Chapter 6
Mrs. Winters shook her forefinger at the two girls. They were sitting in the Winters' living room, on the long white sofa. Mrs. Winters' long blonde hair was combed straight back and wound into a tight bun on top of her head. She was wearing a black silk cocktail sheath, diamonds on her fingers and wrists, and pearls on her neck. The diamonds were zircons and the pearls synthetic, but that didn't matter. No matter what Anne Winters wore, she was always stunning, even in housedress and apron. She was thirty-six but looked twenty-five. She had been a beauty queen in Andeluvia, Oregon, before she went to work as a secretary in Spokane. Her halfhearted attempts to become an actress had failed.
Her looks, however, didn't know how to fail. She had skin Like porcelain and eyes like amethysts. No sculptor could have visualized a more ideal, sophisticated face. In fact, the word "statuesque" was frequently applied to her, but not always in the most complimentary sense. Graceful jawbones, a nose as straight as a steel ruler, thighs like marble, and the posture of an Olympic gymnast all combined to produce a magnificent first impression. It was the sort of classic, pure beauty ancient Greeks dreamed of but never saw. Anne Winters' lips were absolutely oval; a smile from those framed teeth made dentists frown. That same oval mouth could clap shut and turn down in as forbidding an aspect as any old-maid schoolteacher's.
A few words from Anne's classic lips, plus one or two studied glances from her frosty blue eyes, were quite enough to inform anyone that Anne was a thoroughly prim and proper young wife, who, despite a trail of male stares, did not now, or ever, intend to play footsie with anybody other than her husband.
Anne waggled her carefully groomed forefinger at the two girls. "Now, as soon as Lisa wakes up, I want you to tell her that she'd better learn some French from Mister Twidell tonight, or she's going to regret it."
"Yes, Mom," said Barb. She hung her head. Mom and Dad were going out again tonight, and some French tutor was coming over at eight-thirty to be both baby sitter and bore.
Mrs. Winters said, "All nice people know French."
"But you don't know French," Joan objected.
"That's beside the point. I didn't have all the advantages Father and I are giving you girls." She glanced at her watch. "Mister Twidell will be here shortly. I want you three girls on your best behavior. He's going to make a report to me tomorrow on how you behaved. Now listen, you two. This is costing Father a fortune to have this man look after you. I suppose you won't even appreciate it." She sniffed and peered down the slopes of her imperial nose. "Some day you'll thank me for all the things I've done for you." She turned her head at the sound. "All right, there's the doorbell."
Mr. Winters stepped into the room. He was wearing his black tux and red bow tie again. He was a distinguished-looking man, and the girls liked him much better than their mother. Lawrence Winters was tall, built like a halfback, and the thick-rimmed black glasses he wore contrasted nicely with the rich, frosted hair at his temples. He was forty and looked forty, but it sat well on him for some reason. He always smiled at the girls but seemed confused as to how he should behave toward them. He never touched them or patted them on the head; he just smiled uncertainly and made awkward conversation Like, "Well now, Barbie, how're things?"
The inevitable, "Okay," always seemed to end things.
"That fellow is here, uh, Anne," Mr. Winters said. He looked apologetic. "At least I think he is. I'll go to the door."
He returned with Mr. Twidell in tow. Twidell acted as if he'd come out of a cave into bright sunlight. He kept blinking and blinking. He wore steel-rimmed glasses.
"Hullo," he mumbled. He was medium height, slender, and carried three books tucked under his left arm. His clothes looked out of date. His suit coat lapels were very narrow, and his trousers looked wide and sacky. He wore oxford shoes with all sorts of little holes and curved decorations on the toes.
When Mrs. Winters stood, Twidell looked Like he was ready to retreat. He actually looked scared. The shy gray eyes widened. The disheveled, sandy hair flopped onto his forehead. He brushed it back.
"Barb, Joan, this is Mister Twidell." Anne smiled coolly at the girls.
"Hi," Barb said woodenly. Joan didn't say anything.
Anne turned to the funny-looking Little man. "They'll introduce you to Lisa as soon as she wakes up. She's taking an after-dinner nap. Now Mister Twidell, you'll find the girls very cooperative and eager to learn. They're very bright girls."
Joan smothered a giggle.
Mr. Winters helped his wife into a mink stole, and they came over and kissed the girls on the cheek.
"You're good girls," Larry Winters said. He smiled with difficulty.
Anne turned to Twidell. "We'll be late tonight, Mister Twidell, so you can send the girls upstairs at eleven. Except for Joan. She's to be in her room by nine-thirty."
"Sure," Twidell said in a reedy voice. He rocked his eyes from side to side to avoid her intense glance. "I'm real happy to get the work. I dunno why I can't get a teaching job yet. I got a PhD, you know, from Ripley."
"How nice," Anne said. "If you get hungry, feel free to take what you like from the refrigerator."
Twidell made a little acknowledging wave. "Right."
Anne Winters glanced back at the girls. "Goodbye." She took her husband's arm, and they left.
Twidell twitted the back of a forefinger under his nose. His skin was lightly freckled. "Well, kids, I guess we might as well get started, huh?"
"I guess so," Barb said.
"When is your sister going to come down?"
"We don't know," Joan said. "She got drunk and passed out."
"Hmmm?" Twidell plopped down on an easy chair and looked at his books as if he'd never seen them before. "Oh, I get it, you're kidding me, aren't you? I don't mind. I usually get kidded a lot by just about everybody, I guess."
"Did you ever live in France?" asked Barb. She crossed her legs and lay her head back on the sofa to stare at the ceiling.
"Nope, I never did."
"How come you know French so well?"
"I studied it in college. Seven years, I guess."
Joan said, "Didn't you ever go to Paris or anything?"
"Well, I was going to, but I never got around to it."
Joan continued, "Then how do you know if you're really speaking French?"
Twidell's eyes wandered. He looked flustered. He began to riffle through the pages of one of his books. "Now, girls, I'll teach you the phrase method. See, if you just learn separate words, you get so you can string them together easy. So I'll say, comment allez vous. Can you say that?"
"No," said Joan. "What's it mean?"
"It means, how are you. And the answer is, tres bien, merci."
Barb said, "What's that mean?"
"Very well, thank you." Twidell pushed his glasses up his nose.
"Well, I'm not," said Barb. "In fact I feel awful. My sisters and I got bombed on vodka yesterday, and we have bad hangovers."
Twidell pursed his lips and frowned. "Now, girls, enough is enough."
"It's the truth," Joan said. "We got a great big bar down in the rec room with all kinds of booze. Mom, she said we could make you a martini, if you wanted one. Mom and Dad showed us how to make them so we could make them for guests. Want one?"
"What?" His forefinger twittered back and forth on his nose. "A martini? Well, I don't know. I don't drink too much. Can't afford it, really. Are you sure your mother said that?"
"Honest," said Barb. She sat up straight and smoothed her red mini-skirt on her lap. She was wearing a black, short-sleeve blouse. By contrast, Joan was in hot pants and pullover. Barb raised her right hand as if she were swearing in.
"Well, I suppose one little drink wouldn't hurt," Twidell mumbled. "Still, I don't know. You girls have got to learn some French."
Comment allez vous," said Barb.
"Tres bien, merci," added Joan.
Twidell's spectacles slid down his nose half an inch. "Well, I'll be," he said slowly.
Barb stood abruptly. "Sure, you'll be. So will we. Down in the rec room. Let's go, Joan."
They took him down to the bar and sat him on a stool. Barb mixed a pitcher of martinis.
Twidell rubbed his fingers across his lips. "Isn't that a bit much? I just wanted a little one."
"We'll join you," Barb said. "Mom and Dad let us have just one with the guests. They don't believe in all that old-fashioned stuff."
Twidell swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "All right, if you say so." He accepted the glass and began to drink.
The girls were finished at least two minutes before him.
Twidell frowned and peered at them intensely. "Don't you feel ... sick? I mean, this is strong."
"No, it's not," said Barb. "We always make them weak, in case our guests feel like a second one. That way, Barb and me can have a second one, too."
Barb tipped the pitcher to fill their glasses, "isn't this nice, Mister Twidell? We're awfully glad you popped over. And you don't have to worry about me and Joan learning French. We already know two phrases. Mom and Dad will flip when we reel those off. Won't they, Joan?"
"Hell, yes," nodded Joan. "What's your real name, Mister Twidell?"
He blinked as he saw Barb refilling his empty glass. "My real name?"
"Your first name?"
"Oh, uh, well, it's George."
"Oh, it is not," said Joan. "I think you're a big phony, George. I bet your real name is Mark Montesque, or something like that. And you aren't really a PhD, you're an unemployed sea captain trying to make a buck."
George began to laugh modestly. Then his limp mouth widened and he guffawed. "How did you know?"
"We know a lot of things," Barb said. She guzzled her martini, put it down and lit a Yarborough. She blew smoke into Twidell's face.
Twidell waved his hand to bat away the smoke. "That wasn't very nice of you, Barb."
"Georgie," she said, "I just wanted to see if you have a bad temper. So many guys I know have rotten tempers. Have you seen the latest issue of Playtime?" She produced the magazine from under the bar and cracked it open at the centerfold. A luscious redhead lay naked on a bearskin rug. "Lisa, our sister upstairs, posed for that, but our parents don't know about it yet. Nice-looking, isn't she?"
"Oh, my goodness." Twidell nearly dropped his martini.
Barb flipped pages. "Here, look at what the movie actor is doing to his girl friend. They live together in Hollywood. In this article, she said she and her boy friend wanted to come while the movie cameras were on them, but what with the rest of the cast and crew watching and the lights so hot and everything, it was ah they could do to keep his cock hard inside her cunt."
Twidell's lower hp trembled as he stared at the photos. His quaking fingers stretched out toward Barb. "Got a cigarette?" he asked.
She handed him hers; he puffed nervously. "You mean to tell me the girl in the centerfold is upstairs?"
"Naked, too," Joan said. "She always sleeps in the buff. I don't know what's the matter with Lisa. She sleeps with every man she meets. She just can't help herself. She doesn't care what he looks like, just so he has a cock in his pants."
"And the bigger the better," added Barb. She wrested Twidell's glass from his fingers and filled it to the top. "Better drink that, George, it'll calm your nerves. You look a little frayed, George."
In fact, beads of perspiration had began to run down his freckled forehead.
Barb lit a fresh cigarette and drained her glass. George dove into his like a man in need. When they got to the fifth martini, Barb eyed Joan.
Joan said, "Take your drink with you, George. We'll go upstairs now and wake up Lisa. I'm sure she'd like to meet you."
"Well, well, well," he spluttered. He pushed to his feet and nearly toppled backward. "I'll teach her ... some French."
"Comment allez vous," said Barb.
"Tres bien, merci," added Joan. "Lisa likes French, too. She likes to French kiss. All the boys French kiss her. She'll probably ask you to do that, so don't be too surprised."
"No, no." George Twidell fired two gulps of vodka into his throat. His lips broke into a silly grin. "You girls are right, yes you are. I don't really have a PhD. I went to college a couple years and flunked out. I guess I didn't study too hard. The guys in my fraternity used to hit the bottle pretty hard, and so did I. I wanted to be liked. But then I rammed my roommate's car into a lamppost, and they kicked me out of school."
"Oh, poor George," moaned Barb. "Well, Lisa will make it up to you. She can't stand guys with PhD's. She has a mother complex. She likes stray dogs and cats and guys who aren't too much with it."
Twidell staggered forward. "I ... love her already. I want to marry her. Lisa. Lisa Twidell. She'll take care of me and make me feel good."
"You look like you could use some rest," said Barb. "We'll take you to one of the bedrooms so you can lie down for a little while." She thrust the pitcher forward to refill his glass. "Try some more. It'll clear your head."
George downed his drink in a long draught. Then he coughed, blinked fast, and stared at Barb.
"Up the stairs," she said with a big smile. "Through the kitchen into the hallway. Lisa's waiting for you."
"Yes, yes," he whispered. "Lisa. Got to get to Lisa."
"But first you have to he down," put in Joan.
"Yes, oh yes, lie down," he huffed.
Barb said, "You're all sweaty, George. When we get up there, you better take off some of your clothes."
He nodded vigorously. "So hot, so hot in here."
"We'll cool you upstairs," Joan called over her shoulder. She scampered up the steps.
Barb patted him on the shoulder. "It'll be a groove for you and Lisa. I really think you're the man of her dreams." She held up the issue of Playtime in her left hand.
George took it eagerly and split it open to the centerfold. "Lisa," he muttered. "Oh my God, Lisa!" He gasped as he felt a hand on his swollen crotch.
"This is what she really wants," whispered Barb. "You'll have to give it to her."
He followed her upstairs like a puppy on a leash. Rooms caromed past his vision like impressionistic paintings. He found himself in a large master bedroom. He fell onto the bed. Hands tugged at his shoeleaces and belt buckle.
"Have to get these hot clothes off you, Georgie," a voice said.