Chapter 5
The next day it rained. It WAS one of those FALL rains, when you look out of the window, and become very depressed. You think of summer, long dead, and of approaching winter. It is the season of limbo, which seems to go essentially nowhere. Lee was depressed.
There was last night; the argument, tense bodies, refusal of flesh to touch in familiar intimacy. The glare of fluorescent lights overhead, the gray misty rain outside-he stood with his hands in his pockets, pipe thrust in his teeth, and looked out into the soup.
It was the only thing they argued about.
It was all so silly.
Why did she do it, he wondered. Was it because of insecurity underneath, insecurity that she did not realize was hers? Was it because of an alcoholic father who left it to a mother to see that she and her younger brothers and sisters ate regularly? Whatever, however, it was becoming serious. It was threatening to undermine a good marriage, one that both of them valued above all else in life. Yet it seemed beyond Joan's control. She would promise, express regrets, then repeat the behavior.
He looked at his watch, saw that it was ten o'clock. Brenda Wood was due to see him, and he knew she would not be late, so he walked out of his office, leaving the door open, and went to the coffee machine. As he was walking gingerly back with two cups balanced in his hands, she came down the corridor, from the other direction. Her eyes lit up in recognition; a glad, happy expression. They were funny eyes, he thought-not quite brown, not quite amber-something in between, something very beautiful.
"Good morning," he greeted.
"Hi," she said; Lee handed her a cup and she took it. Together, they walked back to the end of the corridor, where his office was. Once inside, he shut the door. It left them in a sound-vacuum.
They sat down.
He regarded her perfect breasts with steady, quiet eyes.
"Are you making progress?" he asked. She nodded. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I have an idea," she said, "that I'd like to run on at some length with in my paper. It seems like Faulkner saw a decaying society in Mississippi. The Snopes, Jason Compson, Henry Bon-Sutpin. All people in decay."
"Just in Mississippi?" Lee asked.
"Oh, you can apply it to the world," she said, "that's the marvel of Faulkner, but then you get into a bunch of critical verbosity that I'd just as soon avoid if I could."
"Why?"
"Because he wrote from his own life-experience, and that was where he lived. He was as regional as Twain or Harte. He was a storyteller, not a preacher. Whenever he overtly preached, his writing suffered.
Don't you agree? He was just writing about the decay of the South, their inability to create a new, dynamic world."
"You've really thought about it, haven't you?"
"Yes, I have." She crossed her long, luscious legs, then continued. "I don't want to make the mistake of finding false meanings just for the sake of going on at tedious length. I'd like to interpret as much from an intuitive level as I can."
"You realize of course, that in most cases that kind of treatment wouldn't be acceptable?"
"But this paper is for you, Dr. Cushing, and for me. I think you understand what I want, what I need."
Lee was silent for a brief moment, then simply said "Yes." What else was there for him to say?
She was fighting his battle.
A lonely, seemingly futile battle that she wanted to fight as unrelentingly in her way as he was fighting in his.
"Okay. You have something good here, something real, but don't fall into traps, Brenda. Remember people like Sam Fathers and Isaac, the boy."
"Yes, you're right. I almost made the mistake of putting on those damned critical blinders, didn't I?" She smiled broadly when she said it, and he had to .:mile with her. It was a mutual exchange of smiles, one that made their alliance a perfectly understood thing.
She handed him two sheets of typewritten copy; it was an outline for her paper. Lee studied it carefully, nodded, gave her a couple of suggestions, said that what she had planned was excellent, if she could just put it into execution. It was a thoroughly unacademic approach. It was creative, intuitive.
"How's Bill coming along?" Lee asked; their discussion was over. She would not need him until she did some more reading and writing.
"Fine. He gets discouraged sometimes, a little cynical, but he'll make it." She began arranging the hem of her dress, then reached down to run long fingers over her bare legs.
"I heard from someone that he's a professional writer."
"Yes, he makes a lot of money, but he's not satisfied. He wants to write higher level things. School keeps him from doing that."
"But he wants a degree?"
"It's funny-he knows he'll never use it, that nobody in his field will ever ask him for it, but he has too much time invested to quit. In a lot of ways, he's very much like you, I think."
"Considering your relationship to Bill, I take that as a compliment."
"It is." Their eyes met, held one another's gaze. Lee felt flushed, self-conscious. It was stupid, he thought. Very stupid.
"How's your novel coming?" Brenda inquired. "Getting there slowly. If it doesn't get published, I'm in a bit of trouble. "Why so?"
For some totally unaccountable reason, Lee told her everything, went on at great length about himself.
He forgot that she was younger, that she was one of his students; she became a very important person. It was absolutely necessary that she understand.
"It's all so stupid," she said at the end.
"What's stupid?" Lee asked.
"That they don't let you utilize your talents, that they insist on that damn silly game."
"Yes, I suppose. It's an occupational hazard, Brenda. If you're planning to teach, give it some serious thought."
For a still more unaccountable reason, one that he was not to know until later, he touched her hand-just touched it, and felt an electric current of strange recognition run through him. She didn't move away. She looked at him steadily, calmly. He thought he saw quiet wisdom and acquiescence in her eyes, those peculiar not-quite-brown, not-quite-amber eyes.
They were silent.
The room seemed to close in on him. Invisible eyes stared accusingly at him. He got up.
"Thanks for listening," he said. "Any time," she heard herself say, "any time at all, Lee."
Then she was gone, and he was alone in the office, his mind swimming crazily with half-images, fragments of thoughts, sexual hunger.
Peggy Stone rolled up the cord to the vacuum cleaner and put the machine in the utility closet where she kept it. It was eleven o'clock, and the rain outside made her feel lethargic and depressed. But underneath the dullness, she was very tense. Her skin felt jumpy, and her nerves crawled like little snakes inside her. Noises made her jump, like when the washing machine kicked into rinse cycle; a completely anticipated noise that her keyed nerves refused to tolerate.
Finally, she could stand it no longer.
She knew what the trouble was.
She also knew what she had to do.
Self revulsion was strong in her, but not so strong as the need that screamed for satisfaction, however temporary and imperfect. She went to Paul's study, where all the books were. She let her eyes flick hurriedly down the rows, and when they came to rest on an original translation of Ovid, she pulled it out, and took it with her-To the John.
Even though she was alone, she closed and locked the door from the inside, then stood before the mirror. She examined her body, unbuttoned her housecoat slowly. She shrugged it off, and stood naked. Her hands moved slowly up the length of her sides, her ribcage, and came to rest on her full breasts; she cupped them, held them up, and finally let her fingers roll the nipples like marbles.
They swelled with excitement.
She felt the blood fill them.
Fill her whole body.
Her skin was fine-grained and perfectly smooth, felt good under her hands that ran the length of swollen hips, moved over long, packed thighs. It was more difficult to breathe now, as excitement filled her with frightened expectation, a vague sense of what she was about to do.
She had to do it.
Every ounce of her being demanded that it be done. Paul was not even in her mind as she sat on the fluff-covered toilet seat cover and opened the book to a familiar page, a page that he had long since committed to memory.
It was a scene with a man and woman, lying in a clover-covered field away from the city; they were quite alone, lying on their backs and staring up at an incredibly blue sky.
The man's hand rested on the round, shapely breast of his lover.
She turned to him, and said, "I love to have your lips touch my body that burns with heat for you. I must have your lips upon me, as I shall have my lips upon you."
The woman opens her robe, and reveals fleshy, moist thighs.
Her lover's hand strokes them fondly.
"My love, I burn and itch for you!" Her hand rests upon the back of his hand, guides it insistently up her leg until he touches her. The cool freshness of clover tickles her buttocks, the backs of her legs, and she wiggles luxuriantly in it while his hand makes her move in another way. She becomes a bundle of responses to varied sensations.
His lips cover her beautiful breasts, make the nipples stand erect and firm as rosebuds, while his hands run downward over her legs, pushing them open-
Peggy's breath came in short gasps.
Her fingers sought herself.
"Kiss me as the temple goddesses kiss one another," the woman tells her lover, guiding his face down over her body....
The lover understands.
Their bodies shift.
Smells of clover and sex tingle their nostrils.
The poet tells of how the woman's buttocks tremble expectantly as warm male hands grasp each smooth cheek, pulling her closer to him. He seeks with his lips. She screams ecstatically, moved rhythmically against him as he gives her the ultimate kiss. A vacant, preoccupied smile crosses her lips as she bends downward to seek him, and then they are in mutual forbidden embrace, one so pleasurable that it is done in secret ritual by the temple goddesses of Lesbos-a kiss now transferred between man and woman.
The ecstasy is indescribable, the poet says.
Peggy's eyes closed. Her buttocks rustled and whispered against the satiny material of the seat cover as her hand moved. Images, greatly magnified and distorted clouded her mind. It was not her hand evoking the pleasure, it was the hand of another, faceless, nameless, but nevertheless another's hand that cared enough to instill great pleasure in her hot. thirsty body.
Her head swam dizzily as the peak stormed and surged through her, any it was several moments before she snapped into the immediacy of her surroundings: the bathroom, alone with herself, disgusted, tears streaming into her eyes, and blind, feverish hatred for her husband who had so indifferently driven her to this.
After she had vomited into the toilet, her knees touching the cold tile floor, she felt somewhat better. But the disgust and helpless revulsion persisted, long into the afternoon.
Paul Stone sat in his office, thinking what an absolute fool his wife had become. She was thirty-four years old, a mature, grown woman; yet she insisted in behaving like a young bride. It was true, perhaps, that he had been neglecting her. But did she have to create such embarrassing situations as last night? Her hostility had made response on his part utterly impossible. How could a man become aroused under such circumstances?
There were times when he thought of having sex with Peggy; but they were such damned inconvenient times, occurring when he was writing or thinking or outlining, times when he could not leave his work. If only it happened while they were in bed together! Nevertheless, he thought, Peggy placed far too much emphasis on the physical manifestations of love. When they were young they had sown their wild, youthful oats; now they were no longer young, but responsible people approaching middle age.
He projected into the future, something he frequently did, and thought that when they went abroad together, things would be much more conducive. He would work in the mornings only; in the afternoons and evenings, they would be together. He would relax, unwind considerably, and then, perhaps, he would be a more suitable marriage partner. She asked the impossible, the unreasonable of him now. His mind was cluttered with responsibilities and concerns. Spain would be good for both of them. It would clear his mind, relax him, make him feel young again. The nightmare of the past months would evaporate like magic, and all would be well again.
The dream of the future snapped him into the present, since the two were intimately connected. For his sabbatical to become a working reality, he had to be certain of leaving the department in good administrative hands.
That meant selecting an associate professor, one who would be the acting depart mental chairman.
There was Cook, Cushing and Smith to consider. It boiled down to those choices; he detested Smith, didn't trust Cook, and was apprehensive about Cushing, factors which didn't do a thing to aid him in his decision, which must be submitted by no latter than the first of the month. It was now the fourteenth. He had approximately two weeks to consider and make a final decision, that once made, would be irrevocable.
Somehow the party crept into his mind, and he decided to watch these three men very closely. Perhaps there would be a clue of some sort to help him. In a social, semi-alcoholic atmosphere, certain barriers would be lowered. A man's behavior in such conditions went a long way to indicate his true character and capabilities, Paul decided. Under the guise of laughter, drinking and relaxed conversation, a man forgot that he was on trial. It would be a good opportunity.
Peggy would be the perfect hostess, as always. He was grateful for that: she knew hot to act, how to plan, how to organize. In that respect, she was an invaluable aid to his career. A moment of something akin to tenderness washed through him as he thought of his wife, the aid.
Bill Holloway, for all his outward toughness, was a man of thought, one who weighed the pros and cons of his existence. Men like Bill are always trying to peek over the next hill to see what's there. Bill's fits of restlessness did not occur often-the Marines, a construction job in the Rockies and thumb trip across the country and back had taken most of that out of him-but there were times when he itched.
He loved Brenda, and he fully appreciated her lush body.
But Bill Holloway was not one to accept facts at face value; he knew that faces could be highly deceptive. For instance, guys like Lee Cushing, with clean-cut, wholesome appearances, guys who at an earlier age had joined the Scouts, and had undoubtedly sent their Cheerios box-tops in with two bits to get their atom bomb rings that exploded in dark rooms.
Appearances could be deceptive as hell.
Brenda had been seeing a lot of Cushing lately. and in spite of the strictly academic purpose of the constant get-togethers, he had his doubts.
Cushing was too friendly.
Brenda was too anxious to see him.
It was beginning to add up to something profoundly unpleasant, and although Bill was not given to unreasonable fits of jealousy, he did have a highly developed sense of the macabre. Experience had taught him that people were stable until something came along to upset the balance of that stability. Hell, hadn't he boffed more than one happily married woman in his younger days? Hadn't he had more than one virgin who had been saving it for the mysterious husband?
He knew what could happen.
It happened to the best of people, in the best of families. At this point, he wasn't overly concerned with Cushing's pedigree, nor with Brenda's; he was just looking out for his interests, because they appeared to be threatened, however mildly. Cushing smiled, Brenda saw him frequently, and it was obvious that they had a sweet little rapport going between them. More often than not, when he called Brenda, she was working on her project for Cushing, or else she was out. Out with him Repetition is the mother of annoyance in much the same way that necessity is the mother of invention.
It was especially frustrating not to be able to put his finger on anything, to take direct action. All his life, Bill had reacted to situations, had acted upon them with quick thought and instant execution. But now he could only conjecture and wonder and be annoyed. It bothered him. He could tell himself that if Brenda wanted to be friends with one of her professors, it was her prerogative. But with a good-looking young man like Lee Cushing, it didn't work. Bill had no illusions about marriage; bonds were as easily broken as made when sex was involved.
He paced around the apartment for a while, smoked several cigarettes, each one more foul than the one before, and finally put on his jacket and went outside.
He walked.
Whenever things bothered him, he walked. Direction or destination didn't matter. He walked hurriedly toward the shopping plaza only because of habit. In the opposite direction, there was nothing except more apartments and homes. The plaza was a quarter of a mile away from his apartment building, and he walked rapidly toward it, thinking of Brenda. Should he talk to her? Bring his suspicions in the open? When he thought about an actual confrontation with her, he began to feel silly, like the archetype of the jealous lover. It didn't come off sounding very mature. But the fact remained that she was seeing less of him, not because of studying or other obligations, but because of that paper which was connected with Cushing.
He went into the drug store and bought a carton of cigarettes. He came outside, tearing the cellophane off one of the packs, and saw a woman across the street trying to start her car. The engine whirred without catching, and Bill heard the distinct sound of a battery growing weaker and weaker by the second. At the rate she was turning it, it would soon be dead, and there were no gas stations for at least half a mile.
Give me a gold medal and wreath, he thought wryly as he crossed the street and walked toward the distressed automobile. It was a small Mercedes.
The woman sitting behind the wheel, looking more than a little piqued, had a rich, well-kept pile of auburn hair on her head, with angry-snapping brown eyes. A coat concealed her body, but Bill had enough imagination to project beyond the furry wrap and come to the conclusion that she had a body to go with the face: interesting. It was all thought out half-consciously, by way of reflex.
"You're going to kill that battery dead if you keep trying to turn it," he said. The woman stopped, looked up at him. There was anger, but not desperation in her face.
"What do you suggest?" she asked. Her voice was rich, vibrantly female.
"What's your battery's age?"
"Ancient."
"Unlock the hood, and I'll have a peek." She leaned down under the dash, and Bill heard the lock unsnap. Raising the hood, he saw an incredibly dirty engine with an acid-coated battery. Typical. A woman with no concern for the car, thinking maybe it was immortal and indestructible, with a husband that had no time to keep track, if in fact she did have a husband....
The car was parked at the top of a slight hill, facing the bottom. If he could roll it, gain enough momentum, he could jump-start the thing in second gear and drive it to the gas station. There, she could get a new battery. Her old one was beyond charging.
"Your battery's gone. You need a new one."
"Can't I get it charged?" she asked, moving slightly on the seat, exposing her shapely knees.
"Too much acid. Batterys are like people. They become obsolete."
The woman smiled. She had a sense of humor.
"What do you suggest?"
"Move over." She did as he told her, and Bill slid behind the wheel. After fishing around for the seat lever, he pushed it back so he could operate the clutch and brake pedals. Releasing the emergency brake, he put the car in second gear and let it roll. Slowly, the car picked up speed. When he popped the clutch, there was a lurch, a cough-he popped it again, and it caught. He pulled out the choke, and watched the ampere gauge; it wasn't charging at all.
"See your gauge? It isn't moving." She nodded.
"I'll drive it to the gas station down the road; from there, you can get a new battery." Traffic was heavy, and he had to inch along slowly, constantly gunning the engine to keep it alive.
"I'm certainly grateful that you came along."
"It's okay."
"I'll get a new battery, and drop you off. It's the least I can do. You look a little old for me to offer a dollar bill to."
Bill grinned.
"I'd feel pretty embarrassed if you did. You don't have to drive me home, either. The walk will do me good."
"No, I insist on that much."
"Okay. You can drive me home."
He pulled the car into the station, left the engine running. The attendant came over, eyed the car suspiciously. A furrin' job, he was thinking. Bill knew the look common to all gas jockeys without the first bit of mechanical ability.
"What's th' trouble?" the guy asked.
Bill told him. "Battery's had it. Needs a new one."
"Ain't got any for this car. Don't get no call for 'em."
"It's a twelve volt, like any other battery. Look on your little chart, and you'll find it," Bill told him. The guy looked like he was going to say something nasty, but Bill got out of the car, stretched his long, lean body. The attendant let the words freeze, then die.
Bill went inside the station, flipped through the wall chart, found the battery for a Mercedes 190 sedan and gave the guy the number. He was not surprised that the jerk had the battery.
"Put it in," Bill said. "Your car?"
"The lady's."
The guy leered. BiD stared him down while the kid scurried into the service bay where he kept the batteries and staggered outside, carrying one with him.
Bill sauntered out to the car, eyeing the woman's pert breasts. "He's putting one in now," he said.
"If you hadn't been along, he'd have told me he didn't have one, and I would've been stuck. I really appreciate this, Mr. ... I don't even know your name."
"Bill Holloway."
"Mr. Holloway. Thanks so much."
"Bill. I'm a bit young to be called mister."
"Bill. Not just plain Bill. You don't look the type."
"Thanks. Miss, Mrs. ... see, I don't even know the right salutation for you. Gloves make it difficult."
"Mrs. Stone. Call me Peggy, and consider us friends."
"No relation to Dr. Stone; that would be too much of a coincidence. It wouldn't be real."
"His wife."
"How about that? After two years, I'm finally getting to see one Stone."
"You're associated with the University?"
"In a most unrewarding way. I'm a student in your husband's department."
"You look older."
"I am older. I'm a late starter."
"You're going to teach?" Peggy asked. It was not a stupid question, most English majors went on to graduate school and taught.
"Haven't got the stomach for it. No, I'll just do what I'm doing now and do a little better at it."
"What do you do?"
"Write. Free lance. I don't want to crush you, Peggy, but academe and getting out a manuscript are in no way compatible. I'M be glad when June's here."
It occurred to Peggy Stone that Bill Holloway was an interesting young man. He was at least twenty-four or five, old enough to know better and young enough to do something about it. He was a fresh gust of air, a new face on the sitting-duck horizon of her life.
"Do you know John Hanley at the University?"
"We're friends," Bill said. "Together, shoulder to shoulder, we wage our unsung war against the legions of conformity. Sure, John and I collaborated on an article last month."
"Your views coincide with his in a remarkable way."
"Nothing remarkable. Writers and critics just don't mix, any more than oil and water. We're misunderstood, they're underrated. It's a tough life."
"You made a remark about seeing at least one Stone. Don't you ever see Dr. Stone?"
"He's a busy man, I'm sure."
The attendant had put the battery in the car. He told her eighteen dollars, and she paid it with a grimace.
"I'm freezing," she said.
"If it doesn't sound forward, let's have a cup of coffee," Bill said. "You can leave the car here, and we can go down a couple of doors." Peggy nodded agreeably, and they walked quickly down the street into the Colony House, a greasy spoon made more palatable by paneled walls and new formica tables. The food was abominable, the coffee excellent.
He helped her off with her coat, carefully appraising her breast-line. When the waitress came over, they ordered coffee.
"You do well with your writing?" Peggy asked. "Very well, if you're talking about financial-well."
"I was. It's hard to visualize a college student with affluence."
"It happens."
"You're fortunate."
"I worked hard for that good fortune."
"Of course you did. I'm sorry," she said. Bill waved his hand in dismissal, took a sip of coffee.
With her coat removed, Peggy Stone looked even better than her appearance had suggested. Her breasts were ripe and firm as melons, and from the quick glimpse he'd caught of her hips and thighs when she had stood, there was nothing lacking in that department either. How an old relic like Stone could keep someone like Peggy serviced properly was something of an enigma. Yet it occurred to Bill that Stone was not really an old man-he was extremely good-looking, and apparently in good condition. It was just that he usually acted old. In all probability, he was a snorting, cavorting stallion at home with his whinnying, frolicsome mare of a wife.
"Do you have a girl, Bill?" Peggy asked.
"Now you sound like the housemother trying to work down to a fraternity boy's level. Yes, I have a girl."
"I seem to say the wrong things," she said. She was appealing when that already-sensuous lower lip formed a pout. It was a cute little gesture, affectation or not.
"I react the wrong way," Bill said. "I've never had to be tactful, so I haven't had much practice."
"There's too much tact in the world," Peggy said. "It gets in the way of sincerity."
Good-looking, quick mind and capable of profound thought-Stone had a woman and a half there, Bill thought. He hoped that the professor was appreciative of his good blessing.
Peggy saw Bill looking at her breasts, her face. It was not a leer. There was nothing lewd or covetous; it was simple appraisal, done calmly and matter-of-factly. It was a glance that made her feel very warm, glad to be looked at. Their eyes met briefly, frankly.
No illusions on either side.
"I guess you have things to do," Bill said. "I didn't mean to keep you."
"I was just thinking the same thing," Peggy answered, "that I didn't want to keep you. I'll drive you home."
"I don't live far."
The attendant had parked the car off to the side, away from the gas pumps and service bay. Bill held the door open for Peggy, and watched her climb behind the wheel. Her legs were extraordinarily good-strong, firm, smooth. Legs made for loving. An involuntary, warm liquid feeling welled up in him. With an effort, he squelched it.
He directed her to his building, and when she stopped in front, he opened the door, pausing for a moment.
"Thanks for the lift. And it was nice meeting you."
"I enjoyed it, Bill. I hope I see you again." Again, their eyes met.
"It's a tiny little world."
"I hope so. Thank you so much for everything. If you ever need any help, call me. I mean it."
"Thanks." He got out of the car and slammed the door; she drove off, and he kept his eyes on the car until it disappeared. Turning around, he reviewed his own thoughts, his own reactions, realized that they had been unconscious, the product of conditioned sexual reflex.
Which made him worry about Brenda.
Hell, she was human too.
If he could react to a woman like Peggy Stone, there was no earthly reason why she couldn't react to a man like Lee Cushing; and if she did, he would be more than a hypocrite to condemn her. The inevitability of the situation appalled him. It wasn't like in the movies at all, or like in his stories, with a grandly contrived design to make such things happen. Damn it, it happened. If two active chemicals got together, they reacted, for better or for worse. He did not believe in fate. This was a small, a very small town. Yet it seemed incredible that he had bumped into the wife of the English department chairman. If he had spent months planning the encounter, it couldn't have happened more easily.
It occurred to him that if Peggy Stone ever offered herself to him, he would have a most difficult time saying no. If those magnificent breasts were ever offered to him-if that long, sumptuous body ever lay naked on a bed, thighs spread and lifted, waiting for his body to meet....
He rushed toward the telephone to try reaching Brenda. He wanted her very, very much. And if she were out, or if she said she couldn't make it over, he would be outrageously angry with her.