to his face, but she thought there would be more dignity in his growing oranges.

Unbelievably there was Oscar buzz, and Donald even testified before Congress about something to do with the war, although during the actual war he had been boozing and womanizing, in and out of rehab. Now he was talking about opening an elephant-rescue sanctuary on a couple of hundred acres in the Santa Ynez valley area of central California because the terrain was supposed to resemble elephants’ habitat in Africa. All night long people came to talk to him about the Gulf wars and Afghanistan, preferring him to the real soldier.

When Minna came with her martini, Claire whisked her away outside.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To see our wards.”

The lawn was filled with collapsible pens. Two dozen dogs from the shelter had been bathed, fluffed, perfumed, and beribboned, then put in one per pen to be adopted. People walked through the maze of fences, stopping to offer a pat on the head or a biscuit. The attention combined with the confinement wound the dogs up to a fevered barking that rolled in waves through the evening air.

“Whose dogs are these?” Minna asked.

“They’re strays. Hopefully some will get adopted tonight.”

“Why don’t you take one? Save a life.”

“I used to have five at one time. But now, no new responsibilities.”

Minna studied the pens. “All prettied up and then maybe to have their hopes dashed.” She stood close to a pen with a chow mix in it. His fur had been shorn, and his body was small and whitish, his red-tufted head looking oversize in comparison. She reached her hand in to give him a pat, but the dog grew impatient and leaped up against the fence. Minna grabbed his snout, clamping down the jaws, then pushed him back and let go.

“Are you all right?” Claire asked.

“Couldn’t be sure what he’d do.”

The people around them, realizing nothing had happened, chuckled, and Claire couldn’t help a smile.

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“In Dominica you need to be able to handle yourself around dogs. Some can be mean. Anyway, he leered at me.” Minna smiled, making a face.

“These have all been checked out for temperament. Fostered.”

“But you never can trust them totally,” Donald said. He had followed them outside. “Claire has been trying to keep us apart.”

Minna looked into her drink, stiff and prim as a schoolgirl, and Claire was embarrassed for the poor impression she was making. Now she was as eager for them to like each other as she had formerly been reluctant for them to meet.

“Minna’s studying at Berkeley,” she said.

“Really? My daughter’s a freshman there. Where do you live?”

“I just started PhD work there. I did undergrad at Cambridge.”

“Too smart for me,” he said.

“Actually, Minna is the great-granddaughter of the novelist Jean Rhys.”

Don looked blank.

Minna leaned on one leg while droning off the whole recitation in a bored, singsong voice. “Her best-known book, Wide Sargasso Sea, was a postcolonial answer to Jane Eyre .”

Don still looked blank.

“You know … Rochester?” she said.

“Oh, Rochester, sure. I’m not a totally illiterate actor. So you’re an intellectual?”

“That was great-granny. I’m just a simple girl.”

“I’ve been rereading the book,” Claire said. “Rochester’s obsessed by money and lust. A perfect role for you.”

Don laughed. “What are you doing with boring old Claire?”

Stung by the insult, Claire debated what to tell him. She wasn’t ready for full public disclosure.

“I’m a friend of Lucy’s. I’m staying on the ranch for the summer.”

“Dear,” Don said, taking Minna’s arm as he led her away, “come give me your sage advice on a dog I’m considering adopting. I want to name him Heathcliff.”

She looked over at Claire, and they both realized they had been played.

“Sometimes first impressions are deceiving,” Don said.