Chapter 5
Memory.
Premonition. Death.
Mildred lay motionless, on her back, as though in a coffin. Beside her, Vance lay deep in sleep, his breath coming evenly. His back was touching her but he was a world away.
Mildred Hager-in the half world between waking and sleeping.
Remembering....
How had it been? Oh, yes, the bowl game. There'd been the bowl game there in New Orleans. The bowl game and Tom's desperate mood ... Yes, yes ... Tom wanted something more than sports. He'd wanted the world, not a small, unimportant segment of it. He'd demanded the Tokyo assignment. He'd been optimistic. Drunk the night before, he'd sent off the wire and they were waiting ... like a couple of kids. So sure. So positive the wire would do it....
The answering wire ... Quote: Leave the political stuff to Murrow and Sevareid. You stick to sports, Unquote....
Tom's shattering disappointment. His anger. That last night coming on....
The cheap, smug son-of-a-gun! Never mind, darling....
He'd put his anger into the love they made to the wild beat of all that crazy music out in the street. Oh, yes ... Savage love with the rage and the street and the mixed mad brasses and woodwinds and percussions blending into an answer to all the namelessness within her. But a wordless answer blown out of many horns by other nameless unfortunates seeking their answer also. A wordless answer turning into vapor like yes yes like the smoke of a predawn cigarette alive with the oneness and the clinging of two people. Filled with the honesty of her mouth and the truth of his body and the flame of their need. Filled with all that had been there with them and as a result of them and all that would be. Yes all like a strong warm hand on a naked breast and lips brushing absently between passion and passion. Like that but nothing to hold and cling to, nothing, the smoke and the magic gone and nothing left. Only a cold butt in the ash tray of all the gray rainy mornings that ever were or ever will be. Like that. Oh, yes, so very, very often. But the night in New Orleans different ... Oh yes, very....
Clutching at the answer. Sinking down down down into endless deep sleep. The answer slowly slipping away....
But to awaken....
With the music changed....
To a slow, sad beat....
The same brasses and woodwinds and percussions but wailing now. Wailing out the terrifying answer that was a great judgement. Saying, have done with dreams and illusions. This is about what it comes to in the end....
This and nothing more....
And she knew even as she got out of bed and ran to the window yes yes she knew....
The slow step ... the sad faces ... the mourners.. the beat ... the beat ... the beat....
The awful finality of the beat. .
The black casket....
Tom up and looking over her shoulder, yawning...."It must be almost noon...."
"Yes.."
With his anger of the night gone from his eyes into the night's rage of love....
"Id's a Negro funeral, hon...."
"Yes...."
"Those people are wonderful. They sense the unity in all things. The oneness. Joy and sorrow, life and death. Not separate. All one....
No. Death is separate because it separates. Death is the ravenous terror stalking the nameless. Death takes to itself and never gives back....
His hand felt the fear in her heart flowing out through her breast....
"A funeral frightens you ..
"No ... not the funeral. Not death. Only to be separated from you ... to live on as half a person. When you die I must die...."
"Tears! Millie! You're a sentimental idiot!"
"Yes.
"Come back to bed. We don't leave until midnight...."
"Yes.. "
They made love again while that casket went down into the ground and her cries whfle he took her were a farewell to a nameless stranger who had passed under her window to the relentless beat of terrifying music; music she tried to hide from with the comfort of Tom's body....
A premonition? That or a ghastly emotional coincidence.
Because five hours later, Tom was dead ... And now, lost m another Hie, Mildred's heart and soul cried out to him in her sleep....
Vance Hager spent Saturday at the club. The weather was as promised-. warm and balmy--but any previous agreements that involved physical exercise went by the board.
Thus, Vance lay on an inflated rubber mat near the pool. And his mood was such that he wondered why he'd come. You worked like a coolie and earned a day off and looked forward to spending it at the club-among congenial friends-bat you were invariably disappointed. How could you keep forgetting what a bore the place really was?
Or maybe not the place.
Maybe just the people.
Tom Colby lay beside Vance, looking like a melancholy scarecrow in his purple trunks. What Vance had told himself didn't go for Tom. Vance liked him. Tom had an earthy, reassuring outlook on life. Eternally alcoholic, grimly sour, dyspeptic and cynical, he was a ratifying constant to cling to in a changing world. In plain terms, he didn't give a damn about anything. Vance had to admit that he envied Tom Colby.
But the other two members of the poolside quartet-you could have them. The third was Ralph Wellington. Peering idly at Ralph from under the lower edge of his dark glasses, Vance idly wondered during which year of his young manhood he'd learned to eat by himself. He closed his eyes and got a ridiculous but curiously satisfying picture of Ralph's wife, slope-shouldered Jenny Wellington leading him to the table, tying on his bib, and saying, "Now, dear-there on the table."
The fourth man was more to be reckoned with. Tad Beck. He sprawled like a great toad in a deck chair that did its appointed job stoically although it squeaked every time he moved a muscle.
Tad Beck. Huge, shapeless, ugly.
The man they were all afraid of.
But why? Vance asked himself. Because Beck was vkaous and vindictive? He doubted it. This might have caused some of the Rebel Hill Country Club members to quake. But there were many members who scored well in that department themselves, men who had bat-fled up to money the hard way.
Then again, maybe he'd misnamed the attitude toward Tad. Maybe a snob club needed a man like Tad Beck, one not averse to going on record in favor of the restrictions they all wanted but didn't care to openly advocate.
Vance rolled over and reached for the moisture-beaded glass beside his pad. As he rolled back, Tad Beck cleared his throat and rumbled, "Vance-I've been hoping for the opportunity to include you in one of our little chit-chats."
"That so?" Vance's reply was guardedly noncommittal.
Ralph Wellington cocked his head with a show of obedient alertness. Tom Colby scratched his rear and grunted.
"Calling attention to certain club laxities isn't always pleasant," Tad said, "but if we want to maintain standards here on Rebel Hill, I guess someone has to watch out for the interests of the conservative elements."
"What seems to be the problem, Tad?" Vance asked.
"I might as well speak plainly-"
"By all means," Tom Colby growled lazily. "Let's not beat about the bush."
Tad Beck hardly noticed. He'd grown used to Tom Colby's disapproval. It was static, and as long as it remained that way, it didn't bother Tad Beck.
"In plain terms, the membership committee is getting pretty lax "
"How so?"
"Let me put it this way. Have you seen Arthur Crale's wife?"
"Who's Arthur Crale?"
"I forgot you haven't been to many of the winter affairs, Vance. Crale is a new member."
"And his wife's a blonde dish," Tom Colby added. "On two occasions, she's been drunk in the dining room."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Tom objected. "High-a little high."
"All in all, I'd say her conduct is objectionable."
Vance tried to hide his disgust but it was difficult "Suppose she were brought up for suspension, Tad, what would your charges be?"
"My charges? Now wait a minute, Vance."
"Weren't you making specific charges?"
"Of course not. I'm not on the membership committee."
"Then exactly what are you getting at?"
"I'm saying that the membership itself dictates the kind of a club it wants."
"And there's something wrong with this one?"
"I think you're deliberately misunderstanding me "
"So far, you haven't given me anything to understand. You appeared to make a charge against a member. Then you went into generalities."
Tom Colby regarded his Scotch glass with abstract disgust. His reason for this was obvious. The glass was empty. He raised it and called, "Here-lad!"
Immediately, Rafe Kolsky looked up from serving old Mrs Penner a lemonade and came forward. He took Tom's glass.
"A refill, son," Tom said. He glanced at Vance. "You ready?"
"I guess so. Another bourbon and ginger ale, Rafe."
The fact that Tom ignored the other two may or may not have been significant. Tad Beck noticed it, however. He scowled and said nothing until Rafe had taken several steps toward the clubhouse. Then he called out.
"Here, boy! Aren't you being pretty lax?"
Rafe turned. "I'm sorry, Mr. Beck. I didn't know you were ready. Another?"
"You might have asked."
"A whiskey sour, wasn't it?"
He took Tad Beck's glass and looked inquiringly at Ralph Wellington. Ralph shook his head.
As Rafe walked away, Tom Colby grunted. "You ought to be a little careful with the bar boys. They can walk out on us if they feel like it." Thus Tom made it plain that he considered the delivery of his drinks a more important subject than Mrs. Crale's conduct. He was referring to the "honorary" system of recruiting certain types of help at the Rebel Hill Country Club-a system initiated by Tad Beck himself. It consisted of appointing the younger generation-sons and daughters of members-as bar boys caddies, waitresses, and so on. These short-term appointments were regarded as honors-but only by the older members. The younger set did not seem to regard them so highly, and service often came grudgingly.
Tad Beck had snorted at Tom Colby's warning "Those jobs are about the only discipline our juveniles get," he said. "Work builds character."
"Saves the club money, too," Tom said.
"You can bet my Armand doesn't gold-brick when he's doing his stint."
Staring pensively into the sky, Vance wondered if bucking Tad Beck was worth it. You couldn't dent the louse with logic or reason. It was smarter to walk away from the whole thing and let Tad beat his own brains out.
Instead, he chose to go back to the original issue. "Okay, Tad. About this membership thing. What have you got in mind?"
"I thought the responsible members of the club might start thinking along the lines of tightening the rules of conduct-goin over the old list-" He turned his gross head in Ralph Wellington's direction. "Ralph agrees with me."
Ralph Wellington nodded automatically
"Then why don't you get on with it?" Vance said.
"I was sure you'd go along with the idea. I have a little more member canvassing to do and then-"
"I didn't say I went along with it at all. I just suggested that if you're interested in the project you ought to get on with it."
Tad scowled and Ralph Wellington looked uneasy.
"Do you mean we haven't got your support?" Tad asked.
"I mean I'm satisfied with things as they are."
"You can include me out, too," Tom Colby yawned. He slanted his eyes at Vance. "Let's go into the bar where it's cooler. Sun and Scotch don't mix with me."
"Okay," Vance said.
And the two of them got up and left without a nod or a good-bye. Vance felt Tad Beck's angry eyes boring into his back. He enjoyed it. Baleful glares from Tad Beck felt good
"He won't forget that," Tom said. "He hates your guts."
"Are you including yourself out of that too?"
"Hell, he's hated me for years but I'm not important. Nobody expects anything of me. I insult everybody, but your insults are special. They mean something. Tad won't forget that one."
Tom Colby's denial of involvement amused Vance; nor was he frightened by having earned Tad Beck's enmity
"If that guy liked me," he said, "I'd begin to worry about my personality."
"Oh, hell, you've got to have one in every club. They come with the franchise."
"Hard to figure what motivates a man like Beck. Sometimes you get the idea he wants to be unpopular."
"He's vicious," Tom said. "Do you really want some golf?"
Vance laughed. "Let's watch baseball on TV."
"Now you're talking," Tom said fervently. "I knew there was some reason I liked you. You're as kuy as I am."
Vance felt a sudden surge of comfortable well-being; a warmth toward the good people of Rebel Hill and the adjoining village of Warrenton. There were a few confirmed snobs like Tad Beck but not many. Most of them were sincere, hard-working, decent people ..
"Hello Rafe."
Rafe Kolsky had braked his jeep uncertainly. Mildred Hager, hiking that Saturday afternoon down Cornwall Road, had heard the chugging of the jeep behind her and had stepped off the narrow, two-rutted road to let it pass. Rafe had come alongside, looked at her doubtfully, and come finally to a halt a few feet beyond.
"I thought you might like a ride, Mrs. Hager. Then I thought maybe you were just out walking and wouldn't want one. I-"
He stopped to gulp and Mildred moved closer to the jeep and laughed. She instinctively warmed to Rafe, to his sincere, wistful uncertainty in the presence of older people. It spoke well for his upbringing, she thought, and for his character as a person.
"I was hiking. I'm afraid you'll think I'm pretty much of a gypsy," Mildred said.
"Oh, I wouldn't think that. I hike a lot myself. I think it's a shame people don't get out more and use their muscles."
"I agree with you thoroughly."
Mildred smiled and let the conversation gap a little as she noticed what fine eyes Rafe had. Their clear, dark-blue depths were fringed by long lashes. Yet there was nothing feminine about his appearance. A fine sensitivity was reflected in his quick change of expression, his almost lunging eagerness to please.
Mildred could see why he would not be in the forefront of leadership when other boys were concerned, but it seemed strange to her that the girls of Rebel Hill were not terribly interested in him. She thought he should have been very attractive to the other sex.
"Do you know where I'm going?" he said shyly.
"No, Rafe. Where?"
"To a graveyard."
"To a graveyard! What on earth for?"
"To get some epitaphs."
Mildred laughed. It seemed so easy, so natural to laugh with Rafe. "That's certainly a likely place to find them, but what on earth do you want with epitaphs?"
He glanced away, ill-at-ease. "I'm trying to do a little writing-an article I might sell to a national magazine."
"I think that's wonderful."
"I haven't even submitted it yet, but I think the idea is good. It will be humorous. A story on the funny things you find on old tombstones."
Again, Mildred wanted to laugh. She didn't, but Rafe-so solemn, so deadly serious about everything
-writing humorous material struck her as funny.
"Why, I think that's wonderful. I'll be able to say know a real selling author."
"But I haven't sold anything yet."
"I'm sure you will."
He paused, looking quickly into Mildred's face and then dropping his eyes again.
"This graveyard I'm going to. It's not far from Cow Hollow. It's very old-abandoned now. Some of the stones date back to 1760. Ah-would you like to go with me?"
"I'd love to," Mildred said. Rafe breathed an unconscious sigh of relief. Evidently he'd been afraid of being turned down. Mildred climbed into the jeep. "If I bounce out, don't go off and leave me." She was wearing a heavy tweed skirt and she pulled it tight over her knees. Her long legs were cramped.
Rafe glanced down and swallowed quickly. "There isn't much room in a jeep."
"It's fine," Mildred assured him.
The jeep climbed steadily, following a rising curve around Rebel Hill. Rafe stared straight ahead, giving rigid attention to his driving.
Mildred turned her eyes and studied his clean, classic profile. He was an extremely handsome youth, no doubt about that. But he had much more. He was far too serious and he obviously thought too much. He would be lonely
"Do you have a girl friend, Rafe?"
He smiled shyly. "Girls don't go much for me."
"Do you give them a chance?"
"I-well, I-"
Mildred laughed. "Young man, I think someone ought to take you in hand. I think you're probably the despair of many lovely girls."
"Girls nowadays are interested in such silly things."
"Like getting married and raising a family?"
"Oh, maybe the right girl will come along some time-"
Mildred realized she was embarrassing him and hunted for another subject.
"Tell me about Cow Hollow."
She'd picked the subject out of thin air and for a few moments she thought she'd made another mistake.
But then Rafe said, "I have a friend down there. A man named Verne Gethall."
"I've heard of him. He does odd jobs up on the Hill, doesn't he?"
"Yes. Verne is a pretty smart man. He speaks four languages."
Mildred stared at Rafe in wonder "Are you serious?"
"He's a college graduate."
"Then what on earth is he doing in Cow Hollow?"
"I realize that's hard to understand. You'd have to know Verne. Very few people on Rebel Hill do."
"I understand he has a retarded daughter."
"Bonnie? Yes. She's just about Verne's whole life."
"Can't something be done for her?"
"No. She's a moron. That's the eight-to-twelve-year-old level of intelligence. Too bad, too, because she's a pretty girl, physically normal in every way."
"I'd like to meet Verne Getchall sometime."
She knew Rafe was going to protest-that he felt a visit to Cow Hollow would contaminate her. He did not voice this however.
"The back path I told you about to Full Moon starts over there near the shacks."
"You promised to guide me to Full Moon sometime. Do you remember?"
"Yes."
Again, she sensed his embarrassment. It tended to annoy her a little. She saw no reason for his sudden plunge into childish uncertainty.
"What do you hear from your father, Rafe?"
"He's fine. Wants me to come down to Washington to visit him but I don't think I'll be able to make it for a while."
Mildred tucked in a strand of coppery hair and was now amused at Rafe's efforts to keep from touching her. He pressed tight into the corner on the driver's side and held his leg at an unnatural angle.
He turned to her suddenly, gulped, and said, "You-You have lovely hair, Mrs. Hager." When she didn't answer instantly he looked frightened. "You don't resent my saying that, do you?"
"Good heavens. Why should I resent it? I'm complimented."
"I thought you might think I was fresh."
"A woman always likes a compliment, Rafe." Mil-red spoke lightly just a trifle uneasy herself, but without any conscious reason for being so.
Again, she sought a new subject. "What are your plans for the future, Rafe?"
He seemed to be weighing his answer carefully. "I don't quite know, yet. I think I'd like to teach."
"You'd make a fine teacher."
"I'd need some specialized education."
Mildred turned her head to regard him thoughtfully. He turned also. His eyes met hers but fell away instantly.
"You're a strange boy, Rafe."
"How do you mean-strange?"
"You take things so seriously."
"Is that bad?"
"It's neither good nor bad. It's a trait. I commented on it because most of the boys around you here on Rebel Hill are only interested in a good time."
"I have a good time."
"I think the young people around here bore you. I honestly do."
He flushed. "That's another way of saying I'm a snob."
Instead of answering, he braked the jeep and pointed. "There it is."
Mildred looked and saw nothing but a small field of high weeds.
"It's all grown over of course. Nobody's been buried there for fifty years."
He climbed out and came around to help Mildred. She'd stood up preparing to step down herself, but he was there and he reached up and eased her down with a hand under each of her arms. He did it slowly, gently, and she realized he was remarkably strong.
He looked down at her nylon-clad ankles and calves. "There will be stickers in there."
"I'll survive."
They moved off the narrow road and into the high grass. Rafe walked ahead, opening a sort of path for her and when they got into the graveyard proper, she could see the sunken graves and the worn, corroded, tombstones, some tilted wearily, some lying flat on the ground.
Mildred shivered and laid a quick hand on Rafe's shoulder. "What a spooky place." She glanced quickly upward. "The sun is shining. It's broad daylight. Yet this place is still spooky."
"It's the silence, I guess. I feel it too. We both must be sensitive to such things."
He reached back and she took his hand and they again moved through the high grass.
"These epitaphs you want. You didn't explain-"
"They're funny-a lot of them. That's the slant of my article. Funny epitaphs. I was up here once before but I didn't take any of them down."
He turned and dropped to his knees and pushed the grass back off a tombstone that lay flat across a grave.
"Here's one. I can just about make it out. Carl Henderson. 1791-that's when he was born. He died in eighteen-the year is worn away."
Mildred bent down behind him and peered over his shoulder. She leaned closer.
He said, "The epitaph reads, 'He was peaceful and gentle and never raised hell. But he died at the bottom of a ten-foot-' I can't make out that last word."
"I suppose it's well."
"There are lots funnier ones around. Well have to hunt."
He started to rise and Mildred's face was suddenly against his, the move having come abruptly. He jerked his face around and she got a flash of the look in his eyes. It was a look she would never be able to describe. Fear, fascination, the dawning of something behind them.
Brat she didn't get a chance to grope for a description because a choked cry came from his throat and he seized her.
She'd been squatting behind him and his movement pushed her off balance. She fell back, her arms going out instinctively as she sought to regain her balance.
"Rafe!"
The crying out of his name was a warning, a protest, but that came from her lips in a blur because his mouth was on hers as he bore her down. His kiss was desperate and wild and unskilled, his body full of new passion that cried for release.
"Mrs. Hager-Mrs. Hager! You're a goddess I I love you!"
"Rafe! For heaven's sake!"
Mildred pushed his face away, but that was like trying to hold off destiny.
"I love you! I love you!"
In undisciplined frenzy, his hands were upon her, pawing, searching, finding. His eyes were wild. Desperately, she tried to struggle out from beneath his weight.
"Rafe! You're out of your mind!"
Then he jerked his face away from hers and his body formed a straining arc. The muscles of his neck corded and his face was a mask of surprise and shame.
His was the face of a man caught suddenly by exploding passion he could not control.
His eyes widened as from some great inner revelation. A cry ripped from his throat.
He appeared to have forgotten Mildred as the reactions of his own body preoccupied and held him. Then his eyes focused and saw her.
Sanity returned. The horror of what he'd done dawned on him.
"Rafe! You're hurting me!"
He realized where his hands were, how cruelly he was holding her, and he jerked them away as though pulling them out of quicklime again hurting Mildred in the process.
He got to his feet with a choked sob and ran blindly away.
Mildred could not honestly say later whether she was frightened or not. Certainly the surprise of the attack stunned her. Now she sat up, looking after him in dazed wonder.
At the edge of the cemetery he called back. "I'm sorry! You drive this jeep back! I'm so sorry!"
She sat for a while, then struggled to her feet. Dully, she looked down to assess the damage. She saw the state of her clothing and instinctively glanced around. But she was quite alone. There were no witnesses to her semi-nudity.
She examined her body and found two red gashes where his fingernails had scratched.
She drew a finger through the blood and a quick chill brought goose pimples.
Then she laughed. There was hysteria in the laughter but she controlled it instantly. This was rank foolishness. An inexperienced youth had lost his head. That was no reason for her to lose hers.
"Poor Rafe!"
She whispered the words as she wiped the blood away with a fold of her skirt.
Mildred's hands trembled as she readjusted shamefully disarrayed clothing. How on earth had he managed to create such havoc in so short a time?
She had to practically undress in order to get her garments back where they belonged. When this was accomplished, she retrieved the comb that had fallen from her jacket pocket and went to work on her hair.
It took five minutes to comb the dead grass and twigs out of it because, at the high of his frenzy, Rafe had literally ground her against the thick grass.
As she worked, Mildred tried also to reassemble her thoughts. What would this do to Rafe? He was so highly strung, so terribly sensitive. Had this been her fault? Had she tempted him? Could anything she'd done have been construed as teasing?
She thought not. Still, she could have been a little more perceptive.
As she put the comb back into her pocket, the aloneness of the place suddenly struck her. The utter silence. The dead quiet all around her.
She shuddered without knowing why. There was nothing ghostly here. The sun was high and spring was breaking out of the earth.
Then why did she hear again the mournful beat of a Negro funeral procession in far-off New Orleans?
As she walked toward the road, she deliberately filled her mind with the question as to whether she could turn the jeep around in the narrow ruts.
After several twists and turns, she succeeded.
But she did not escape unobserved. As she bounced off the mountain road back onto the smoother blacktop, three figures confronted her, three youths in red sport shirts, corduroy pants, and high boots standing at the edge of the high forest growth. Mildred recognized them even as she fervently wished they'd picked some other place to do their hunting.
The Lazer twins and Armand Beck.
She had to come almost to a complete halt as she made the sharp turn and they were too close to ignore.
She smiled.
"Hello, boys. Looking for rabbits?"
Dave Lazer answered. "Uh-huh. What are you doing way out here, Mrs. Hager?"
"A little exploring, Dave. You boys don't appear to have had too much luck."
"I missed one," Paul said.
"We killed a skunk a couple of miles back." Armand Beck said.
"And ran like crazy," Paul grinned.
Mildred had never liked the Lazer twins. She considered them ill-mannered and vulgar, but she made allowances. Their home life had been broken up. They had been left pretty much to themselves.
She liked Armand Beck even less. He was a rather handsome boy, bearing no resemblance to his repulsive-looking father. But there was an arrogance in his manner that grated. Once he'd knocked over a plant in the living room when he was there with Jimmy's group, and had walked away without a word of apology.
"What's to explore out here?" Paul asked.
"There's a great deal, Paul. I found an old abandoned cemetery back in the woods."
"What's in an old cemetery?"
"Forgotten tombstones. A lot of history."
Having run out of words, they stared blankly, stares that infuriated Mildred, senselessly, perhaps. She hid her anger behind a smile and threw the jeep into gear.
After she'd passed them, she looked back through the rear view mirror. She saw the expression on Armand Beck's face, saw his lips move, knew the question he was asking:
"What's she doing in Rafe Kolsky's jeep?"
What was she doing in Rafe's jeep? Why had she driven it home? The question hit forcibly as she turned into the drive and approached Jimmy who was stand-mg by the kitchen door eating an apple.
He was understandably mystified. "Did you break down, Mom?"
Obviously she hadn't. Her Impala stood by the garage.
"I was hiking and I met Rafe on the road. He had his rifle with him and wante to do some hunting."
"So-?"
"So I told him I'd drive his jeep back for him. He can pick it up later."
Jimmy ripped a huge bite out of his apple. He appeared to believe the explanation. Actually, there was no reason for any suspicion.
He frowned. "Why can't that jerk take care of his own crate?"
He did not speak with any hostility, however. It was merely a comment.
Jimmy crossed the walk and collapsed on the lawn under a tree. He stared up into the sky and could have been pondering the ultimate fate of mankind. Or his mind could have been a total blank. A sophomore at Grenville College across the line in Connecticut, he bordered on the brilliant, and neither he nor Donna, a senior at Warrenton High, had ever been problems scholastically. Donna carried a straight A average and Jimmy skated comfortably along in the B level. Vance was proud of their records. "Good minds-both of them," he often commented smugly.
But as Mildred climbed out of the jeep, she was thinking of something else-something that was not a source of pride.
It was the first time that she had ever lied to a member of her family.
Upstairs in the bedroom, Mildred let go. Quite suddenly, as soon as she'd closed the door, her hands ached from gripping the wheel of the jeep. Only then did she realize she'd been fighting reaction all the way home.
She stretched out on the bed and tried to bring her thoughts into some semblance of order. She had to consider and evaluate the graveyard incident.
But stubbornly or fearfully, she refused to give it mind space. It was too early to pass judgment or make decisions. Tomorrow perhaps-unless Rafe Kolsky did something foolish and forced an earlier consideration.
So she opened her mind to random thoughts, guarding it only against the stricken look on Rafe's face when his passion had exploded spontaneously there in the graveyard.
She did not want to think about that. She wanted to think about-
-Jean Bellamy.
Jean Bellamy ... Jean's ridiculous monk ... the leash and the gold collar Jean used to lead the monkey around Washington Square ... Vance ... He disliked Jean ... I'll swear that monk writes the book while she sits on the floor and eats peanuts ... Vance had to dislike Jean. And he would not know why. Vance, so worldly, so sophisticated, yet so innocent. He would not recognize a Lesbian but he would instinctively dislike one ... Vance's arms ... , Vance's lips ... So earthy, so sensual ... But so clean ... Darling, the rest of my life isn't worth living if you aren't with me ... Vance ... Vance ... love you so much ... Don't drift away from me . .
Jean, who knew her secret ... If you're sure he's what you want, Milly. But don't kid yourself. You can love ... oh, sure. You can love, a man. But not without bed. You've got to have that. You've got to have that all the time and lots of that. Tom knew that. Tom could give that to you. Can Vance? Maybe. But if not, you're in trouble....
Oh, Jean ... You lie! ... You lie! ... I'm not like that at all I'm responsible I know my weakness. So I avoid the occasion of sin....
Oh, no,-baby. When you need, the opportunity makes itself. That pops right out of the woodwork....
Sleep ... sleep ... closer ... now ... slower ... random thoughts. Let the guard down. Relax. Rafe Kolsky's smile like a promise of spring high on a windy hill. Tom ... Vance ... Vance ... Rafe....
But tins isn't sleep. This isn't even the bed. This is the bathtub filled with warm, sensual, caressing, exciting water. How did I get here? When did I leave the bed and come in here and run a tub of water? Did I know all the time I was going to do this? Did I know I would have to do this when Rafe was with me and I knew the desperate animal warmth of him?
Hands ... hands moving. Sensuous surrender. Soft lazy capitulation to the inevitable. The fire demanding release. Lower, lower, into the water. Under the water ... Let the water flow and cool the fire that Tom could cool, that Vance could cool, that many men in hotel bedrooms cooled....
Rafe....
Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was slightly open. Her hand ran lightly over her lips. There was a smile of sensual joy on her face. Her hands, faster and faster, magic. Her body heaved from the water, straining. The phantom man ... the savage, brutal man who despoiled her in a savage, phantom world.
Mildred Hager lay beaten. She cried softly until the water cooled and chilled her. Then she arose from the tub and dried herself, the guilt heavy to her.