Chapter 2
"What can I do?" the petite blonde with the alert, robust face asked, her small, shapely ankle bobbing merrily. She sat across a small table from Ed Boland, her topaz eyes intent on his face. Although she generally exuded a pixyish humor and elfin sex appeal, tonight she was dead serious. "I mean it, Ed. After all, we're out of the Dark Ages. A woman has a right to a decent sex life."
For all his own sense of personal misery, Boland was able to feel sympathy for the vivacious young woman, Nola Pedderson. She thought physical education at the junior high where Boland taught. And though exercise was reputed to have a helpful effect on regulating an individual's sex life, it seemed, if anything, to increase Nola Pedderson's.
"He's even taken to calling me Bunny in public, Ed," she said, a trace of a blush showing on her shiny face. "You know I don't look like the bunny-rabbit type, so people naturally assume only one thing, that I'm oversexed. And he doesn't help them lose that impression, either."
Boland glanced covertly at his watch. Ten more minutes to his night class in Anthropology. Another step toward the all-important master's degree that would make his salary as a teacher mean something-the difference between failure and Lilly.
"What about it, Ed? You seem to know instinctively what to do with personal problems."
He managed a wry smile at Nola Pedderson. "I wish I could be so lucky with my own."
She squeezed his hand. "Oh, come on, you've landed the most gorgeous girl in Hurley, Minnesota. And I happen to know Ruthie Jorgensen owes a good deal to you. You helped her solve a big problem with Tommy. Face it, Ed, you're a, natural teacher. People have confidence in you. You probably know more about the sex life of Hurley than any doctor."
Ed took a sip of his coffee and left a little switch flicker inside of him. Poor, lovable Nola Pedderson, head over heels in love with Mac, a big hulk of a man who'd put a fierce fight for her and had won, much to his pride. Only now, his big feather bed had become something of a battle ground with Nola in it.
"Baby," he said, "let's face it, you've got a different personality than Mac. He's slow and easy going, you're always fired up."
"I'll say I'm fired up. He hasn't touched me in over a week."
"Okay, why not remember that men naturally like to play the part of the aggressor. In some cases, they aren't very aggressive and it makes them feel even better to think they are. Instead of bouncing in his lap after supper and saying, "Let's,' why not put on a sexy night gown and sit in front of the TV brushing your hair. Show a little leg. Arouse his interest slowly. If it takes another night for him to get around to it, you might ask him to scrub your back in the tub, or ask him if he likes the new bra you bought. Or come storming out in a half-slip bitching about having nothing to wear. He'll be happy for the diversion."
"You mean, work him up?"
"Right. You've taken this emancipated woman business too far. You're rightfully proud of the fact that out of eleven brothers and sisters, you worked your way through school, became a teacher and got the man you wanted. Now let him be the man and get you."
Her eyes shone. "Ed," she said, "it feels tight. It sounds good. In fact, I think I'll even let him suggest the position we use. He used to like doing that." Impulsively, she leaned over to kiss him. "You're wonderful. I'm going to name our first boy Edward."
"You haven't had him yet."
She stood up and gathered her books. "Tonight could be the night," she said.
Walking from the nearly deserted student union, Boland experienced a pang of depression and decided to cut his class. The surroundings of the campus bothered him. Hurley College. Big deal. So far away from everything, people made jokes speculating whether they even belonged to the State of Minnesota. A master's degree from Hurley would really go far-about as far as the outskirts of town.
He went into the graduate student's office, a place desolate enough during the day. By night, it seemed more hopeless than Ma own classroom at Hurley Junior High.
Grace Edwards, the counselor, took his folder from the files and sat down to face Mm "You were right, Ed," she said covertly. "TMs is the end of two months. I've never been able to go that long before without. The floors of my apartment are scrubbed clean, I've personally painted the walls, knit three pair of socks and taken up water colors. The withdrawal was awful. But I think I've got it licked. Why, why I've even accepted a date with a man-and I think I like Mm."
Ed nodded. "What about her?" he said.
"She's called a few times. She isn't the only one in town, either, you know. When they pass me on the streets, they call me a turncoat. They start taunting. One of them laughed and said I couldn't possibly hold out, that I'd be begging her to go to bed with me."
"Don't think about it," Ed said.
Grace managed a rueful smile. "Don't think about it! Ed, she's got a build on her like Lilly. Sometimes at night I wake up all sweaty after dreaming she'd been in my arms, kissing, fondling me."
Ed Boland drew in a breath and wondered how the hell it happened. Amateur marriage counselor. Armchair psychiatrist. Big deal, a major in psychology from a college no one ever heard of and all of a sudden, he was solving problems.
"You've got to understand," he said, "that this isn't like being addicted to drugs. It's normal to have sex urges."
"But not very normal to have them for girls," Grace said, "that is, unless you happen to be a boy."
"You know, people do backslide and still win their battles, Grace." She patted his hand. "Thank you, Ed. There are times when I find myself envying Lilly for having such an understanding male. Too bad some of the males earlier in my life weren't more like you. Then things might be different. I might not go out chasing cute young things in high heels and skirts."
Boland went over his scholastic record with Grace and put in a petition to be permitted to submit his master's thesis early, based on his good grades. "I hope it's granted," Grace said. "I'm sure you can use the extra forty-five a month it will mean for you. And I'll bet I know exactly what you'll do with it. But you tell her to be careful, you hear? I'm getting more and more normal as time goes on."
Ed entered the Hurley College library and, from the dingy shelf that held the academic catalogs of other colleges throughout the country, withdrew all those from California. As long as you're going to dream, he told himself, go all the way.
He copied out addresses and went to the student body store. He paid a dollar for a packet of good bond paper after carefully debating over the cheaper kind. Impressions mattered, he thought. Besides, this would be another good chance to try giving up cigarettes.
He typed applications for employment based on his present position and impending master's degree, then plunked them in the mail before he had time to think better of it. Nothing ventured-nothing gained.
Leaving the dreary campus, he decided to go whole hog on his resolve about the cigarettes by spending the money allotted for them on a few beers. He felt moody and desperate and last night's episode with Lilly still lingered unsettlingly with him.
He crossed Scott Street, his eyes arrested by a display in Fritch's department store. One window was filled with daring new lingerie. The sign said they were the latest California fashions and he shuddered at the thought of Lilly wanting something of luxury to feel next to her skin. Invariably, she had to settle for the merchandise in the next window, the hosiery advertised as seconds, the bras and panties advertised as good, solid practical bargain. He really couldn't blame her for wanting something.
On his way past Rickenbacker's Grill, Ed promptly reasoned he could manage two extra beers by seeking a cheaper place, a place where the draft was fifteen or twenty a glass. But through the ornately decorated windows of Rickenbacker's-Hurley's finest restaurant-he saw something that gave him a chill.
Seated at one of the rear tables was Lilly. She was wearing her best suit, a clinging red garment she cared for jealously. The top part of the suit emphasized her thigh, pointed breasts, which she thrust out proudly, almost invitingly. Her legs were crossed, and the skirt had hiked lap to a point above her lovely knees. Across the table from her and laughing uproariously over something he'd just said was Bert Thielan, resplendent in a boldly checkered vest. Bert made no secret of his admiration for Lilly's slim, exposed calves.
In front of them were the remains of dinner dishes and next to the table was a stately silver ice bucket, housing a tall bottle of champagne, Ed Boland blanched at the sight. Was it possible ? Had she given in this quickly?
Morosely, he wandered on, quickening his pace when he came to a small tavern frequented by Hurley business men and all those to whom the luxury of a few more glasses of beer mattered more than the luxury of being able to drink that at Rickenbacker's.
He gulped his first beer, all too aware that it would take more, much more, to provide the relief he sought to quench the torment raging inside of him. On his second beer, he tried playing a game with himself, imagining it was whiskey and actually trying to invent the release a pilsner glass of whiskey would have provided
As he was about to signal for his third and final beer, Chris, the waitress, plunked ckwa next to him and touched his arm. He turned to smile woodenly at the attractive redhead. "Business is slowing down," she said. "I'd like to talk to you for a while, Ed. Could we move over to a booth?"
Grimly, Boland nodded, knowing Chris had a problem she wanted to discuss and also knowing Chris was more or less willing to pay for his ear. At the moment, it seemed like a fair exchange. As he sat in a booth, Chris brought over a bottle of frosty Grain Belt Premium, a beer that was eleven percent alcohol. Perhaps now he could get somewhere.
"Ed," she said nervously, "I tried. Honestly I did. I tried everything you said and I thought it would work, but I can't remain faithful to my husband."
He let a large swallow of the beer trickle over his throat. "What seems to be the problem, Chris?"
"You know, Ed. Some guy comes in here and gives me the eye and I can't help myself. I start getting all worked up, particularly if I know I'll never see him again. We start off with a little grab and grope in one of the back booths and the next thing I know, I'm getting my coat and going with him. It isn't that Manny and I don't get along well in bed, I just can't seem to help myself."
"Chris," he said slowly, "do you want to remain faithful to Manny?"
She pondered a moment. "Yes, I guess I do, especially knowing what it means to him."
"It means a lot?"
"Sounds to me then that you take off with these
"Yes, we've talked about it." other guys to get even with him. There's a good motive, getting even. What are you mad at him for?"
"Why, the crumb! With the money he's making, over two and a half an hour, we never get to have anything new in the house. Same old beat up '49 Chevvy. Same beat up old bed spread. A TV set that looks like a museum piece. It's so old, you can still get Milton Berle on it. It isn't like we don't have any money saved, either. We bank whatever I bring home and some of his. But what's the sense of all the insurance and saving if you can't have anything new or different once in a while?"
"Have you talked with him about it?"
"How can I talk to him? Every time I say, let's get something new for the house, he wants to know what for. He says the old is good enough."
"Do you love him, Chris?"
"Sure I love him. I didn't have to marry him, you know. I had plenty of dates and boy friends before him."
Boland considered for a moment, then smiled into his beer. The big shot again. A few psychology courses from a second rate college, and listen to him hold forth. It reminded him of his own college days, when he used to buy beers for m old coot who'd reel off poetry by the hour.
"You mind a personal question?"
"From you, Ed? Are you kidding? With what you know about me? What do you want to know? How often? Well, Manny and I make it about twice a week and if I get mad at him, I step out about two or three times a month. I-I like to do things to them I've never done to Manny."
Boland smiled. "That fits, too, but that isn't the question. How old are you?"
"Thirty-three."
"And you've been married how long?"
"Eight years."
"Chris, I'd be willing to bet Manny would not only go for a new car, he'd let you redecorate the place-provided you stayed home to manage it."
"And quit bringing in my weekly check? You think he'd let me get away with that?"
"He'd have to if you were pregnant."
"A kid?"
"Do you want children?"
"I suppose so. Sure I do. Say, you really think that would do it?"
"I bet it would change a lot of things."
"Ed, I got to hand it to you, you're really terrific."
Big shot. Next move California with a big office to advise people. Ed Boland, the junior high science teacher with a bit of homespun philosophy and a bit of cribbing from Dear Abby. He finished the beer and walked home, helpless and empty again.
He had two rooms in a large house. The only thing private about it was the entrance-and the bed, which was so small, no one else would be interested in it.
A tall, gaunt man, Boland walked with a shambling-gait up the front steps, brooding over the fact that he was nearly thirty and had the prospects of quickly reaching the end of the rope. Okay, suppose he got the M.A. degree from Hurley? Than what? A forty-five buck a month raise and maybe a chance at teaching psychology at the college when one of the two teachers there decided to retire or move on. A forty-five hundred dollar a year job, then, with possibilities of summer school bringing in an extra few hundred.
Face facts, he told himself, fumbling for his key you'll never realize your dreams. Even if you got the job at Hurley College, where could you go from there? The big, well-paying schools wanted men with degrees from Harvard or Yale, mm who'd published things, men with brilliant records. He visualized a grim future. If there were a small, insignificant school tucked away in an insignificant part of some other state, that would be his only hope. Maybe he could switch locales, find a warmer place or a different kind of place, but the atmosphere would be the same. Cheap rooms and chewy meat and high interest rates on loans were the same everywhere.
He opened the door and flicked on the 50 watt bulb in the wall fixture, jerking back in surprise at the sight of Lilly, sitting on the edge of his narrow bed.
She was completely naked, her long hair unpinned and dangling loosely down her bared shoulders, giving dramatic accent to her lovely bared breasts.
In an instant, Boland could tell she was feeling the effects of the drinks she'd had. But the really pathetic thing was the way her clothes were so neatly folded on the chair next to the bed. Her cheap stockings were hung carefully over the back. Even while being tight on champagne, she couldn't afford the luxury of a run. Her suit was folded expertly and her one pair of good echoes appeared pleading and forlorn, sitting there stuffed with old newspapers to help retain their shape.
She started to snicker, but interrupted it with a burp. "Sorry," she said. "Had no right. Had no right to come. But I couldn't help it, Ed. I really couldn't help it. You've got to do something."
Anger boiled in him. "Maybe I could get a job with Bert Thielan."
"Ed, he bought me French champagne. We had a big bottle of it. And a steak wrapped in bacon. And fresh green beans with a mushroom sauce. Ed, have you ever had real French champagne?"
"Was it worth it, Lilly?"
She shrugged, then lowered her eyes guiltily. "He admired my body, Ed. He was nice about it. He told me he knew he'd been wanting me for a long time. He told me he knew he'd get me someday. But for a man like that, he was nice."
Boland thrust his hands in his pockets. "He let you off pretty early."
"You've got a right to be mad, Ed. But I couldn't help it."
"You told me not to touch you. You told me to leave you alone, but for a lousy bottle of wine and a steak, you went to bed with him?"
Lilly stretched her hand out. "You're so understanding, Ed. Help me, please. Do something. Do something for us now."
"You mean, make what you did all right. Take away your guilt and my anger."
Her eyes held a compelling plea. "Yes," she said, drawing her arms about her knees. "Yes, that and everything else. Do everything. Take me away from this. Touch me, make love to me. Make it all right again, Ed."
He wanted very much to be able to walk out of the room, out of her life forever. But he could not. He moved toward her with leaden steps, realizing how monstrous it was, how very frightened and desperate she was.
My trouble, he thought. I understand too much. A man would hit her-once, twice, maybe three times. He'd call her names. Tramp, whore, miserable filthy bitch, selling your body for a steak dinner.
But Boland could not call her these names. He could think only how desperate he was and how the desperation ran over into his love for her. "I tried something tonight that might be a help," he said, dropping to his haunches.
Her eyes opened and she peered at him over the tops of her knees. Slowly, she unclasped her hands and extended one to him. "Tell me about it later, Ed. But now, let's be the way we used to be. Let's be slow and gentle and take a long, long time. Make everything good again, Ed. Make everything proper the way it was before."
Boland touched her and the passion began, but it was not the way she wanted. From the first embrace, her eyes were flooded with tears and several times Boland had to caution her about her moaning. He hadn't the privacy she had in her apartment. The room above theirs was rented by a crotchety old woman, the landlady was separated by a small room and a narrow hallway.
The bed springs creaked and the mattress buckled, but when their bodies were joined together, Boland experienced the old feeling of inevitable, inextricable habit. The sharp movements of her loins against his seemed to drive into him realizations that he could not do without her, that he would do anything he possibly could for her.
Her hands gripped him tightly and she shut her eyes, throwing her body into a frenzied movement as if to blot out all memory, as if to purge herself of guilt and shame, as if to create a forgetfulness so strong and intense, it would solve all their problems.
She moaned, wriggled and writhed and Boland became aware again of the length of time this was occupying. It was odd how moments seemed like hours during a properly tender interlude of love making, how normal quickness seemed a blessing, an accent to the fine drama of love making. But something had long since happened to them. It was like a curse in a story of fantasy.
He paused to gulp in air, aware of her brief pause before she resumed her frantic motion. Drinking to forget, making love to obliterate it was all the same. The alcoholic was interested only in the proof of the alcohol he drank. Lilly was interested only in the prolonged forgetfulness they could manufacture with their overly heightened passion.
A lover's dream come true or a grim, unwanted talent.
Watching her entire body striving to achieve forgetfulness, Boland knew if things should ever work out for them, their love making would never again be like this. There would be more innocence in it, more of a return to a sort of naive belief and trust in the unknown.
Was it sheer exhaustion or the wearing down of resistance? Finally, Lilly's body began a sudden spasmodic jerking and she found the release she sought, gasping and panting, her hands gripping tightly at his arms.
For Boland there was nothing. He fell on his side next to her, his desire still heightened and aroused, incapable of fulfillment. Lilly completely misinterpreted as she snuggled closer. "What a magnificent man you are, Ed. Who'd have ever thought such a gentle man could be so very, very virile?"
When Boland said nothing, she burrowed her chin against his chest. "I feel better now, better than I have in a long time. Now tell me you forgive me and then explain what you've done."
Boland lay in silence for a few moments, trying to phrase the words of forgiveness. When he uttered them, she snuggled even closer and kissed him. As he started telling her about the letters of application he'd sent to California schools, Lilly fell into a deep sleep and it was fully an hour before he could rouse her, get her dressed and walk with her to her apartment, where there was less danger of their being discovered.