Chapter 10
Joan awakened again, this time with a resolve to get out of bed. She had awakened before, when Lee had gotten up, then gone back to sleep again, in a fitful sort of way. But now she looked at the clock, felt a slight tinge of guilt. It was time. She stretched her supple limbs, letting the blood stir through her. After a moment of dizziness, her head was clear. When her feet touched the floor, she did a quick series of knee-bends, then went to the bathroom. It was a daily ritual, one that took perhaps five minutes, and kept her shape. What coffee did for most people, exercise did for Joan Cushing.
Lee had left quite early. She wondered where he had gone, and what he had done with himself, knowing that his appointment with Hanley was at noon, which it was right now, looking at another clock. The house was full of clocks. Something unwholesome about a lot of clocks-a definite attempt to compensate for some deep-rooted insecure feeling. Like, clocks can remind you that you still exist from point to point in time.
Lee was not one to wander aimlessly about, so it stood to reason that he had done something to occupy himself, she decided. Well, it wasn't important. What was important was the tact that they had gone to sleep in an argumentive frame of mind, something they seldom did. Usually, if they had differences, they argued and talked, even if it took all night. It was healthier, a much better way to go to sleep. This morning, there was a bad taste that ran deep inside her, the kind of bad taste that GL-70 and all the rest of it could do absolutely nothing to alleviate. It went down into the guts, and lingered. It was her fault.
She knew that, and if Lee were here with her now, she would be more than willing to apologize. It was her damned impatience, her inescapable feeling of insecurity, that prodded her to nagging. She knew he was working hard, had enough ambition and drive for ten men. Yet, she persisted in nagging, in treating him like a mother threatening a child. It was the weak link in their relationship, and she was that link. Joan knew that. It hurt. Now, when Lee returned, she would make it up to him, and do her damnedest not to interfere with his pride and male prerogatives. "I swear I won't bug him anymore," she said quietly to herself.
It was almost twelve-thirty when Lee pulled into the Hanleys' driveway. Picking the manuscript off the front seat, he hurried up the walk toward the front door and rang the bell. Naomi, looking disgustingly fresh and well-rested, answered it, with a smile that said All's right with the world and all that jazz-
"Hiya Lee. C'mon in!" All flashing white teeth and clear skin, and she'd probably had more to drink than he had: with less disastrous results.
"Hi, Naomi, sorry I'm late. John mad?"
"No, in fact he's probably still writing. He's been up right around the clock. Felt creative when we came home, so he just never went to bed."
"Sonofagun."
"Claims that Stone's parties bring out his satirical vein, and it's just a damned shame not to exploit it." She laughed richly, and Lee laughed too, picturing John's expression as he wrote: there, fella, that takes care of you! Like most serious writers, John probably used the printed word for personal therapeutic purposes from time to time. "How about some coffee, Lee?"
"Okay, fine." He followed her into the kitchen, watched her pull the plug out of the electric coffee-maker, and pour out two cups of extraordinarily strong coffee.
"Black as hell and strong as sin; hope you like it that way."
"Fine."
"Here, take a cup into John. He won't mind the interruption, I'm sure."
"Thanks, Naomi. See you later." John's wife smiled and Lee felt warmed by it. A fine human being, he thought, and a darting little quiver of bitterness went through him as he thought I bet she doesn't hound hell out of him the way my wife does me. Then the feeling passed completely as he thought of what he had done with Brenda Wood.
He had no right to complain.
What he had just done liberated him from the responsibility of male independence-guilt swept through him until he felt sick, sick enough to throw up. Quickly, he walked back to the study where John was typing furiously.
He went inside, sat in the chair.
"Well, hi there, Lee boy!" John greeted. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and a pile of typewritten pages lay on the desk beside him. "Got a lot of work done today," he said, nodding toward the pages. "And I'm not going to do one damned bit of rewriting. Let's see what youve got here, Lee."
"Here goes nothing," Lee said, and handed over the manila envelope full of manuscript.
"Leave it. I'll bring it in Monday with a diagnosis, okay?"
"Sure. John, how did you feel when you were writing your first book, not knowing whether it'd be published or not? I mean, did you ever want to give up?"
John laughed.
"Want to give up? Hell, I did give up, a lotta times. I threw out two novels that I'd started before I settled down to my first one. And that was a bad book, you know."
"It wasn't like Long-Gone Charlie" Lee admitted, but for a first novel, it was excellent, he thought. And now, John Hanley had skyrocketed to literary prominence, seemingly overnight, which was substantially an illusion. It represented months and years of lonely, mind-twisting work. Anyone who thought writers, even established authors, had it made, were sadly mistaken, and Lee knew it instinctively.
"It's an awful feeling," Lee said. "I've wanted to junk this book a hundred times, which I sort of take to mean that it's not worth a damn."
"Very misleading to think like that," John said, his eyes dreamy with reminiscence. "You just never know how a book stacks up until you're all finished with it. And then, you'll write one that you're deadly ashamed of and that's the one that sells over a million copies and makes the book clubs. Hell, you never know."
"Encouraging."
"Facts. You've got to have that confidence," he told Lee. "It's the writer's secret weapon."
"What'd you think of last night's little get-together?" Lee asked.
"Hell, it was a riot like all the time. Lee, I can't believe you want to go up that ladder. You're much too nice a guy."
"Not as nice as you think, John," Lee said, averting the other man's eyes.
"I don't know what your image of yourself is, but I think you're basically a good guy with lots of talent and ambition besides. Why blow by playing Stone's stupid game?"
"It's not just Stone," Lee sighed, "it's the whole damned setup. I love teaching. I'd hate to leave it. The higher up that ladder you are, the more teaching you can do, if you're so inclined."
"Like Stone?" John asked sarcastically. "He does just loads of teaching, doesn't he?"
"He chooses not to."
"Damn right, and when you've got a boss-man like that, he isn't going to let you choose to the contrary. Don't you see?"
"I don't know, John. I'm confused at this point, to say the least."
"Well, just promise me one thing, will you Lee?"
"Depends."
"If this book goes; if it does anything at all, will you seriously consider telling Stone to go shove it?"
"I'll consider it, of course."
"Good. I feel better. Now beat it and go back home. See you Monday morning."
"Thanks, John. Thanks a lot."
"Thanks, hell. I haven't done anything yet"
He said good-bye to Naomi at the door, and climbed into his car. His heart beat rapidly; he had that excited-sick feeling of being on the threshold of something, and the tension inside him, the waiting for it to break, was intolerable. He felt keyed to a high, taut-wired pitch.
Everything was happening so fast....
Making his head whirl-confusion gripped him like nausea. It was less important whether or not Joan found out about him and Brenda than the fact that he himself knew. It stuck in his gut like a gallstone. Yet, even now, thinking back on the scene, he knew he had a very special feeling for Brenda, one that he had for her alone. It couldn't properly be called love, but still, it was something, something that explained his actions. He backed out of the driveway, turned the car toward home and aimed it.
Monday morning.
Today is it, Paul Stone thought. Today is the day that I'm going to call Joan Cushing, and yes, damn it, take the afternoon off.
He smiled faintly, folded the schedule that listed all the instructors in the department, and when they held classes. Cushing had a class in the morning-445-two survey sophomore classes in the afternoon. He finished the last one at four-thirty, which gave Paul plenty of time. The only thing that concerned him was that he might create a mild furor by leaving his office unexpectedly. It simply was not like him; ns a rule, the lights in his office burned long after the others were turned off. But, it would be relatively easy to fabricate some pretext.
He leaned back in the chair, and thought of Joan Cushing.
Young.
Younger by at least ten years than his wife. It made his blood pound, his mouth go dry. An excitement that started butterflies in his stomach persisted in his guts, made him grip the edge of the desk tightly. It was a reaction that caught him utterly off guard. He wasn't prepared for such violent feelings within himself, having spent his adult life controlling them with careful, disciplined thought. He was accustomed to thinking in channels, in specific, well-defined directions. Now, his mind was churning, and that, for Paul Stone III, was a catastrophe.
He picked up the telephone, hit the outside line button, and dialed the Cushing number with a trembling hand.
Buzzzzzz.
Pause.
Another buzzzzzz.
"Hello?" Her voice, mildly questioning, inquiring. Sweet, young sounding.
"Joan, Paul Stone. Good morning."
"Hello ... Paul." His name stuck slightly in her throat, those vocal chords in her pretty young throat being more accustomed to articulating the words Dr. Stone.
"I didn't really get a chance to talk to you over the weekend, about Lee. I think I should have a long talk with you before I come to any definite decision. Are you busy this afternoon?"
"Why no. When would you like me to come to your office?"
For a fleeting instant, Stone's brain lashed wildly, looking for a plausible argument against her coming to see him; that would not work out at all.
"I was thinking, if you wouldn't mind, that I'd come see you. There'll just be a million interruptions around here, and I don't think it would be wise if it were known that Lee Cushing's wife came to see his department chairman."
"Very good, Paul."
"It makes a good deal of sense."
"You're right, of course. But Lee will be home about five, and I know you usually work even later...."
"I'm more than willing to take part of the afternoon off," he said. "How about one o'clock? Would that be convenient?"
"That'd be fine, Paul. I'll make some lunch for you."
"Thank you very much. I appreciate that. Nothing fancy, though."
"Don't worry."
He hung up, and tried to go back to his work, but could not. Strange things were happening to him. He was unable to concentrate. His mind flitted around like that of a restless beetle. It was very disconcerting for a man of Paul Stone's ilk. Very.
Bill and Brenda did not sit next to one another in Lee's class, as they always did. In fact, they did not even sit in the same row. From his vantage point in the back, Bill could see Brenda leaning forward in an attitude of rapt attention.
He hardly listened to what was going on.
What he saw in Brenda's attitude, in Lee's constant quick glances toward her, then toward him, alarmed him. There was something so secretive, so guilty.
Not that he could bitch.
When you banged the department chairman's wife, you were hardly in a moral or practical position to do any worthwhile bitching, but that didn't negate the fact that he was highly annoyed by what he saw. He was annoyed enough to punch Cushing right in the mouth. The satisfaction of feeling his fist crunch against bone would be immense.
But there had to be another way.
He was a big boy now, and violence was a temporary measure at best. You didn't go around hitting people because you were mad at them.
Lee's voice droned in his ears.
After class was over, he got up, gathering his books, and walked by the front row where Brenda sat, between her and Lee. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he stood looking down at her.
"Good morning."
"Good morning," she answered.
"Want some coffee?"
"I can't. I have an appointment with Doctor Cushing."
"Sure. Excuse me for being so presumptuous. See you around the campus."
He walked, back erect and stiff, out of the room. Lee saw him go, and felt a mild, hardly perceptible trace of panic. Did he know something? Or just suspect something? Either one would be damnable. Suspicions would keep him wary, would arouse a vindictive attitude in him. It could be awfully damned uncomfortable.
Brenda thought much the same thing, but not for herself. For Lee. She had nothing to lose, except Bill, a prospect that seemed to be of increasingly less importance to her. But Lee could lose everything, she thought-his job, his career, his wife. Everything. And if that happened, she would be responsible. It would be she who would have destroyed him.
She smiled ruefully, and looked at Lee, who looked at her quizically.
"What's the matter, Brenda?" he asked.
"Nothing. Nothing that a jump off Niagra Falls wouldn't cure." Now, now, stop feeling sorry for yourself, Brenda-girl. Be an adult. You love a married man who can't, won't divorce, who likes you very much and wouldn't hurt you for all the tea in China; but he doesn't love you. Tough beans-he won't hurt you; he'll just kill you. Inside, where it hurts.