She looked to Walter; he smiled embarrassedly and shrugged.
She looked at Mazzard again, and-not moving her head -at the other men.
They looked at her and smiled, edgily. "Well this is a conversation killer," she said.
"Relax, you can move," Mazzard said. He turned a page and pecked again.
Frank said, "I don't think another b-baseball field is all that important."
She heard Kim cry "Mommy!" but Walter touched her arm, and putting his glass down, got up and excused himself past Claude.
The men talked about new projects again. She said a word or two, moving her head but aware all the time of Mazzard looking at her and pecking.
Try being Gloria Steinem when Ike Mazzard is drawing you! It was a bit show-offy of him; she wasn't any once-in-a-lifetimemustn't-be-missed, not even in the Pucci loungers. And what were the men so tense about? Their talking seemed forced and gap-ridden. Herb Sundersen was actually blushing.
She felt suddenly as if she were naked, as if Mazzard were drawing her in obscene poses.
She crossed her legs; wanted to cross her arms too but didn't. Jesus, Joanna, he's a show-offy artist, that's all. You're dressed.
Walter came back and leaned down to her. "Just a bad dream," he said; and straightening, to the men, "Anyone want a refill? Diz? Frank?"
"I'll take a small one," Mazzard said, looking at her, pecking.
"Bathroom down that way?" Herb asked, getting up.
The talking went on, more relaxed and casual now.
New projects.
Old projects.
Mazzard tucked his pen into his jacket, smiling.
She said "Whew!" and fanned herself.
Coba raised his head, keeping his hands behind it, and chin-against-chest, looked at the notebook on Mazzard's knee. Mazzard turned pages, looking at Coba, and Coba nodded and said, "You never cease to amaze me."
"Do I get to see?" she asked.
"Of course!" Mazzard said, and half rose, smiling, holding out the open notebook to her.
Walter looked too, and Frank leaned in to see.
Portraits of her; there were page after page of them, small and precise-and flattering, as Ike Mazzard's work had always been. Full faces, three-quarter views, profiles; smiling, not smiling, talking, frowning.
"These are beautiful," Walter said, and Frank said, "Great, Ike!" Claude and Herb came around behind the sofa.
She leafed back through the pages. "They're-wonderful," she said. "I wish I could say they were absolutely accurate-"
"But they are!" Mazzard said.
"God bless you." She gave the notebook to him, and he put it on his knee and turned its pages, getting out his pen. He wrote on a page, and tore it out and offered it to her.
It was one of the three-quarter views, a non-smiling one, with the familiar no-capitals ike mazzard signature. She showed it to Walter; he said, "Thanks, Ike."
"My pleasure."
She smiled at Mazzard. "Thank you," she said. "I forgive you for blighting my adolescence." She smiled at all of them. "Does anyone want coffee?"
They all did, except Claude, who wanted tea.
She went into the kitchen and put the drawing on the place mats on top of the refrigerator. An Ike Mazzard drawing of her! Who'da thunk it, back home when she was eleven or twelve, reading Mom's Journals and Companions? It was foolish of her to have gotten so uptight about it. Mazzard had been nice to do it.
Smiling, she ran water into the coffee-maker, plugged it in, and put in the basket and spooned in coffee. She put the top on, pressed the plastic lid down onto the coffee can, and turned around. Coba leaned in the doorway watching her, his arms folded, his shoulder to the jamb.
Very cool in his jade turtleneck (matching his eyes, of course) and slate-gray corduroy suit.
He smiled at her and said, "I like to watch women doing little domestic chores."
"You came to the right town," she said. She tossed the spoon into the sink and took the coffee can to the refrigerator and put it in.
Coba stayed there, watching her.
She wished Walter would come. "You don't seem particularly dizzy," she said, getting out a saucepan for Claude's tea. "Why do they call you Diz?"
"I used to work at Disneyland," he said.
She laughed, going to the sink. "No, really," she said.
"That's really."
She turned around and looked at him.
"Don't you believe me?" he asked.
"No," she said.
"Why not?"
She thought, and knew.
"Why not?" he said. "Tell me."
To hell with him; she would. "You don't look like someone who enjoys making people happy."
Torpedoing forever, no doubt, the admission of women to the hallowed and sacrosanct Men's Association.