Chapter 4

It was on a coolish, cloudy day in early June that Bob hopped into his '69 Ford pickup and headed toward Mansfield, Ohio. It had taken that long for him to finally iron out the details between himself and the pretty blonde named Gail Turner. And now, at long last-

If Ardis had suspected anything when he'd packed his best suit, some ties and dress-up shirts, the new pair of brogues, she hadn't let on. He'd be staying over the weekend, after all, and he'd need something fit to wear to church on Sunday morning, wouldn't he?

He would dicker for a new generator on Saturday. And if he and the dealer got together on something, he'd return in a couple more weeks to haul it back. A major purchase like a heavy-duty generator took time and careful judgment. Ardis was sour about his being gone over the weekend, but then, when wasn't she sour lately?

If he pushed the truck hard, he'd most likely get into Gaspar, forty miles north of Mansfield, by late afternoon. He was to check into a motel called the South Wind by six. Gail had given him a number to call so he could tell her which room he was in. "Make it imagine, won't you, honey?" she'd wheedled via long distance. "A pretty room, a nice bottle of Scotch or something, huh?"

They'd have Friday night, all day Saturday and Saturday night together. By then they should damned well know if they could hit it off or not.

And their next meeting? Bob smiled smugly to himself. That would take care of itself. For once Gail had a taste of the tool on him, once she'd had a bellyful of meat like this, there'd be no doubt that she'd want seconds. Eternal seconds.

Abruptly he turned off the thoughts. You sound like a damned hound, he scolded himself. Sure, lust featured importantly in his plans. But even more important was compatibility, a rapport beyond the sex part of things. A sweet girl, a gentle and compassionate girl, a girl he could talk to, pour his heart out to. A girl he could love, who would love him back.

And granted, there'd been times when he'd had his doubts whether or not Gail was that kind of woman at all. It had certainly taken him long enough to pin her down. She wasn't sure whether or not she wanted to go through with this or not. At first, when she'd received his picture, had found him so handsome and all, she was positive she wanted to. But lately she'd had second thoughts.

In the first place, she hadn't counted on things costing so much. She didn't exactly live in Toledo; she lived farther north, in Michigan. The trip, hiring a sitter for her children for the weekend, would cost more, than she could afford. And the picture Bob kept insisting upon. She didn't have a good recent one. Her last studio portrait had been taken when she was twenty-two. She was twenty-seven now. She just wanted to look her best for him. If he should take a look at the picture and turn against her, she'd be heartbroken.

Bob had been slightly suspicious, but Gail had sounded so innocent and up against it that he'd sent her $100 to help out. Even then she wouldn't commit herself. She was a poor widow. Her allowance was pitifully small. She didn't have a dress or shoes-as well as other unmentionables-that were fit to wear for an intimate weekend with her first lover. Another $100 money order had gone through the mail.

Even then Gail had tried to stall, but Bob had become impatient, had threatened to call the whole thing off. A very frightened, insecure Gail had finally consented to meet him at Gas-par. He would be kind and understanding, wouldn't he? If she turned out to be innocent about things, a dumb bunny about motel room assignations with a man she'd never seen before?

Bob's suspicions had melted like spring snow, and he'd been sorry he'd even suspected Gail. He was sure he'd be able to put her mind at ease; already he thought he felt those first tremors growing within him.

His mind fled ahead to their meeting and already he wished he was there. He felt worldly and sophisticated; he felt like he stood ten feet tall. As quickly there was a letdown. In the form of remembrance of his shrewish, cold-assed wife. Things were certainly no better between them. Seemingly she'd forgiven him his last outrage-the thing with the sperm-filled rubber, and they had returned to the same old impasse once more. There had even been a feeble breakthrough of sorts.

It went without saying that Bob had (since early in their marriage) hunted the sex novel and marriage manual racks in certain drug stores and smoke shops which carried them. When his marriage suddenly went to hell, he'd immediately blamed himself. It was something he'd done to affront his sweet wife's vaunted modesty and femininity. And since she wouldn't discuss it-he was forced to look somewhere else for help.

He'd read dozens of sex instruction books; he'd devoured hundreds of the erotic novels dealing with the sexual hang-ups that can threaten a marriage. It was, in fact, in one of these novels that he'd come upon wife swapping for the first time. For a while there he hadn't been able to read enough about the rapidly spreading phenomenon.

And yes, redneck though he was, Bob knew all the words, all the endless sexual practices used by inventive and/or jaded lovers. Fellatio, cunnilingus, soixante-neuf, sodomy, pederasty, annilinctus, ancillary practices, sadism, masochism, urolagnia, coprophagy, flagellation, fetishism, bondage, incest, frottage-all were grist for his mill. He was willing to use any or all of the sex variants in order to bring about his wife's sensual rebirth, should she but give him a chance.

There had apparently been a crack in the wall one night just two weeks back. Perhaps Ardis had read something about a wife's obligations to her husband in one of her tracts; perhaps Reverend Milton had said something to rock her smug complacency. For that night, when he'd cravenly begun his sex sniffings, she'd been almost receptive to his overtures.

"I'm sorry, Bob," she'd muttered in the darkness as he'd kissed her clumsily on her face and throat, the only adorations she ever allowed these days, "really I am. I haven't been a good wife to you. I want to be, but something inside just won't let me. I can't help it. Just be patient with me a little longer; I'll try, I swear I will."

She'd become still more agitated. She was verging on as much passion as he'd seen her exhibit in years. "I don't want you going off and drinking with those no-goods no more. I don't want you to get like you were that night ylou wrecked the house ... that night you ... tied me down." Her voice had actually snagged in honest grief and regret. "Please, Bob?"

"What, Ardis, honey?"

"Be kind to me. Teach me how to love you again. I do want to learn. But you'll have to be patient. A little at a time. You mustn't expect too much ... no overnight miracles." She'd trembled violently. "Tonight, Bob! Oh, please . ... "

Then and there, wonder of wonders, she'd gone limp in his arms, had actually allowed him to kiss her upon the lips, to work her nightgown up around her shoulders. She'd spasmed involuntarily as his lips had careened down her belly, but had made no move of rejection. And then, for the first time since that night he'd lashed her to the bed, she permitted that ultimate reverence. She'd even forced her legs open, steepled her knees of her own free will; she'd endured it stoically when his mouth had closed on her warm, moist vagina, when his mouth had invaded and commenced a fiery tonguing.

Finally she'd stopped him. "No more, Bob. Please. Do it to me now. Before I lose my nerve."

Gratefully, his heart threatening to burst his chest from hope, from gratitude, he'd come atop Ardis. In a last attempt to return her to the living once more, he'd made a move to bring her fingers to his penis, to have her guide it in, but she'd frozen up at this, couldn't do it.

Then he'd slowly eased his penis into her unusually wet slit, had commenced his slow plundering.

But in the end it had been the same as always. She'd lain there like a rock, had made no motions with her own hips, with her inner self. Not once did a sigh of passion, a gurgle of enjoyment pass her lips.

After his too quick ejaculation, he was once more defeated; he should have known it would never be any different. "Oh, Ardis," he'd groaned, his bitterness greater than words. "Oh, no! God, what's wrong with us? Ardis..."

"Don't blaspheme," she hissed. "I tried, I tell you! What more can I do!"

"You didn't try," he'd snarled. "You went back to y'r Old ways. You froze up again, you..." But it was hopeless.

Again the customary fight had commenced, both of them driven by different devils. As usual, it had ended up with her telling him to go find some slut somewhere. And, as usual, she'd ended up with her eternal taunt:

"Find a trollop if you can, Bob! I dare you. There's no other woman on God's green earth'll have you. Not a clumsy hillbilly like you. You make me laugh, Bob. That's a fact. You really do. Go! Go! Find your rubber-legged slut if you can!"

Abruptly Bob .woke from his humiliating reverie, blinked his eyes against the film of outraged tears. Ardis, he groaned inwardly, If you just knew! If you just knew!

Now he pushed the pickup harder. Gaspar was still 300 miles away.

He had been in the motel over an hour now. There had been time enough to call Gail Turner. There had been time for a hasty shower, time to change into his dude clothes. Everything in the super-plush room was in order, from the bottle of J&B, the ice and glasses, to the small bouquet of long-stemmed roses he'd bought. Now, his heart thudding madly for fear she wouldn't come (for fear that she would!), he heard the timid knocking on his door.

He swayed where he stood and sucked in a ragged breath. Now he fought back panic as he went to open the door.

The girl who stood there-blonde, and no mistake-wasn't as pretty as her photograph had made her out to be. She was a trifle plumper, more mussed than he'd expected. But she was still pretty enough in a faded way, and immediately Bob rationalized, made excuses for her. She was tired from her trip; she was every bit as nervous about this as he was.

"Bob? Oh, my, you're so much taller and stronger than I thought you'd be."

They didn't kiss, as Bob had fantasized a thousand times beforehand. They didn't even touch. Instead they stood apart, awkwardly assessing one another. Suddenly transformed into the village idiot, Bob could only gulp, take up the box of flowers, push them into her arms.

"Oh, Bob," she murmured, "You shouldn't have. Oh, they're beautiful." But even as she cooed over the flowers it seemed to Bob that her eyes covertly fled about the room to see if there wasn't something more expensive by way of welcoming gift. Her eyes fell on the Scotch, and her smile broadened. "Oh, Bob, you did remember, after all..."

Normally Bob didn't care for whiskey; it did things to him. But Gail was seemingly used to it. She wouldn't dream of spoiling good Scotch by diluting it with anything more than ice cubes. Still they sat apart, in separate chairs.

The interlude gave him time to inspect Gail further, and he was hard put to squelch the suspicion that she was older than twenty-seven. He wondered if she'd used the money for a new portrait, or had the one she'd sent had been taken years ago. And her dress, it certainly didn't look new.

The Scotch did its work expertly, and within another half hour the tension lifted, and they were joking and laughing with each other. Her face was pretty when she laughed, and her hair-though somewhat brittle and stiff-caught glints of light that Bob found exceedingly lovely. His doubts faded, and he was positive that they were going to get along just fine.

"Don't, honey," she protested, when he came to her, attempting to pull her up from the chair to kiss her. "Please? Not so soon? A girl needs some time ... to get used to a man. Don't hurry me, Bob? In due time. I'll be good to you. I promise."

He backed off slightly. He should have known better. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Here, let's have another li'l drink. Here's looking at you, darlin'. To the wonderful time we're gonna have."

She made him go down to her car 'to bring her bags. Again he was stopped dead. It was a new Chrysler, hardly the kind of heap a penniless widow would own. When he got to the room and asked her, she gigglingly said she'd borrowed it from her father. "Now, honey," she slurred, her hands seductively sliding on his chest, her blue eyes flirty and trusting, as big as cornflowers, "why don't you just take a little walk around the block while I change into something pretty? So you can take me someplace special for dinner. That's a good boy." Suddenly, confusedly, Bob left the room.