Sylvia woke unusually early, and by 10:30 she was donned in a smart, red-white-and-blue pantsuit with her hair neatly coiffed into a becoming wave at the nape of her shapely neck. Her recently serviced, navy-blue Mercedes two-seater awaited her.

Roger had long since left for the office to finish up some final details before his flight to Chicago, where he would be for several days, leaving Sylvia with time on her hands. Excess time was normal for Sylvia, but this time she had a responsible job to perform, and she was looking forward to her trip to Malibu to water Audley's coleus.

It was a lovely day; the smog was light and the sky was clear. A tropical breeze wafted in from the Pacific. Once outside Beverly Hills, she sped to the Coast Highway and drove directly and leisurely west. Both Sylvia and her vehicle were at their best. She almost wished a cop would stop her so her beauty could impress him. If one did, she would tell the officer who she was and where she was going and he would be enthralled by her wit and her friendliness. She would ask him unimportant questions to pass the time of day and they would admire the rocky coastline together. But no traffic cop stopped her, for none had reason to. She drove slightly under the speed limit, looking often at the sea, watching the white crested waves lap gently onto the shore.

Right now, this minute, she thought, Audley would be driving too, and the thought of them sharing something gave her pleasure. That was the absolute best thing to do on a day like today: drive.

Along the Malibu Coast she took the right turn onto Juniper Drive and drove the final quarter mile into the graveled driveway that was Audley's. In no hurry to step out into the humidity, Sylvia sat looking at the tall, redwood structure that had once been a miserable, vermin-infested shack, totally different now than the first time she had seen it. It was Audley's dream come true.

Audley had a green thumb. The mass of weeds made way for a small but perfect patch of lawn which, Sylvia had been advised, was the future site of outdoor furniture. But now, in its natural manicured green state, it was surrounded by sunflowers and young junipers. Clustered along the west wall of the ground floor, which comprised the garage and future laundry room, were beds of portulaca and Audley's favorite, California Poppies.

The garage door was shut, of course, so Sylvia ascended the wrought-iron banistered stairs to the back landing and let herself into the kitchen with the spare key that was kept over the doorframe. This was the first time Sylvia had been alone in Audley's house. Oh, sometimes when she visited, Audley would run over to the corner store for mushrooms or wine, but this visit was different. Audley was a thousand miles away, and for a moment, an hour, a day, Audley's dream come true would be hers.

Sylvia’s heels touched softly on the yellow-tiled kitchen floor. It was too quiet. Normally, when Audley was home, the stereo was playing. She went straight to the music bar and pressed 'on'. Immediately the mellow sounds of jazz permeated the room, filling it with its owner's vibrations. It seemed now as though Audley might be on the front deck, or upstairs doing her toenails, or reading in the bathroom. This was more like it. Now Sylvia didn't feel so alone. The coleus could wait a bit longer.

She went into the kitchen and poured a tall glass of iced tea, cut a slice of lemon, and carried the cool drink to the sofa where she slipped off her shoes and curled her legs beneath her, picking up a magazine and preparing to enjoy herself.

The magazine opens to a photographic article done in the style of the 1940's. A woman, exotic and classy, very nouveau rich, is standing alone on a train platform. She is smartly dressed and her piece of luggage suggests a short, perhaps, business trip.

A man approaches. He could be a character out of F. Scott Fitzgerald. He is very attractive in a sleek, almost gaunt sort of a way, and he gives the impression of being extremely capable in bed. The woman sees him. Their eyes meet. Untold waves of passion pass between them. They want each other. Now.

Sylvia stole a sip of iced tea and turned the page.

Now the two are in a private berth. The photographs are stylized, as though they are from an old family album. The sepia tones of the photos lend a surreal, mystical quality. The man is undressing the woman. He is very adept. She undresses him. They are urgent. Tension mounts with every photograph.

Sylvia squirms on the French Provincial sofa and quickly turns the page.

They are doing it! Right there in the magazine. Right there in the train. Although his trousers are off, showing his hard buttocks, he still wears his crisp white shirt -- unbuttoned and pulled back so that Sylvia's eyes can travel furtively down his chest to his taut belly and the quivering shadows below. His vest and tie are draped across the back of the settee.

She is brilliant. Her eyes are glazed with passion. Sultry, animalistic, and very controlled passion. Her stockings dress her legs, and she is wearing her jewels, but the rest of her is naked and he is doing wonderful things to her. You know it's wonderful by the quality of the photographs.

Sylvia couldn't sit still. She jumped off the sofa and walked around the room in her stocking feet, visualizing the couple, hearing them absorbed in each other and oblivious to the train and the passing scenery and to the business engagement they must each proceed to. There is nothing but their sex. Nothing but the straining of each body on and in the other. They don't speak. They never do. Their communication is in their actions.

She returned to the magazine and turned the page quickly for she could not dwell on how they must be feeling. But, oh. Now they are dressed. They are leaving the train. His shirt and tie and vest are impeccable. Her hair, once rumpled with his caresses, is pinned into place, leaving not a trace of what transpired. They each carry their respective briefcases. They don't look at each other. They will never see each other again. They seem, to Sylvia, magnificent. She sighed deeply.

Flipping through the rest of the magazine, looking briefly at the ads, the titles of articles -- how to get over a love affair, how to look your best this summer -- her mind remained on the photographic essay. Why had she read that damned thing?

She stood up, stretched, and found the watering can then went about methodically watering all the plants. The coleus was thirsty. They were all thirsty. Sylvia was thirsty. She poured herself a drink. As she went about watering the plants, inside and out, she walked carefully, looking at all the things Audley had collected to adorn her home. The miniature figurines from France, the music equipment, color television and VCR and the array of books, tapes, records and CD’s. The liquor cabinet was full and varied as were all the cupboards.

She went into the bathroom and looked, admired the fixtures and the grandiose elegance of the bathtub and the toilet. A man could sit on that toilet, she thought, without breaking it. The towels were thick and cocoa brown and rough to the touch -- a man's towel. And mauve towels, too, of a softer quality, for a woman. Both colors matched the flocked and foiled wall covering and the downy soft carpet. Carrying the watering can, Sylvia climbed the winding stairs to the loft.

Upstairs was a wall of closets, another wall of mirrors and a king-sized bed. A king-sized bed! What single person the size of Audley needed all that space? Sylvia noticed that the bed was unmade, unmade only in the upper left-hand corner. Audley slept in a ball, in a foetal position. Sylvia noted that Audley would only have to launder one-quarter of the sheets because the rest of the bed was unused.

Her mind turned immediately and unwittingly to the magazine article and the impassioned man and woman. She turned away from the bed and looked instead at the two large chairs, arranged with a low, round hassock that overlooked the studio and the distant ocean. As if deciding to stay a while, Sylvia put down the watering can, then sat tentatively on the edge of one of the chairs, allowing herself to succumb to its comfort. It was an overstuffed chair that all but swallowed her up. She rested her feet on the hassock and crossed her ankles. On the footrest were two books, a newspaper, and a tray. The tray, she knew, was for coffee or Galliano. Sun glittered on the far-away ocean. The chair and the drink conspired to relax her. Cautiously, she let herself go.

She wasn't comfortable at home. Why not? Her home was too fussy, she thought. Too feminine. She recalled her own bathroom, all in pinks and laces. No self-respecting man would go in there. He would not belong. And why shouldn't her own husband feel comfortable in her bathroom? What was so private and personal that two people couldn't do it together?

Roger had never even seen her bathroom. She, in fact, had never seen his. What did he look like in the shower, she wondered, with shampoo on his hair or lather on his face? When he shaved, did her husband use a razor or an electric shaver? She could not remember. What did he do while he sat on the commode? Read? File his nails? Sylvia was depressed. Miserably depressed and did not know why.

Her eyes wandered over the room below and settled on Audley's desk, a large man-sized mahogany desk with a highjack upholstered swivel chair. The desk faced a room divider of shelves that contained miscellaneous books and objet d'art. On the desk was a telephone, one of the ornate kinds with gold filigree, a penholder, and a note pad, open to receive messages.

Sylvia struggled out of the chair and went quickly downstairs. She went straight to the desk, sat, and read the messages:

"January 1: recuperate from hangover; afternoon cocktails at Eugene's;

"January 2: make an appearance at Weinberger's but don't stay more than 20 minutes."

Sylvia flipped the pages forward.

"March 30: pay Bullocks' bill -- $16.72. Pay telephone bill -- $378.43." $378.43! Who did Audley call long-distance? Her father? Not that much. Brad probably, but he should pay for it, not her. She read further:

"June 15: return call to LBCU in Dallas.

"June 18: submit article on LBCU."

Of course. Audley was an independent business- woman. She owned her home outright, played the stock market, had her own credit cards in her own name, took lovers and forsook lovers when she felt like it, came and went where and when she pleased. Sylvia's stomach churned. She flipped the pages to August 14.

"August 14: Flight 702. Gate 14. 11:35 a.m. to JFK; Flight 364, 7:40 p.m. to Meadowland." It had been scratched out. So she really didn't want to go. They why did she? For Sylvia's dress? No. For Brad? Sylvia seriously doubted it. For the money? Also dubious. Why, then?

Sylvia reviewed the conversation she had had with Audley in the middle of the night -- from Illinois, of all places. Audley had been upset about her plants. Sylvia felt a funny kind of affection for her strange and unconventional friend who would be concerned about the 'little' things in life. Little things like her plants and her house.

Never in a million years would Sylvia have looked twice at this property. Only Audley would have seen it for its potential and acted upon it. And just look at it now! More than quadrupled in value. Ceiling-high windows overlooking the Pacific, wall-to-wall custom loomed carpeting, a microwave oven, automatic icemaker in the frost-free refrigerator....

Sylvia went to the kitchen and opened all the cupboards and began pulling things out: pickles, breads, cold meats, vegetables, salad dressings. Throwing these together into a meal for herself, Sylvia fumed. Damned Audley anyway, she thought. Why should she be out having one adventure after another? What gave her the right? Wasn't she, Sylvia Chandler Watergate, just as smart, just as pretty, just as capable? When was the last time she had done something adventurous? She was doing it right now -- making a dagwood sandwich in spite of her diet. Well, hell. She had been watching her weight for 28 years. Why shouldn't she feel free to gorge herself if she wanted to?

She thought again about the man in the magazine and dropped a slice of tomato on the floor.

"Damn it," she said aloud, jumping at the sound of her own voice. She never talked to herself. Matter of fact she never talked much to anyone. Why not? Wasn't she just as interesting as anyone? Maybe more so? At least she was pleasant to look at. Some people had their ugly faces all over the place. She wondered, "How can anyone pay attention to what an ugly person has to say?"

If she were to have someone to talk to besides Audley, what would she talk about? Had she ever in her life really talked about something serious? People were always assuming she was stupid, just because she was blonde. People like Roger, and like Brad. Well that was bull. She could think of lots of intelligent things to discuss. She could talk about floods and the cold spells and the heat waves. She could talk about food shortages and solar energy and birth control and political candidates and their issues. She read her father's newspaper. In fact that's about all she did, was to look nice and read her father's newspaper.

And what for? she thought, carrying her plate to the sofa. What pleasure or point is there in discussing the world's unhappy problems? Nobody ever does anything about them! She chewed on the sandwich absently, mopping up tomato seeds and juice from her chin with the bread. There is no pleasure in the world's problems. There was no pleasure because there was no solution and if anyone ought to know about living with an unsolvable problem it was Sylvia.

Without wanting to, her mind focused on the figure of a yellow-haired child, lying in a hospital bed in Denver, lying in a coma for seven years. As always when Sylvia thought about her daughter, she felt sick. Sick like she felt when she had her period, like there was a hot brick in her belly, burning and weighing her down. She didn't like that feeling, but she had grown used to it.

Grown used to it! That was the real tragedy ! She had become accustomed to an insolvable problem, to a miserable state of affairs, like everybody else in the United States, everybody else in the world. You just, "Get over it!"

But where was the fight? Where was the right to the pursuit of happiness? Happiness for Sylvia? Not for Jennifer, who had no use for happiness. Jennifer didn't even know if she was alive or dead. Jennifer didn't know anything! Why wasn’t she dead? Dead and gone, out of sight, and out of mind. Why was it that she and Roger should have to live with this mindless tragedy and become accustomed to it?

Sylvia carried her plate into the kitchen and filled her iced tea glass with gin. Jennifer should die, she thought. She has no right to be using me like this.

Years ago the schoolgirl Sylvia Chandler, who was having trouble with German and Biology and English, the Sylvia who didn't have to worry about getting high marks because she would survive anyway -- nobody would fail Hiram Chandler's only child, the pretty young thing who had such potential! such vitality! -- years ago Sylvia would not have been used. Everyone had treated her with respect! Everyone liked her. She had a million friends!

"Bull!" she said aloud, startling herself. That was a lie. Everybody in school hated her except for Audley. Why hadn't Audley told her what to do? Why didn't she tell me to have an affair? or to take drugs like she did ... like everybody did. Oh, no. Not Miss Goodie Two-Shoes. I had to get married and have a vegetable for a child!

Sylvia noticed Brad's photograph standing proudly on the shelf over the desk.

"You don't see Audley jumping into something just because her father wants it," she said. Perhaps she should divorce Roger.

She stepped out onto the deck but the sun was too hot; it would blister her fair skin within minutes. She came back inside.

Why don't you divorce Roger? she asked herself. Because, her mind answered, I am a good wife and Roger loves me. He needs me for his career. What a liar, she thought, and was disgusted with herself for being such a worthless excuse of a woman. The truth was that Roger would never consent to a divorce. He would stick it out with her, having discreet affairs on the side, and one day she would become Mrs. Attorney General, Mrs. Supreme Court Justice, or even First Lady, and wives like that do not have to think. Better to not even talk about controversial issues. Their function, like hers, was to look lovely, be gracious, and lend dignity to their husband's image.

Besides, she loved Roger. Didn't she? She had loved him once. She thought she did.

She could see herself and Roger on the pages of the magazine. It had been like that for them once. It had been just like that. She remembered that Roger was a beautiful man. His legs had been strong, his waist firm and narrow. She remembered how her legs had reached around his waist, locking him to her in their passion ... when it wasn't necessary for them to speak, when their actions said it all. How long had it been? How long had it been for them?

It wasn't her fault. She was afraid. What if she was to have another child? What if, again, she and Roger looked forward to being parents, if they decorated the nursery and planned for the future of the unborn child, only to find that it was born without a mind, without a soul, without any knowledge of its own or anyone else's existence, with no purpose whatsoever other than to be beautiful, like Roger and herself, and to grow bigger and more beautiful and more useless?

No. She dared not take the chance. There must be no sex! No physical relationship with Roger or anyone, because she might get pregnant and there could be no more children. After all, accidents do happen and what if she gave birth to another Jennifer?

Once she thought she would kill the baby. Just casually smother it before it went away to the hospital. But what if that leaked out? How would that look in her father's newspaper? What would that do to Roger's career?

She would live with it. She had her therapist when her own reserves failed her. And she must not think of Jennifer's dying. It was wrong to think that way. Jennifer lived for a reason! She was a reminder of some kind. Some kind of punishment for Sylvia. A cross for her to bear for being a spoiled, wilful girl. Sylvia had prayed alternately for release and then for forgiveness for so long, she had long since ceased to pray at all.

She finished the gin. "Therefore," she concluded, "I will live with it. I have become accustomed to the tragedy and I will live with it until I die or until I find a way to be free of it. Free of the doubts, free of the guilts, free of the trap of non-action."

Audley was free, her own person. She made her own decisions, and came, and went, and had perfectly wonderful experiences. Audley enjoyed all that life had to offer without guilt and without fear of the outcome. And somehow Sylvia felt better by simply being in Audley's studio. She felt a part of Audley's freedom, surrounded by Audley's things, in the same apartment Sylvia had once denounced as not being fit for an animal. Yes, perhaps it was, in the beginning, but so what? Had there ever been a finer animal than Audley?

From the security of the French Provincial sofa, Sylvia sat and watched the afternoon wear on and the sun sink into the ocean, feeling bathed in its diffused rays. As the stars began to twinkle overhead, she climbed the winding stairs to the loft and slipped into the comfort of Audley's one-quarter of the king-sized bed.