Chapter 6

Eyes closed, Myra Harris listened to the drone of the propellers. She found it difficult to relax and put her galloping thoughts into chronological order. She could not stem the tide of excitement, still surprised and awed at her sudden skyrocketing success. In a matter of a few hours she would step off the plane in Los Angeles to be surrounded by a swarm of hungry news hounds, to be swept out of their orbit by the publicity man from Lance Studios who was-so said the telegram in her purse-to meet her plane.

Once more she marveled how all this could have happened to her, the quiet introvert little Miss Nobody from nowhere. Was this a reward from fate, a gift from the gods bestowed upon her to compensate for the deep disappointment, the wound, still raw, she tried to hide even from herself? Funny that this very hurt that had festered and seared her insides, the branding pain she could never talk about, had forced her to put it all down on paper. That story of her love for Jack and the strange manner in which he had dropped out of her life, ending up as her sister's prize-a story solved In her novel by her tortured imagination-now made her famous.

She recalled her indecision before mailing the manuscript off to the New York publisher; never would she have done so without die urging of Meta Meyers, her old English teacher.

"Why Myra, this is a really exciting story. Psychologically well grounded. Your plot is interesting, your characters sharp. And the motif of hate is carried all the way through-to its logical conclusion ... Got your title?"

"I kind of fancy Seed of Hate for a possible title." Her violet eyes probed the older woman's withered face. Meta Meyers approved. "Sounds exciting. Seed of Hate. Go ahead, use it. And, as a pen name-" she screwed up her eyes-"Myra's okay, many Myras in this world ... Hm," she closed her eyes better to concentrate. "Alliteration always sounds better. Yes, Myra Manners I do like. Sounds dignified."

Thus the manuscript had been dispatched with Myra's title and the pen name of Myra Manners. And Myra had almost forgotten her artistic catharsis having other worries to contend with. Her father who had been in poor health for years suddenly died from heart failure and Myra had to stand by her mother, an utterly helpless and incompetent woman.

"We should contact Gail," urged her mother. "Maybe she could come to the funeral."

It was Myra who went through her mother's old letters and unearthed Gail's only letter, written over a year ago. And it was Myra who sent the wire to the Oakland address. As Myra had anticipated, two days later, a short wire of condolence arrived from Oakland, signed Mrs. Jack Michaels.

"Of course Gail couldn't make it to the funeral," sighed her mother, "but it wouldn't have hurt her to say more."

Myra didn't answer, wondering, picturing it all in her mind-her sister Gail and her husband, Jack Michaels arriving in Plymouth Falls. Gail, self-assured, oozing happiness ... And Jack-would he seek her out and try and explain-what she never had been able to explain to herself-his sudden rejection of her, Myra. Well, she concluded, the only explanation I shall ever get is the one I gave in my story ... Somehow, some way, Gail had appropriated Jack in her underhanded way, and she, Myra, would never know any truth save the one she had invented and put down on paper.

The first few months Myra had been tormented, asking herself where she had fallen short. Yes, it had been childish to insist on an elaborate wedding ... but was that reason enough for Jack to reject her entirely? Her pride rebelled, she wanted to force an explanation from him. She composed a dozen letters, then tore them up. What was the use? She would cut a ridiculous figure and she didn't even know where to send a letter. Gail, in her shrewdness, had cut all communication, most likely exulting at the thought of Myra's defeat.

The first weeks after Gail's marriage to Jack were dreary ones for Myra who broke off all social contacts feeling herself the laughing stock of the town. She was glad to be buried in the library and went straight home from work, spending her evenings reading or watching TV. Meta Meyers, her old teacher, came to call.

"Really Myra, it's absurd to remain closeted like this. Folks have forgotten about you and Jack. Fact is, by keeping shut in you give them ground for talking."

It was Meta who had taken her to the party at Mrs. Bell's where, at first, Myra had sat in a corner watching the others have fun. She was nursing her punch, watching them dance on the terrace, when a deep voice startled her.

"I don't know who you've been watching all evening," said the tall blond man with the brush moustache she'd never seen before, "but I've been watching you all evening. Mind if I sit down?" He pulled up a chair and was now facing her.

She had to say something. Looking up into his ruddy, good-natured face, she forced a smile. "I don't mind at all. I like to observe people," she explained. "And then I try to imagine what they're really like-I mean, when they're alone and not showing their party-face." Saying this she was startled how near it came to the truth.

"Ah," as he smiled now his blue eyes lit up, "a budding writer. And, tell me, what would you guess was my profession?"

"You," she frowned with concentration, "look to me like an athlete. Yes, a football coach maybe."

His laughter boomed. "You're way off. No, my job is quite prosaic. I work in the post office. Just got transferred here from Des Moines. It seems like a come-down, and although I've been invited all over town I found things very dull. But as of now I have hopes."

She arched her brows.

"Yes, now things are looking up. Now that I'm talking to the prettiest girl in town."

He had insisted on taking her home. He was a stranger and didn't know she had been jilted, thus she felt no inferiority complex with him. They dated twice a week. Myra had grown to like the young man who had a fine sense of humor and was a voracious reader. He wasn't exciting like Jack had been, but his company was soothing. Listening to his amusing chatter, feeling his admiring glances, she started to be her old happy self again.

But at night with the lights out, under her covers, she brooded. Having started to write down all about her deep hurt, she re-lived her hours with Jack. Why doesn't the hurt go away? she wondered. After all, Jack had never seriously damaged her; she felt almost sorry now for having guarded her virginity so carefully. Maybe if she had given in that certain night after the dance, he would be hers now. If he had insisted ... She recalled the scene clearly.

Two o'clock in the morning, with the full moon bathing the quiet countryside in unearthly clarity, with each tree boldly etched against the night sky. He had stopped the car under a large oak tree and had taken her in his arms. She recalled the wild, unruly look in his dark eyes, his hands that had found her full breasts beneath the filmy gown. And his voice, oddly strained.

"Myra, I want you so much it hurts." His fierce sucking lips had kindled the fire in her, and for one moment she had responded, seeking his embrace, allowing him to lift the snowy balls out of the decollette, fondling them. He had gorged himself on them, making them bounce right there in the car.

Myra had felt dizzy, completely overwhelmed by her own hot flooding passion. His hand grew bold, stole beneath the dress, tantalizing her, making her tremble and glow. Then he took her hand, kissed it and guided it to his tautness.

"See what you do to me? I can't sleep for wanting you-all of you. Myra, why wait? This night will never come back, will be lost to us. Come on, I know a place where we can be alone."

She had sat there paralyzed, while he was driving like mad, finally stopping in front of the Blue Heron Motel. His arms went about her. She could still taste his moist, slobbering kiss. He will let himself go, she thought, his hot, sweaty body will top mine ... She would be defiled. She pushed him away and sat up straight.

"Let's wait until we're married. It won't be long. And," her eyes implored, "then it will be right."

His face had hardened. He frowned into the night. "You and your well-bred, prissy ways," he spat at her. "Sometimes I wonder...."He had driven her home and they had made up and kissed.

Yes, that's when I lost him, she decided, by refusing, holding back my own urge. Well, she wouldn't make that mistake again with Earl Bender. By pleasing him she would also please herself, she admitted. For, Earl's slow gourmet kisses did strange things to her equilibrium. She wanted to be plucked and devoured; her body was overflowing with sap; she was ripe fruit ready for picking.

I've lost a lost of precious time, she told herself, standing before her bathroom mirror that sultry summer evening, watching her white-curved body. She clutched her full breasts delighting in their elastic resilience, making them bounce. Earl would like them. Her hands trailed down her satiny hips, feeling the soft flesh. She patted her slightly mounded abdomen, inspected her long slim legs. I have a body made for love, she thought, and the thought made her dizzy with anticipation. She felt the blood race through her body, watched the sparkle of her eyes, now almost black.

She dressed with utmost care for her date with Earl; he was taking her to dinner at a roadhouse, five miles out of town. And after that, she decided, she didn't care where he would take her.

I feel reckless, lustful and desirable, she told her appearance in the mirror. The low-cut blue summer frock moulded her figure lovingly; the spidery gauze "accentuated the rondure of her breasts. High-heeled blue slippers enhanced the trimness of her ankles. Her silver-blonde hair framed the pure oval of her pale face in which the eyes looked like twin violets.

She felt exhilarated, gay and full of wanting, eager for his admiration.

He didn't withold it. As she sauntered into the living room, he jumped up from his chair and stood there wide-eyed, staring at her.

"Myra, you look adorable. A breath of spring. Fragile, delightfully delicate, and yet so womanly."

He kissed her right there in the living room and she didn't mind at all. She kissed him back and pressed herself against him, abandoning with her lips her whole person.

Abruptly, he released her. "You make me dizzy, Myra. Drunk with love. I'm hungry for you."

"And I," she smiled into his blue eyes," am simply hungry for food."

But she had only picked at her dinner. He had refilled her wine glass many times so that now she felt in high spirits, light-headed, yet full of bubbling excitement.

He hadn't asked, had taken it for granted that she was ready to be loved. She had followed him into cabin five of that same motel where Jack had once intended to initiate her. She heard him close and lock the door, staring at the wide open bed, not afraid, knowing she would leave this room, this bed, a knowing, loved woman-one who had given all and was glad about it.