Chapter 8
The weekend came.
On weekends Fred Markell made a determined effort to return to a normal domestic life. He tried diligently to put Anita out of his mind, and to play the part of a suburban husband living a conventional life. He had to, because Anita had a strict rule about working on weekends. She didn't. She didn't check with her answering service at all on Saturdays and Sundays, and didn't want to be contacted by anyone. So he was forced back on his wife's company every weekend.
It wasn't all that bad. They played the part. They went to the theater together, and they gave parties or went to them, and had neighbors over for drinks and a little bridge, and went through all the motions of marriage.
And Janet, too, had to give up her secret life and play house every weekend. Donovan was living his own life on the weekends, and Janet had to return to being Mrs. Fred Markell, and to forget all about her lover and the forbidden things they had done together.
On this particularly Saturday night, the Markells went to the theater. They motored into New York in late afternoon, had dinner at a good French restaurant in the East Fifties, then cabbed across town to Broadway to take in a hit showing, leaving their car parked on the relatively tranquil East Side.
At dinner, that night, Markell noticed for the first time that his wife was changing. He was puzzled by it. She seemed more beautiful, for one thing. She had always been attractive, of course, but tonight, the first time he had seen her dressed formally in weeks, she looked unusually good. She looked-almost like a different person.
Gone was the expression of blank boredom. Gone was the look of festering discontent. Gone were the worry-lines around the eyes, the rigid set of the tense jaw, the thin clamped look of the lips.
Janet looked radiant tonight, Markell realized. Her eyes were alive, sparking. Her smile was a ready one. Her face was relaxed. Her skin had a glow, a freshness about it that almost reminded him of Anita's gleaming complexion. Janet was wearing her low-cut black dress tonight, her "sexy" dress, only it had never seemed sexy to him before.
It seemed sexy tonight. Very sexy.
It scooped low in front to reveal the curves of her breasts. In the past, the dress had revealed mostly the inadequacies of Janet's figure, so that he had never taken much pleasure in her wearing it.
But tonight-
Her breasts seemed to rise in lush full firmness, cresting the top of the dress, thrusting upward, two pink globes of desire.
He wasn't sure he saw what he saw. It was a weird thing to be staring down his own wife's neckline at dinner, but stare he did. Had she bought some new kind of bra, some poosh'em-up trickery that thrust her breasts into prominence this way?
No, he thought. He looked at her cheeks, saw the healthy plumpness there, the rosiness, the fullness. She's putting on weight, he thought. Her cheeks, her arms, even her boobs.
Perhaps it was some kind of glandular disturbance, Markell thought. Some complicated manifestation of advancing age, some malfunction of the always delicate feminine plumbing. Maybe. But he had to admit that right now it looked tremendous. She had gained just the right amount of weight, in precisely the right places, to cross the borderline that divides good-looking women from really beautiful ones.
It's one of her typical witchy tricks, Markell thought with heavy irony. To go and turn beautiful on me just when I'm trying to work out a way to get rid of her.
His resolve wavered a little. But then he thought of Anita, and he regained his determination.
Janet was certainly easy on the eyes tonight But she still wasn't in Anita's league.
She never would be.
Besides, looks weren't everything. Maybe Janet was filling out, maybe she was putting on weight, but that didn't make her any better to sleep with. She was still cold. She still found excuses not to come across. In fact, it was even worse than ever these days. They hadn't slept together in almost three weeks. That was the longest spell they'd been apart since their marriage.
He wondered if she suspected anything. Surely she knew he must be getting it somewhere else, if he didn't even make an attempt to sleep with her. Maybe she knew and didn't care, he thought. Maybe she was perfectly content to have him quietly satisfying himself elsewhere and thus spare her the nuisance of having to give in to his desires a couple of times a week.
Markell decided to put it to the test tonight. Three weeks was long enough. He'd go for her tonight, see if there was any change in her temperament-
And if not-
Even if there was-
He moistened his lips. It was time to get the wheels turning. They had already had their appetizers, and he wanted to get things set up before they finished dinner.
He lifted a spoonful of vichyssoise to his lips. Then he said, "Are we free the weekend after next, Janet?"
"I suppose so."
"Saturday and Sunday, I mean."
"Yes. We're free. Why?"
Markell shrugged. "I happened to talk to Jack Donovan the other day. He says his wife's mother is sick, and she's going to fly out to California for a few days at the end of next week."
Janet's eyes were suddenly opaque. "So?"
"Hell be all alone. She's taking the kids with her, just in case Grandma kicks off. I figured we could invite Jack out to the house as a weekend guest. You could show off your cooking."
A muscle flickered in Janet's cheek. Her voice was odd as she said, "You're sure you want him for the whole weekend?"
"Why not?"
"Well, he drinks so much."
Markell shrugged. "He's not all that much of a boozer. I've never seen him smash any furniture or throw up on anybody's carpet. And he's my oldest friend, Jan."
"Okay. We'll have him."
"You don't sound enthusiastic."
Janet shrugged. "I don't know. I just think maybe we'll get tired of him after a while."
"It's only a weekend, Janet."
"Okay. Okay."
"I'll tell him about the invitation on Monday, then," Markell said. "You're sure it's all right with you?"
"I told you I didn't mind," Janet said.
Markell was a little perturbed by the lukewarm way Janet received the idea. He hadn't expected her to leap up in the air and click her heels with joy-Donovan was his friend, after all, not hers-but her coolness troubled him a bit. He wanted everything to go well. Was there some friction between Donovan and Janet that he didn't know about? Maybe some old incident, a drunken pass thrown at Janet, an ugly word, a belch? Donovan tended to be a little coarse at times, Markell knew. Maybe-
To hell with it. Things would work out. He'd see to that.
He turned his attention to dinner. Tournedos Rossini, accompanied by a good bottle of Chateau Beychevelle '57, and all the trimmings. He ate with gusto.
At eight-thirty, he and Janet were in their orchestra seats at the theater. The taste of fine cognac was in his mouth, and his stomach purred contentedly over the baked Alaska that had been their dessert. He was in a fine mood. Only one thing spoiled his pleasure. The woman at his side was Janet-
And Anita?
Where was Anita tonight? In whose arms? Doing what? Doubts plagued him. He wanted her. He wanted her desperately. And all the time. Soon, he told himselt Soon.
He and Janet were home by midnight. He locked up the downstairs doors, checked around, and headed upstairs to join her in the bedroom. She was already half undressed, wearing only her underwear.
Markell felt a stab of desire for her. He saw the irony of the situation: lusting after his own wife, deceiving his mistress with his wife! But it was a pleasant novelty to want her again. He wondered if she would want him. Or would she spoil the evening by refusing?
She seemed to be in a good mood too, relaxed and cheerful. As he undressed, he kept an eye on her. She had taken her bra off, now. Yes, he thought. Her breasts were fuller. It wasn't any trick of her bra. They had rounded into firm, swaying globes. She was still small, of course, compared with a busty wench like Anita, but she had nothing to be ashamed of.
Nothing at all.
She was wriggling out of her panties, now. The tight and of her garter-belt framed her buttocks, and he saw how the belt cut into the flesh. Her buttocks looked stiller, too. Plumper. She was filling out all over.
"That was a nice evening," she said, as she peeled ff her stockings.
"Very nice. Pity there aren't more like it"
"There could be," she said. "I suppose."
She was completely nude, now. Markell was practically out of his own clothes. Janet had crossed the room, had walked to the window.
"Look," she said. "It's snowing!"
"First one of the season, I guess. Looks like I'll be shoveling tomorrow."
"But it's so beautiful, Fred. Look!"
He went to the window, leaning against her and looking over her shoulder into the darkness. She was right. The snowfall was beautiful. Big, fluffy flakes were drifting down, gleaming in the light of the full moon. The flakes were forming a snowy halo around the streetlamp on the other side of the street. And, though the snow could not have been falling more than five minutes, it was already beginning to accumulate on the ground. A light powdery whiteness covered the hedges and the lawns and the boughs of the evergreens that were clustered in front of the house.
Suddenly his hands were on her breasts, cupping them. He felt her stiffen, as though she were about to push him away, and then she had an all too obvious second thought and let his hands remain. He cupped and squeezed her breasts. In the past month, his hands had grown accustomed to holding Anita's breasts, which abundantly overflowed his fingers, and it was almost a novelty to be cupping his wife's, to be able to encompass her entire bosom within his curving fingers. He stood there behind her at the window, pressing his body against hers, gently rotating her breasts.
He put his lips to the nape of her neck, breathed softly on her.
She doesn't want me, he thought. But she's going to pretend, for the sake of not spoiling the evening.
"Come away from the window," he murmured. "Let's go to bed."
"All right, Fred."
He turned out the light. She was in bed, waiting for him, when he got there.
His hands reached for her breasts. And-unexpectedly-her hands reached for him. He felt her fingers traveling lithely down his body. He gasped in sudden surprise.
Janet didn't do things like that.
Janet was a passive girl who lay there and let him do things to her. She never did anything.
Only she was doing things now.
What the hell was going on, Markell wondered? She was filling out, and she was more passionate in bed-
He cupped her breasts. The nipples were growing hard. She couldn't fake that, he knew. She was panting in short, breathy gusts.
He felt the warmth of her. His lips went to hers, and her lips were parting, and he felt her tongue, eager and ready within.
She hadn't been this passionate in years and years, Markell thought in wonder and bewilderment. He felt confused by this turn of events. What was it all about? Just when he had made up his mind to dispose of her, why was she suddenly so friendly, so receptive in bed?
He caressed her breasts, then moved his hands down, to the firm flesh of her buttocks. Her body twisted against his. She started to tremble.
He was more puzzled than ever.
He had thought he had the situation lined up. And now everything was changing around maddeningly.
She was grasping at him, touching him. Her lips were warm and moist. She moved against him with an animation he had not seen in her in more years than he cared to remember. He grasped her buttocks tight, and she locked her arms around him, pulled him toward her.
The union came suddenly, and she seemed to welcome it. That was unusual. Even more unusual was the shiver of pleasure that went through her as he drove to of her, withdrew, drove again.
It was so strange to be in bed with a passionate Janet that he nearly spent his desires in the first moment, out of sheer confusion. But he regained control. He put his lips to her breasts, taking first one, then the other.
She arched her back, lifted herself high off the bedding, met his movements with passionate counter movements of her own.
Unbelievable, he thought. They were really making it, somehow. Together.
Her eyes were closed. Her nostrils were wide, flaring.
He moved with her, eagerly, energetically, in full command of his powers now. And Janet squirmed and trembled. His hands went under her, lifting her, driving himself to her.
"Oh, God," she whimpered. "God, that's good, that's so good, Fred, yes, yes-I"
Her voice tailed off into a wordless moan of pleasure, a banshee wail of glee. It was hard to imagine. Prim, reserved Janet yelling in pleasure, like a she-witch in heat? Janet panting, Janet gasping, Janet leaping around fit to break the bedsprings, Janet responding, Janet reacting-
Yes.
She was almost there, he realized.
And then, incredibly, she was loving him, and he was right alongside of her, and his passion seered her and drove her to still higher frenzies of passion, and he clung to her and held on tight and rode along with her, up to the summit and then down the other side, down into the vale of peace, and then motion began to cease, and there was stillness, and they were quiet. He waited.
He was afraid she was going to say, "I love you," and bind him still further to her.
But she did not. She said nothing. She lay there, perhaps a little stunned by what had happened, just as he was.
Markell broke the silence first. "It was good," he said. "The best in years."
"Yes."
"How did it happen?"
"I don't know."
"If only it was this way all the time-"
"Let's not talk about it, Fred. You know I hate post-mortems."
"But this is a different kind of post-mortem. It's a post-mortem of a good one."
"It doesn't matter. Don't say anything. Let's just lie here. Quietly."
"All right, Janet."
He cupped her breasts and stared off into the darkness. Maybe it was the analyst, he figured. Maybe all those $30-an-hour sessions had finally accomplished something. It would be a miracle if that was what happened. Markell had no faith in the analytic mumbo jumbo, none whatever.
But something had jarred Janet loose out of her apathy, out of her coldness.
Something. What?
More important: would it be this way again the next time? Or had this just been a fluke, a product of a fine meal, a relaxed evening in the theater, a good day all around?
It was a fluke, he told himself.
It had to be.
His mind couldn't accept any other conclusion. Because, if by some miraculous occurrence Janet had been transformed, if she were going to become passionate again and bring new life to their marriage, it left him far out on a limb. He was emotionally committed to Anita. But did he still need Anita, if Janet had changed?
Yes, he thought.
He thought of Anita, Anita of the golden hair, the full breasts, the swivel hips, the firm-fleshed buttocks. Anita of the sparkling eyes and willing body. He wanted her. Even now, he wanted her.
But what about Janet, then? This strange new Janet?
He glanced at her in the darkness. She had turned away from him. And he heard sounds-muffled sobs. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Nothing."
"You shouldn't be crying after-after-"
"I can't help myself."
"Won't you tell me the trouble?"
"There's no trouble. I swear it."
"But-"
"Good night, Fred."
"I wish you'd tell me."
"Good night."
He shrugged. She was more mysterious than ever. Crying, after her first successful lovemaking in eons? And not crying for happiness, either. She was miserable.
Maybe she was just as mixed up as he was, he thought. This unexpected burst of passion had astonished them both, then. It had shredded up all the established understandings of their marriage.
Her sobbing had stopped. Soon she was asleep. Markell was still brooding over the mystery.
I've got to know, he thought. Was it a fluke? Or has everything changed?
He got his answer the next night, Sunday night. As they went to bed, Markell reached out for her again. His hands closed around her breasts. But she had been in a withdrawn, melancholy mood all day, and as he expected she turned her back on him now.
"Please, Fred. Not tonight."
"But it was so good last night. I wanted an encore."
"I don't feel like it. Sorry."
He didn't press the point. It was the same old Janet, then.
Last night had been only a fluke. Only a fluke.
He resolved to forget about it. He concentrated on the day when Anita would be his, and there would be no more refusals, no more debates about whether or not to have her. He closed his eyes, and forced all speculation from his mind, and after a while sleep took him.