Chapter 11
THE WORST OF THE EVENING WAS OVER, and Steve was satisfied with the way things had gone. Each individual had reacted just as he'd predicted, and his judgment of human behavior was once again proven infallible. He and Allison would have some more laughs later, watching their good friends and neighbors cavorting on film.
Before the official close of the party, however, they intended to have a premier showing. Steve started the machine rolling, and looked forward to watching each participant as his or her film segment was shown. Their reactions should be interesting, he thought wryly.
Pam held her head high and tried to pretend that it was someone else up there. She watched the whole thing, telling herself over and over that the horrible, depraved woman who was viewing was not her counterpart. That was the only way she could bear to sit through it without screaming.
Jerry's face turned crimson as he watched himself cringing before Allison. He fidgeted in his chair, wiping at his forehead with his handkerchief. As the film progressed, he wished he was anywhere but here.
Bert refused to look at the film at all. He just bowed his head and listened to the damning dialogue, unable to shut out the sound.
The reactions of the rest of the group were just as mixed. Maggie alone seemed untouched by it all. Certainly, she hadn't enjoyed the tender ministrations of Atlas, but shame was a feeling entirely foreign to her nature. Nothing could degrade her, for there was no form of sex too outlandish for her tastes.
They were a weary, dejected bunch as they made ready for bed. Atlas showed them to their respective rooms, where their night clothes were already laid out for them. His face was inscrutable, showing neither concern or disregard. He performed his duties silently, moving about like a well-trained ghost.
But in his wake he left husbands and wives who had become strangers to one another. Forced to share the same accommodations, they hardly knew how to act or how to communicate.
Bob and Bev were the only ones who shared a common bond of sympathy. Their mutual pain and humiliation had drawn them closer together and heightened the love that already existed between them. Now that they were alone, they felt free to express themselves.
Bob helped Bev out of her things which were soiled and bloody, and pulled a fresh nightgown over her head. "How do you feel, Bev? Still sore?"
She nodded, wincing as she stood up to pull the gown down. "Oh, Bob. Why did we ever get into this crazy club, anyway?"
"I don't know, hon. Maybe for kicks, or maybe we were getting a little bit tired of one another. It was a damn fool thing to do, whatever the reason," he mused, rubbing his sore shoulder.
"Well, I, for one, don't ever want anything to do with these people again," Bev cried. "They're horrible-especially Steve and Allison. They should be put away somewhere, so they can't hurt anybody else."
Bob turned down the covers and slid in, waiting for her to join him. When she did, he turned off the light and patted her shoulder. "That's why they've got us by the short hairs. How could we complain to the authorities without explaining our part in the club? Why, people would shun us on the street if we ever admitted we were involved in such a shoddy deal."
Bev voiced her agreement, but added feelingly, "Well, all the same, I hope those two get theirs someday."
These sentiments were being expressed all over the house, while the two who were responsible were eavesdropping. Each time Atlas saw to the comfort of the guests, he planted a small tape-recorder mike somewhere in their room. No sooner had he departed than the bottled-up curses and hatred came pouring forth.
At the moment, Steve and Allison were listening to the conversation taking place between Bert and Maggie, whose room had just been bugged.
"Damn nigger!" Bert spluttered. "Better lock the door tonight. I've got a hunch he'd love to get his hands on another white woman."
"He already did, lover. Remember?" Maggie taunted. "Or were you too pooped out from going down on Steve to notice?"
Her barb struck home, and his face reddened, but he could think of no suitable reply. He had been expecting something of the sort, but not quite so soon.
"Imagine!" Maggie went on, taking pleasure in his discomfort. "All these years I've been living with a fairy!" He flinched at the word, but she had only begun her attack. She tore open her blouse and offered him a plump breast. "Oh, I know it's not as tempting as Steve's cock, but take it anyway. It'll give you some consolation, I'm sure."
Bert grabbed his robe and fled to the adjoining bathroom. He turned the shower on full force, but nothing could drown out the sound of Maggie's derisive laughter. It echoed and re-echoed throughout the shower stall.
Pam and Jerry undressed in complete silence, which caused Steve to wonder if Atlas had muffed the placement of the mike in their room.
Finally Jerry's voice came through, sounding rather bemused. "Would you tell me something, Pam?"
"What is it?"
"Well, I've got no right to ask this, I know ... but did you really enjoy making love to that old man? I mean ... well, it looked like you did."
Pam hesitated, wondering how wise it would be to answer with complete honesty. Her decision was based on a nothing-to-lose attitude. "Yes," she said. "I hate to admit it, but I did. Toward the end, I mean. I just couldn't help myself."
Jerry was pleased at her matter-of-fact attitude, for it made it easier for him to bare his soul. "Yeah, I know what you mean. You know, the last year or so, I've felt something lacking in myself. I haven't exactly given my all to our lovemaking, I guess. Unconsciously, I must have been wanting that punishment and repentance routine all along."
His voice was filled with wonder, and Pam found it hard to believe that he'd apparently never even suspected the truth before. She vowed to herself that, even if they went their separate ways in the end, she'd never let him know that she'd recognized his need all the time. Her next phrase was carefully worded, so as not to destroy the closeness of the moment.
"You know, Steve and Allison deserve to be horsewhipped for what they did tonight. But maybe something good will come of it all." She felt his head turn toward her in the darkness.
"At least," she went on, "It just goes to prove that everybody has an Achilles' heel."
Jerry mulled that one over. He might never realize it, but her words had given him the courage and reassurance he needed to overcome the things he had learned about himself that night. "I believe you're right," he replied. "I never thought of it that way before."
Steve and Allison, upon hearing this, were beginning to feel like good Samaritans. This was far from their original intention, to be sure, but Maggie's predicament made up for the difference. She would never be able to adjust to Bert's homosexuality, that was plain enough. But, for economical reasons, she'd probably prefer to keep her status quo. As for Bert, he'd surely play it smart by doing his best to keep her under his roof. No woman bent on getting a divorce had ever been known to take the blame-not when she could show the world that it was her husband who was really at fault.
Naturally, her kind of revved-up sex drive would be needing an outlet, and what could be more natural than for her to turn to them for release? She was ripe for future episodes, and Steve added her name to his vast list of customers.
For the present, they had eked out every bit of pleasure from the night's festivities, so they decided to snatch a few hours' sleep. Atlas could be depended upon to wake them in plenty of time to start home.
For all their worldliness and their adeptness at amateur psychology, Steve and Allison were completely unaware of Atlas' nighttime activities. When he deemed it safe and the whole household lay in a drunken stupor, he crept out of his lair to play lord and master.
He had the key to the liquor cabinet and it was his custom to help himself whenever the opportunity presented itself. He was careful to take only a small amount from each bottle, and it was never missed, for who could tell how much liquor had been consumed during an evening such as this?
On the surface, Atlas was the typical stereotyped servant-obedient, faithful, and born to this station in life. But, during the twilight hours, he displayed quite another side to his personality. It was his pleasure to run through the video tapes; in fact, he knew where Steve had stashed a whole library of them. By now, he knew them all by heart, and he delighted in watching the snooty white folk wallowing in the dirt. Always, acting as if they were better than he, when all the time they were worse than animals.
Right now, he was running through all the sequences taken that night. At any given moment, he could stop the machine and drink in any particular scene that was of interest to him. He felt a certain kind of power, as though he could bring them to life or annihilate them with a flick of his hand.
He was, temporarily, king of the white man's world. Sipping at the most expensive bourbon, he sat majestically on the sofa watching a re-enactment of the scene between himself and Maggie.
Allison, tossing and turning restlessly beside her snoring husband, caught the faint whir of the machine. Curious to see who was manipulating it, she tiptoed down the stairs and into the living room.
Here she found Atlas holding court in his private dream world. Even in the dimness of the room, she could see the hatred radiating from his eyes. His hands were clenched, and his fine nostrils flared in impotent rage. Allison's flesh prickled with excitement, for she could easily imagine him tearing his enemy apart, limb from limb.
It was then that she gave birth to an evil thought. Sheer hatred had planted it years ago, and it had been nurtured by circumstance ever since. Now it blossomed forth into a plan of revenge.
She had been a decent enough person when she and Steve had first been married. Somewhat awed by him, there was nothing she wouldn't have done for this wonderful husband of hers. Even their honeymoon had been designed for his pleasure alone. She would never have chosen to spent it in a shoddy motel room where every little whisper could be heard through the paper-thin walls.
That was just the start. Each time they made love together, it seemed, he came up with a new suggestion that would make it a little more exciting. She complied willingly enough, trying to please him, even though some of his variations were not to her liking.
Gradually, she came to realize that they had gone way past the bounds of decency. Surely other husbands and wifes didn't go to such extremes to find enjoyment? He overlooked nothing in his quest for kicks, and his pornographic library was filled to the brim with books ranging from the oriental books of pleasure to the memoirs of some of the most renowned shores in history. Every time he would come up with a new gimmick, they had to "try it on for size."
Her marriage was turning into a nightmare, and she didn't know what to do about it. She was still so much in love with him that it hurt, and worried sick that he would tire of her and turn to someone else for thrills.
When finally he had approached her with the mention of a menage a trois, she was appalled. But he kept on about it, wearing her down, and the force of his personality was such that she eventually gave in.
Her determination to remain a spectator was forgotten when the other girl went to work on Steve. His "oh's" and "ah's" of ecstasy made her blind with jealousy and compelled her to get into the action. She was forced to compete with the other girl for her own husband's favors.
After that, their life turned into a free-for-all, and they were seldom alone together in their bedroom. Two, three, four-the more the merrier, as far as Steve was concerned. Every nationality was represented sooner or later, and her one claim to fame was that she had her own United Nations at her beck and call.
At last, the normal way of having sex seemed dull and boring to her, too. She became a degenerate in the worst sense of the word, and teamed up with Steve in his pursuit of new sensations.
But she never forgot that he was responsible for turning the sweet young girl she had been into an abnormal thrill-seeker. The indifference she showed to the world was but a shell, covering the outraged cries of that young girl.
She lived for the day when she could get even with him, and now she had discovered the perfect means at her disposal. When Atlas turned his head a fraction of an inch, he saw what appeared to be an apparition: Allison, standing before him in a diaphanous nightgown, was clearly outlined by the ghostly ray of light that came streaming from the machine. To his blurry vision, she seemed to have just stepped down from the screen.
"You hate them, don't you?" she invited, speaking in a soft, sibilant whisper.
The fact that she was a real flesh-and-blood person finally penetrated his foggy mind, and Atlas spilled his drink in his haste to dispose of the evidence.
Allison smiled at him, wanting to put him at ease. "No, that's all right, Atlas. You're not doing anything wrong. Here. I'll fix you another, shall--? "
She searched until she found a pony glass, and filled it to the brim. Hoping that the shock of being discovered hadn't stunned him into sobriety, she slid next to him and urged him to drink. Her plans called for him to be completely besotted. Nothing else would do.
Her campaign began the moment she was seated, and she went about it with a single-minded intent that had all the earmarks of a personal vendetta. "Just look at them!" she sneered. "A dirty bunch of hypocrites, each and every one." Her hand traced the bulging muscles of his arm as she searched for and found the right key to his anger. "Why, you're a better person than any of them. Just because you're black, they think they can treat you like dirt!"
She paused for him to refuel, giving him a chance to ponder the bigotry and prejudice of centuries. The sounds and images that were reeling in front of him combined with Allison's insistent voice to confuse him, and he could feel the hatred oozing out of every pore. The only thing lacking was an object for his hatred, and Allison intended to supply that.
"Look at me, Atlas. What do you see?"
He peered at her, trying to come up with a statement that wouldn't seem too brash. "Why, I see Mr. Steve's fine, good-looking wife. Is that what you mean, ma'am?"
"No, Atlas. I mean, what color am I?"
Puzzled by such an obvious question, he replied, "Why, you're white of course."
She shook her head and played her trump card. "Wrong again, Atlas. I'm an octoroon. Oh, I know I don't show it, but there's Negro blood running in my veins."
It was, of course, a lie so blatant that a child could have seen through it. But Atlas swallowed her story, due to his natural gullibility and the vast amount of bourbon that was sloshing around in his innards.
"You don't say! Why, I never knew that!" he exclaimed in wonder.
"Neither does Mr. Steve," she confided. "So, you see, I know just what it's like to be treated like a dog. And Mr. Steve's the worst of the lot. Why, if he knew that I had a drop of Afro-American blood, I think he'd kill me!" She delivered this last statement with the proper dramatic emphasis, and Atlas was spellbound.
Having gained his sympathy, Allison prepared another potent concoction to replace the one he'd drained. Then she continued to weave her spell.
"No sir, I don't think he'd hesitate one little bit! My life is in danger every minute I stay with him, Atlas.
And he is an evil man. He makes me do some things that I couldn't even repeat to anyone. Shameful things, so vile that..." She buried her face in her hands, as though she couldn't bear to go on.
When she summoned up some tears, Atlas was moved to pat her shoulder awkwardly. He was at a loss as to how he could console her, but he managed to say, "There, there, Miss Allison. Don't you fret, now. I won't let Mr. Steve hurt you none."
Right on cue, Allison raised her tear-stained face. "Do you mean that, Atlas? Would you really help me?"
"Of course, Miss Allison. You just tell me what to do, and I'll do it!"
She leaned forward eagerly and described in exact detail just how he could serve her. He nodded several times, and they crept up the stairs together. Once they had reached the door to Steve's room, Atlas took out the knife he always carried. Then he entered the darkened room-alone.
The slumber of the household guests was rudely interrupted by the piercing sounds of a soul in agony. Screams of unmistakable anguish tore into the stillness of the night, to be followed by a hoarse, pitiful sobbing.
Doors opened all along the hallway, and people stumbled about in various states of undress. Noses were counted, and it was discovered that everyone was accounted for, with the exception of Steve and Allison. Atlas was forgotten entirely.
"Where did it come from?" Bob asked.
"Down this way," came Allison's vague answer.
They followed Bob's lead and came across Allison, who was still standing in the doorway, afraid to go in.
"What's happened?" they chorused.
"In there." Allison pointed to the bed from which the horrible sounds were coming. When the light was turned on, their eyes were drawn to the shaking hulk that was Steve, crying like a baby. His agony was so great that he didn't even look up at their entrance. The sheets were blood-soaked, and it was painfully clear that this bull of a man had been castrated.
There was no real help anyone could give, but the women cleaned him up and bandaged him as best they could. Bev was too squeamish to be of any help, so she left the room hurriedly.
When questioned, Allison mumbled one word. "Atlas." He had hightailed it out of there once the deed had been accomplished, thereby saving Allison some awkward explanations. She was content to leave it that way.
Steve's sobs gradually subsided, leaving him inert and lifeless. His brawny chest heaved with dry, racking shudders, and Pam was filled with pity for him. He had been her lover, tormentor, and enemy all wrapped into one, but he hadn't deserved such a horrible fate as this.
They discussed the advisability of taking him to a doctor, but Allison voiced an objection. "I don't think Steve would want that-would you, dear?"
He gave her a look, seeming to notice her for the first time. What he saw in her eyes filled him with horror, and he realized that this was her doing. For a moment, he weighed his pride against the possibility of proving her part in this heinous crime. No, he could never admit to the world that his own wife would do such a thing, even if he could prove it.
"No," he whispered, in a voice so weak that only those closest to him could hear it.
"You people can go back to bed," Allison decreed. "I'll sit up with my husband."
She took up her post, like an angel of mercy. Dutifully, she sat by his bedside for the rest of the night, talking and keeping him company.
Her bedside manner left something to be desired, though, for as her patient listened to her words, he seemed to suffer a relapse. By the time dawn arrived, he was reduced to a quivering mass of jelly.