Chapter 12
ALTOGETHER ELEVEN PEOPLE DIED IN the holocaust. At least twenty others were critically burned; some of them would be in the hospital for months. Poking among the ruins, the authorities found many charred hulks, most of them burned beyond recognition. They had speculated wildly about the fact that one cinder thus uncovered (the fire had raged out of control for four hours) still wore steel cuffs and chains on her wrists, wide manacles on what must have once been pretty, female ankles.
But the greater disaster, the greater holocaust was visited upon the community of Porterfield, on the reputation of its solid, middle-class families. Who would have dreamed? In their smug, respectable, self-righteous city? This, going on, right under our noses? Even more tragically: those innocent children who waited, throughout the next day, for their parents to come home from "the New Year's Eve party." Unwitting victims who would forever bear taint, be whispered about by the insensitive and unthinking, children and adults alike, as long as they lived.
Continuing consequence: This the publicity received by those escapees from the inferno detained at the scene. And though Tait and Esmee Donleavy (the most miraculous survivors of all) steadfastly refused to admit that it was other than a party, one couldn't help but wonder at the fact that the majority of the guests milling about in that January night were stark naked. Some of the more drunken ones, of course, blurted hint of the real activities transpiring within the Donleavy manse prior to the fire, and the rumor started, soon rampaged beyond control.
Those survivors identified in the paper were sentenced to that limbo reserved for all criminals and castoffs; they were judged guilty sans benefit of trial. The safe containing the incriminating film and membership lists pertaining to The Corybants was buried in tons of debris. Even when it was discovered and opened, its contents were charred embers, the film serving as a superior torch. All over the city of Porterfield otherwise respectable and influential citizens suddenly found themselves among the unemployed, victims of a phantom campaign, of invincible character assassination. Suddenly, all kinds of fashionable homes were for sale, and the large scale exodus began.
The discipline and security measures insisted upon by the Donleavys from the outset paid off in the end. Nobody knew last names of any club members. And if they did, they weren't about to reveal the same. Thus it was that the Randoms and the Hatchers escaped from the scandal virtually unscathed. Pete Welch had died in the fire, while Helen, in the Lesbianistic embrace of Esmee Donleavy, had managed to escape. Which was no consolation in her eyes, and embittered, distraught, she lived through her days a useless, uncaring vegetable. Not blaming those of her friends who escaped scot-free, she neither cared or contacted them. Most certainly, she didn't finger any of them either.
The movement looks out for its own.
Through the weeks and months following, Carl and Millicent lived in a disconsolate trance. Guilt-ridden, fearful, they made no attempt to contact other survivors. They were never to discover how the fire started, the consequences that led up to it. Rebuffed by Helen Welch when they tried to grant what comfort they could, they fell back on the Hatchers, all discussion of the tragedy confined to that elite circle. Discussion was exactly what it amounted to; neither couple broached a mutual swap session again.
"What's going to happen to us?" Millicent asked one quiet night late in February, as she and Carl lay at a distance from each other in their bed. They hadn't made love with each other once, since that horrible night. Seemingly that part of their marriage was forever frozen in stasis; the mere inauguration of sex overtures caused them both to falter. Millicent unresponsive, Carl rendered almost immediately impotent. "Aren't we ever going to get over this? What can we do, darling? I love you, really I do. I want to ... have ... relations with you, desperately. All day long I think about it. But when were together ... in bed ... I just can't."
"I understand, Millie," he sighed. "It's not your fault. If I was able to stay hard, I'm sure you'd soon learn to respond again. We'll move away. That'll change things."
"When, Carl?"
"Soon. I'm waiting for an opening in Atlanta. It'd look fishy as hell if I tore up stakes now. We'll just have to wait this out."
"What do you think, darling? Is it wrong? The swap thing, I mean? Did we do wrong? Was this fate's ... God's ... whatever you want to call it. . . way of punishing us?"
"No, baby," he reassured, pulling her into his arms, "it wasn't wrong. It was like we were hypnotized, like there wasn't any time for us to think, to gather any real perspective. I think, at the end there, we were half crazy."
"I guess. That's the way I was, I know. Some of the things I did ... I shudder when I remember them. Don't ever let me get that far gone again. Carl? Will we ever do that again? Trade, I mean."
"I don't know. I'd like to, I think. But on a small scale. like we had with the Hatchers and the Welches. When that palled, we'd move on, find another couple to share things with. That can't be wrong. I'll vow, as long as I live, that it saved our marriage."
"Not much left to save now, darling. We're both cripples. I wonder, Carl. If we'll ever..."
"We won't. If we don't try. Should we try? Now?"
"Do you want to, honey? Really want to."
"Yes, I do."
She shyly reached down, clutched his flaccid maleness. "Doesn't look like anything'll happen there. Would you like it. . . if I ... sucked you? It's been so long. I think ... even if it didn't do any good ... I'd like to do that for you, baby. We'd have that at least."
"I think that would be nice. But only if you let me suck you at the same time. I have to have something too."
Millicent trembled convulsively. "Oh, yes..." she breathed, excitement growing. "Let's try."
They tried. And after a time Carl was revived; he became hard, filled Millicent's mouth, forced her back. His lips at her love nest created a hot excitement for her as well. Until, finally her senses singing, she stirred, removed her milking lips. "Please, Carl? I think that. . . this time..."
"You want to? Really want to?"
"I do, darling."
He came over her reverently, affected the hot, comforting berthing. And when he was buried in her, began to move slowly, stingingly: "Feel anything?"
"Yes, angel. Something. A very nice something."
Shortly Carl's lust became full-fledged, and he groaned, moved more swiftly, more dominatingly on Millie. He came. He sluiced a long, beautiful arc of his seed deep into her. Millicent groaned blissfully at his gift, churned her own hips, managed to achieve a small, satisfying orgasm of her own.
"Did you?" he asked as they huddled in a deep embrace afterward.
"Yes," she breathed. "A little one."
"They'll get better. Just give it time, darling."
Soon they slept. Sounder than they'd slept in weeks.
Their joy was minor. In the morning the taunting phantoms were back. But there was no faulting that love. It was a start. A step in the right direction.