Chapter 2
Holcomb High School was, so far as high schools go, not much of a plant. It was a two-towered, three-storied, rambling structure capable of housing roughly 2000 pupils. A building badly in need of renovation (condemnation was a better word), poorly lighted and ventilated, it presented a quaint stone exterior to the outside world, a dingy, cracked plaster interior to its inmates.
But there was a commendable difference between it and so many of its counterparts up and down the Eagle River Valley (be they spanking new or equally decrepit) in that it was not a hotbed of juvenile delinquency. Glendon Falls, population 33,000, was a city blessed with an intelligent and alert police force. Its parents were, for the most part, conscientious about the way they brought their kids up. The faculty at Holcomb was made up of experienced, battle-scarred veterans who knew how to deal with troublemakers from the start, how to nip pranks before they became full scale incidents.
Which is not to say that Holcomb High didn't have its hard core dissidents or that it had no troublemakers at all. This was 1963 after all. Holcomb High was of the world, it existed in no Utopian never-never land.
It was one of these fledgling renegades with whom Ken Baylor was concerned this gloomy Tuesday afternoon the balmy spring-like weather having departed just this A.M. at 10:21 sharp a senior class boy named Vic Richardi. His concern was, of necessity, cursory. It wasn't the first, nor would it be the last time Richardi had caused a ruckus during one of Baylor's classes.
There was another thing, much more important, lurking in the back of his mind. A thing that he'd been forced to put off, to give full attention to when there was enough time to explore its full ramifications. A little number called Diane Baylor.
Tuesday A.M. was Ken Baylor's full morning. He was scheduled for English and social studies classes straight through, with no break except for passing of classes. And those three minute periods were hardly conducive to logical thought, to puzzling out the incredible thing that had happened between him and his wife last night.
Vic Richardi was not really a jailbait type. He was simply stated, a product of an over-indulgent home. Pampered, willful, possessed of too much spending money, he'd never been forced to conform. His father ran one of the city's largest used car lots. Vic had been victim of a slipshod, too fast upbringing. The worst thing that would ever happen to Vic was that he'd one day wind up one of the fast cars his father constantly put at his disposal and wrap it around a convenient telephone post. And that would be the end of that.
But until then Vic Richardi was still in the daytime custody of the Holcomb faculty. He was still obliged to do as they told him, not as he wished. Which was what the flare-up in English III-B had pivoted upon this morning. Baylor had been conducting a test on latter day English poets. He had looked up at the wrong time and caught Vic Richardi cockily copying answers from Patti Conte's test paper. Of course when Baylor called him on it, Richardi contemptuously denied it.
Not about to be bluffed out, Ken had taken both papers and compared them. Patti was wrong on three identical items with Richardi, right on thirteen others. It definitely wasn't mere coincidence, and then and there Baylor had confiscated Richardi's test paper, ejecting him from the room when he'd begun to mouth off.
From whence he'd gone to the office and been given five hours detention. Principal Prather, in his frightened-quail deference to the Richardi influence in Glendon Falls, gave mealy-mouthed permission for Vic to' take a second crack at the test a week hence.
The sum effect was to grant Vic a reprieve from death. The detention at least, would keep him out of his high-speed car for those five hours anyway. The test, of course, would be a total loss. Richardi had never been known as a student. He wasn't about to start now. Had it been left to Ken Baylor he'd have flunked the boy outright. As it was, Mr. Prather's decision only undercut him, caused him to lose face in the eyes of his pupils.
Now, sitting in his empty classroom supposedly checking the tests, he had Patti Conte's paper before him. He was reminded of her agitation. The second-hand involvement had shaken her, and she'd done poorly on the rest of the quiz. But would Patti be allowed to retake the test? Hardly.
He recalled the panic and consternation that had spread over that fragile face, the way she'd borrowed guilt herself. He envisioned the disturbing way she'd looked at him afterward, her eyes dark and wide, her breathing too fast, causing her prematurely ripe breasts to seemingly swell and collapse beneath her tight sweater. A sight not at all hard to take, considering the dusky brunette's other devastating charms-her lovely, pouty lips, her sensitive, round eyes, the latent sexuality in her carriage and temptress walk.
Abruptly, cursing himself for his addled (and slightly licentious) thoughts, Baylor turned away from the tests and feathered his high-powered musings. Pulling out a desk drawer, he propped his feet on it and sat back in his chair. Clasping his hands behind his head, staring out the window, he trotted out the most disturbing considerations of all.
A wracking tremor went through him. Diane. What in hell had got into her last night?
He couldn't remember when she'd last thrown herself into the love act with such passionate abandon. That was certainly something for Diane. Her lack of bedroom ardor had been a choking bone of contention between them for years now. Mostly she approached the love side of marriage with a barely disguised sense of duty. It was a chore, a debt she owed her husband that she would obediently pay, no matter how meaningless and repugnant it might be to her.
It was a bitter blow for Ken Baylor that, perhaps a year or so after their wedding day, the spontaneous, wild spark of passion had gone out of their marriage. A blow to his male ego, a reflection on his very sensitivity. For Baylor was not a repulsive man by any stretch of the imagination. At 32 he was still holding his weight in check, his hair and teeth were original equipment, he stood five-ten, had a nice smile, an open, agreeable even handsome face.
Indeed, during his six years of teaching there'd been more than one occasion when he might easily have drifted into an affair with any number of females on the different faculties he'd served upon. Also there'd been different women among Diane's club friends who'd gone out of their way to let him know that if he'd just make the first move ... This, not to mention the dozens of school girls who'd developed adolescent crushes on him, without bothering to conceal the fact from him.
All of which Ken had studiously avoided. He wasn't interested in extra-marital intrigues; he'd courted and won Diane and was deeply in love with her. To cheat on her would have been sacrilege of the worst sort. He was happy with his wife and children. He wanted nothing to upset the smooth course of his life.
But here was where things rankled. Often when he thought of the sure chances for dalliance he'd passed up, he became seriously disturbed. His male ego smarting at the latest demonstration of indifference from Diane, he wondered why he remained so loyal and continent. If she really didn't want him, what was the harm in playing the field? For all he knew she'd be pleased to know that someone else was taking care of something that was basically unpleasant for her.
Ken Baylor was the kind of man who desperately needed to confer and receive love. Thus he'd been so happy during the first years of their marriage. It had seemed he and Diane had lived in a paradise, gorging themselves on open, uninhibited lovemaking, reaffirming their love in countless ways otherwise. He'd foolishly believed that the rapture of those days would go on forever.
At any rate, longer than two years.
Another disappointment: Ken had come to his wife, at 24, incredible as it may sound, a virgin. They had traded their virginity to each other. It had been a thing with him. If he expected virginity from the woman he married, then was he no less duty-bound to bring his own. And during fraternity-college days, there had been temptations aplenty. But somehow, with hardheaded resoluteness, he'd resisted.
There'd been initial reward, as he and Diane had discovered the joys of physical love together, both of them groping, adjusting, testing, doing their level best to please their mate, honoring the other's dignity and modesty. At first Diane had been timid, uncertain, somewhat prudish. But in time, exercising restraint and patience, he had, little by little indoctrinated her into the real freedom of love, had led her into acceptance of purely carnal joy and sharing.
Reliving those days in reverie now, Baylor felt a clutching pang of sadness. He felt that a very important something had gone out of his life. It seemed they'd both been sleep walking through their marriage since Carol had been born, merely going through the motions.
Their idyllic relationship had changed, seemingly, overnight. Diane had become overly involved with bringing up the baby. Then when Randy had been conceived that had been the absolute end. During that pregnancy Diane had openly declared her distaste for the love act, had twitted him, asked if he wasn't ever going to get tired of her.
He hadn't approached her after that, for four weeks.
He attempted excusing Diane, his love still as strong as ever, blaming her indifference on the fact that she was up to her ears in raising the children. Once they were out of diapers she'd be her old self again.
But he'd deluded himself. As the years passed and she regained none of her former warmth and avidity, he'd become somewhat resigned. Still he'd felt somehow cheated, as if marriage's bright promise had never been fully realized.
Then when Diane had entered the clubwoman stage, the bitterness had mounted. He'd even turned somewhat brutal in his lovemaking.
He'd sold out his masculinity, he'd resisted temptation upon temptation, he'd been so sickeningly faithful, for this?
Eight years of a sterile, sham marriage. Ken Baylor bristled now, adjusting his position in his chair. Damn, how emasculated can some men get?
Needless to say there'd been thoughts of other women. Why not, when there'd been so many instances when attractive females had all but thrown themselves at him? Countless times he cursed himself for a hick boob. He found himself wondering what love might be like with a woman other than Diane. What tricks could they teach him, to what different stratas of sensation could they transport him?
Though, God knows, few women could be better than Diane was last night. Not and have their love partner alive when dawn showed its ugly face again.
But, on the other hand, how many times during their marriage had Diane let herself go like that? And last night's relapse (he couldn't account for her actions any other way) most-likely wouldn't occur again.
Would he have to wait another five years?
The most baffling thing about the whole episode was the fact that Ken had admittedly grown restless these past few months. He had been looking at other women with more than passing interest. Sex fantasies about this female faculty member and that, about some of Diane's club-women friends had become overly prevalent.
And then Diane had come along with last night's magnificent display of wanton love. What was a man supposed to think?
He attributed the sudden burst of sexuality to the lovely weather yesterday, to spring fever. That and the fact that Diane had deliberately and uncharacteristically drunk herself into a state last night. That kind of love he could do without. How was a guy supposed to feel about his wife getting herself drunk before she could respond to his romantic overtures?
Damn, damn, he raged, straightening, digging his knuckles into his closed eyes, but I'm all mixed up. Where's all this leading? Where will it eventually end?
Now, jarringly, Baylor's galling introspections were interrupted, as the bell announcing the close of the two o'clock classes rang loudly. Slowly, feeling for the moment like an old, old man, Baylor rose and went into the hall for his three minute stint of monitor duty.
A quartet of sophomore boys were hot-footing it down the hall when he stepped out. One look in his direction and they smirkingly slowed to a stiff walk. A few seconds later the hall was swarming with students. And for the hundredth time during the past month or so, Ken found himself wondering what ever happened to the old fashioned school girls? Did they all have to grow up so fast, affect the manner of experienced street walkers?
Still, he was forced to admit grudgingly, some of them were very beautifully put out. They stirred him more than they should have.
Now he saw the new library assistant. Miss Tessa Vareese, approaching, her high heels clacking on the tiled floor. As usual she was faultlessly dressed, her clothing immaculate, chic, and somehow too tight, daringly showing off all her very exciting physical attributes. She was perhaps 23, a black-haired creature with understated coiffure cropped close to her small, finely chiseled head. It was a shame she wasn't prettier. Her mouth was much too large, her chin too thin A strange composite of features that made her eyes and forehead look somewhat massive.
Yet it was a provoking, interesting face, glowing with an almost gypsy mystery and darkness. Ken was sure she'd be a fascinating person to know better. She was almost upon him. He could see the bounce and flow of her sharp, high breasts better. He wondered if, should he be interested ... would she...?
"Good afternoon, Ken," she smiled breezily, coming abreast. Then referring to the weather change: "Where have all the flowers went?"
Now she was clattering past. Baylor's eyes were on strings, involuntarily watching the grinding battle going on inside that tight little skirt.
"Quite a dish, huh?" a voice jerked him back to propriety.
Ken laughed as he turned to face the school hound, Dave Frazer. Physics and chemistry. A ruddy-faced, bulky man, slightly over six feet tall, handsome in a rakish, supremely confident way, Frazer could have a woman almost as easily as snapping his fingers. "Girls," Ken said. "Is that all you think of. Dave?"
"Sure," Frazer chuckled heartily. "What do you think about, boys?"
"I think about my wife."
"Brother, you are in a bad way, aren't you?"
"I'm not complaining."
"You're lying," Frazer said matter-of-factly.
"No," Ken said. "Not this time."
"Well, that's a first then. You been walking around like a zombie the past few weeks. I can tell a man who's hurting. Just the same way I can tell a woman. And that Tessa Vareese is really clawing the walls."
"Come off it, Dave. She's just a kid. Some of the old maids in this funny farm, maybe, but not Tessa. She's only twenty-four. She's being taken care of."
"Is she? Since when's age got a damned thing to do with the price of things? That girl's got the yen, I tell you."
"So? Why haven't you scored?"
"That's a good question. Lord knows I've tried. But she gives me the brush. She doesn't dig real virile types I guess. Goes for the arty, limp-wristed jerks. She gave me a freeze to chill beer by. And speaking of beer...."
"Who was?"
"How about you and me going out one of these nights? Getting tanked up good? I know some girls...."
"I gathered as much."
"I took Rose Linton out last night. You know, the art teacher. Talk about great love scenes ... She's got a friend who isn't fussy. How about that?"
"No, thanks, pal. I'm a married man, remember?"
"Don't let a technicality like that hold you back. like I said, the doll won't care." Now the tardy bell rang, and Frazer started across the hall. "Back to the animals" he grumbled. "Man," he' harked back to his favorite subject, "I'll bet that Vareese witch puts out a real mean one. What I wouldn't give to get her pretty pink panties off. See you."
Baylor turned back into his empty room for his second free period. Sitting at his desk again, trying to concentrate on test papers, Dave Frazer's parting remark haunted him.
Until, strangely enough, even after Diane's definitive going over last night, he found himself thinking along identical lines. He wouldn't mind getting under that tight, pencil-slim skirt himself.