Chapter 5
The Parsons Institute was an incongruous Tudor Renaissance building that did not at all jibe with the rest of Minneapolis. The receptionists seemed brisk and furtive, the rooms labeled as libraries and conference rooms gave the impression of being props.
Boland tried desperately not to see this. After all, a Ph.D. degree still meant something to him.
"And naturally," Mr. Parsons said to him, "you don't have to stop your studies when you receive our Ph.D. degree. Many of our graduates tend to use our degrees as supplementary, augmenting with advanced degrees they earn later. One of our pupils, for example, had difficulty securing his master's degree in engineering. We were able to help. With his diploma from us, he was able to secure employment at an eastern missile concern, then secure another master's degree in the field of management. While he is appreciative to us, his allegiance now seems to be toward his new Alma Mater. But he does remember us with nice contributions."
"Okay," Boland said, "let's get down to cases.
You've read my file?"
"Yes," Parsons said. "Hurley college thinks quite well of you. So well that we're quite willing to let you begin work on your doctorate immediately. Tomorrow, you'll meet with an advisor who will go over your course of study with you and make the necessary arrangements for you to begin sending in papers and assignments. On the basis of these, we'll approve your choice for a doctor's thesis and expect to see your first draft by a time mutually acceptable to all of us." He tapped the folder with Boland's papers in it. "Yes, they were most enthusiastic about you at Hurley. Now we also try to get some insight into the possibility of future employment for our graduates and I notice here that Hurley says you'd make an excellent marriage counselor and psychotherapist. With one of our degrees, you can be licensed to practice in most states."
Ed was stunned when he realized the material Parsons had must have come from Grace. It was too coincidental. "I still think I prefer teaching," he said.
"Well, you see, that might be a bit more difficult if you want college or university level."
The next morning at his conference, they drove this home to him in vivid detail. His counselor and advisor was Ethel Sommers, a tall, large boned blonde who eyed him frankly through the interview and spelled things out for him.
"You could have your degree in marriage counseling and therapy in a year, Mr. Boland. A degree in education would take perhaps twice as long and you'd still run the risk of being lost in the terrible shuffle that goes on for big name schools. We're frankly small and can't compete with the likes of Harvard and Yale and Princeton."
"I need time to think," Boland said.
"Of course you do," Ethel Sommers agreed. "You'll be here in Minneapolis for two more days and we'd like as much of that time to go over things with you. Why don't you take a long walk by yourself and spend the afternoon thinking things over. I'll give you my home phone number if you'd like to discuss things this evening. If not, we'll expect you back here with an answer by tomorrow morning at nine." The woman gave him a frank smile that reminded him uncomfortably of Grace Edwards and her eagerness. After all, it was more and more of Grace Edwards' eagerness that was responsible for his being here.
He followed Ethel Sommers' suggestion, wandering aimlessly through downtown Minneapolis and taking the long bus-ride into St. Paul and back, weighing the decisions. Teaching meant everything to him. But the degree would take time and money.
A marriage counselor in California could do well. Well enough to think of marriage himself. Was Lilly worth it? Was the change worth it?
It was nearly four-thirty when he wandered across the main part of the downtown shopping center, intent on a glass of beer. When he heard his name being called, he spun about, stunned at the sight of Nola Peddersen. She was cute and exuberant in a heavy cloth coat. Her healthy cheeks glowed in the cold. Her eyes sparkled radiantly.
"What a lovely surprise meeting you here," she said. "Next Thursday is Mac's and my anniversary and since we had a long week-end holiday, he sent me up here for a shopping spree as a part of my present. And you know what he insisted on? Oh, Ed, I've bought some of the slinkiest undies and things. I'd love to show them to you."
"I don't think that would be a good idea, right here on the street. Why not come in and have a drink with me?"
"Maybe just one. I'm a disappointment to Mac. I never could handle drinking too well. It gives me the giggles."
Boland helped her with some of her packages and escorted her into Fitzhugh's, one of his favorite drinking places. It was a typical Irish type bar, with stiff "backed stools and wooden booths, battered and smooth from age. He ordered himself a hot buttered rum and, out of deference to Nola's ability with whiskey, an Irish Coffee for her.
"Yum, yum," she said, licking some of the whipped cream off her thin, sensual lips. She took deep swallows of the coffee, then began opening some of her packages, showing Boland the filmy black negligees and foundation garments.
He was ready to leave, but Nola insisted on buying a round of drinks to repay his generosity. While the drinks were being made, she showed him a rather daring brassiere. "It'll do wonders for me," she said, "because I have such a deceptive bust line. How big would you say I was, Ed?"
"Oh, maybe thirty-two."
"See," she giggled, "I told you it was deceptive. It's thirty-six, and from now on, you'll be noticing. The sales lady said this would get flattery and more flattery. You can't buy anything flattering or sexy in Hurley."
"It's a small, provincial town."
"And am I lucky to know someone I can talk about sex with. Do you know, Ed, you're probably one of my closest confidantes, the closest I've ever had. You probably know just as much about me as Mac does, except you've never ... never seen me." She began to giggle and took a deep sip of her Irish Coffee. "Say, this is good. I'll have to drink these at home and then Mac will be proud of me."
Too late, Boland realized why she said she couldn't handle drink very well. Nola got the giggles and then began hanging onto his arm. Several of the customers were beginning to look at them and when the bartender came over to politely ask Boland to leave, Nola blurted out: "You've never seen me naked and you know all about my sex life. Oh, we'll have to take care of that, Ed. It's only fair that you take me home and let me show you what I look like."
Boland got her out into the street where he hoped the brisk evening wind would help sober her up, but if anything, it made her want to snuggle closer to him, which in turn made her talk more loudly and more daringly about wanting to get into bed with him and cuddle for warmth.
He hailed a taxi and got her in, then spent an agonizing five minutes, trying to break through her teasing to find out where she was staying.
Luckily, she had her key with her. Boland took her in the side entrance of the Drake Hotel, scanning the halls for a maid to take care of her.
He thought about it with a jab of irony. The last time he'd brought a girl to the Drake Hotel had been during his school days and his intentions had been clear and determined. There were maids and house detectives all over the place.
Fitting the key into the door, Boland relieved her of her packages and gave her a gentle shove inside. The moment she realized she was in her room, behind a closed door, Nola Peddersen kicked off her tiny shoes and began unbuttoning her blouse.
"I want you to see me," she said.
Before Boland could bridge the distance between them, her blouse was off and her small, snug breasts pushed against the restraint of an unimaginative brassiere. "Hold it," Boland said. "That's all."
"Don't be silly. You've got a right to see," she said, hitching at her skirt.
"Nola, you'll regret this. You don't know what you're doing."
"Of all the silly things. I'm perfectly aware of what I'm doing. I'm showing myself to you so you'll know. All this time you've been giving me advice without really knowing what I do best." Her skirt fell to the floor and she pitched forward, off balance, when she tried to take a step. Boland moved toward her and extended a hand. She began to giggle when he helped her up and thrust herself at him suddenly. "Like this, it happens," she said. "I pass Mac like this in the hallway, dressed just like this and he grabs me and I lean against him and ohh, Ed-! It works with you, too."
"Of course it works. I'm a man and you've got a beautiful body, Nola. A very beautiful body." Immediately, he regretted it, but he'd already decided the best thing to do was humor her.
"That's what he tells me, Ed. That's exactly what he tells me. He says it's a miracle that so much woman could be stuffed into such a small body, but that he wouldn't trade it for one of those big girls, no sir."
She was still leaning against him and although Boland tried to move away, Nola had the unsettling habit of simply going limp and leaning against him. Almost absently and without any real knowledge of what she was doing, Nola thrust her hip against him, catching him in the loins. She gave an expert little wriggle and when Boland backed away from her, she reached out with her hand to pat him. "Oh my, Ed, it really does work. It works just the way it does with Mac. Is that how you know so much? You give your own reaction?"
"That's one way," he said. "The other is plain common sense. Now come on, you're going to bed." He pushed her hand away and she turned her face up toward him with a look of a scolded puppy. Then recognition dawned and her face colored. "So that's why I'm drunk. You wanted to go to bed with me."
"You're going to bed by yourself, Nola," he said, nearly frantic.
"You-you didn't have to get me drunk, Ed. I'd go to bed with you. I don't have to be drunk. I just didn't think you'd want to. But you do, don't you?"
"Of course not," he said, drawing her toward the bed.
She giggled. "Yes you do or you wouldn't be all aroused like that?"
He got her to the edge of the bed and started to push, but again, she fooled him by going limp and leaning against him. "That's a basic reaction for a man to an attractive woman, but it is not my intent to make love to you."
"Oh," she said, "you should. You really should, Ed. I wouldn't mind, not with you. It really wouldn't be like cheating. We're so close already." Her hand moved to him again and she patted him affectionately.
Boland gave a push in exasperation. She tumbled forward on the bed with a grunt of surprise. "Now cover yourself and go to sleep," he said.
"I will if you'll do one thing."
"No bargains. Just close your eyes and go to sleep."
"Undress me."
"Absolutely not."
"Then I'll sleep without any covers and get a cold."
"Nola, stop it. You've had more than you're used to drinking."
"I know, you got me drunk to make love to me and now you're afraid."
"I'm not afraid, I just don't want to."
"Your body does."
"My body isn't all of me."
"Ed, I'll go to sleep if you tuck me in and kiss me. Just the way I am."
"Promise?"
"I promise," she said.
Boland bent to kiss her. He brushed her cheeks lightly with his lips.
"No fair. That's no kiss. A kiss on the lips."
Boland bent again, touching his lips to hers. He could taste the Irish Coffee and the sweetness of her lips. In a surprising move, she reached up suddenly and threw her arm about his neck, yanking with force. He lost his balance and toppled forward, his head pushing hard into her breasts.
"I lied," she said happily.
Anguished, Boland tried to move away but her hands caught him again, probing even more boldly this time and making him painfully aware how aroused he was, how he had to get out of here before anything happened. He tried to brush her hand away, but she wouldn't let go. "If you won't make love to me, at least lay beside me until I fall asleep."
"No. If you lied once, you'll do it again. You aren't to be trusted."
Her face puckered and she began to cry. "I want a man next to me."
"You're lonesome for Mac. That can't be helped. Go to sleep and it won't seem too bad."
"But you're the only other man I'd do anything like this with. Please, Ed, please lay beside me and let me hold you. If you won't make love to me, at least do that." Her tears were copious now and Boland cursed himself for a fool, getting into a situation like this. It was simply outrageous. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently pried her hand loose, then began caressing her forehead. "Just close your eyes and go to sleep."
"Lay down next to me."
Boland sighed. What a damned fool he felt like. He swung his legs up onto the bed and took her hand in his. Instantly she reached for him. When he moved to stop her, she began whimpering. When he stopped, she calmed down.
He lay there in an agony, sweat breaking out on his forehead and realizing that, wrong as it was, he truly meant no harm. Of course she was sexually attractive, there was no denying that in truth. But it was more than her sexuality that was getting to him, it was her child-like loneliness that haunted him and touched him deeply. He had no business being moved by it. When you recognized a person showing childish traits, you treated them like a child by being firm and decisive with them. He'd been all wrong to let things go this far. It was his weakness and he blamed himself. What a hell of a way to learn. He should have known already. But dammit, a man has his own troubles and can't always think of everything.
Her hand gripped him more tightly and then he realized what she was doing to him. He tried to stop her, but she began pleading. "Let me do something," she said, nearly maudlin now. "If you won't make love to me, let me at least do this.
Please let me do something. It means so much being able to do something like this for a man."
How perfectly absurd this had all become. Time to stop, right now. But she would not stop when he ordered her to. She increased her tempo until Boland was so aroused he could no longer think how wrong this was. He moved against her, eased her knees apart and became one with her.
She accepted him with a sob of joy and her arms moved to their characteristic position, the back of his neck. Her small, finely shaped body seemed to kick forth at him, as though reaching for something. Then the expression on her face changed, as though signifying she'd found exactly what she'd sought. She gasped several times, moaned loudly at him. then caused her small, compact body to twitch spasmodically a few times.
Boland realized no precautions had been taken. At the last possible moment, he bolted. In spite of her own excitement, Nola was acute to his fear and need consideration. As he lay beside her, panting for breath, her hands besan plving lightly over her shoulders and the back of his neck as she began a soft crooning-"Poor thing. Dear, kind, considerate Ed." Her voice was agonizingly devoid of any drunkenness now, causing him to wonder if it had all been a very skillful act. "I'm sorry," she said at length. "I should have told you there was nothing to worry about. It was very selfish of me, Ed. But I'll take care of that for you. I promise you I will."
It was all wrong and Boland felt his mind reel with confusion. It took two to make adultery.
He'd participated all right, but could he let himself believe he'd been seduced by her? Was that a gross deception on his part?
Ruefully, he sat on the side of the bed, thinking he owed his being in Minneapolis to another woman, Grace Edwards. Another woman he'd been seduced by?
While Nola Peddersen's hands strayed coaxingly over him, he tried to come up with some common denominator, some thing he'd done to give these two women the idea. And then he knew what it was, loneliness. Loneliness took strength away from a man, made him weak, made him vulnerable even when he knew it was wrong. And behind it all, there was Lilly. He needed Lilly desperately and time was becoming of the essence.
"You poor darling," Nola said, "you do things for everyone else and no one gives a damn for you. Ed, I don't exactly love you, but I appreciate you so much that it gives me a feeling of hurt. You were so good to me just now. In case you were wondering, yes; I really was tipsy. Drunk? no, I don't think so. Tipsy enough to know what I was doing, tipsy enough to know you'd be good and kind and considerate. I was lonesome, Ed, and you helped me beautifully. You know how to give one of the most precious gifts there is, comfort. Now please, please forget about things like adultery for a while. I'm a good wife to Mac, I won't leave him, I won't turn into a tramp. Please let me show you some appreciation. Women have a way of knowing certain things and I guess I know what you need now more than anything you need Lilly and she's gone, she's not here.
So instead, you need comforting. Let me, Ed. Please let me."
Boland managed a weak smile at Nola and lay back on the bed. He recalled an Italian movie that had played in Hurley, nearly a year ago. The story was agonizingly simple. A virile young worker of thirty, married only a short while, saw his lovely young wife, run-over by the son of the mayor, driving a new sports car. The wife was close to death. Although the picture had a great deal of political commentary in it, the thing that outraged most of the people in Hurley was the way the hero, immediately after seeing his wife taken away to the hospital in an ambulance, allowed himself to be picked up by a prostitute. What was more, he visited the prostitute several times, reaching the point where she actually fell in love with him and they began carrying on a love affair.
The picture was removed from the theater after two days, even though Boland spoke out in favor of it, explaining that there was no such thing as a standard reaction to grief. People listened and seemed to understand him, but the real deciding factor came when Ed had been with Lilly, drinking beer in their favorite tavern and a reporter for the Hurley Tribune had heard Boland say, "This is a town with a Hurleyier than thou attitude." The comment had been printed and a week later, the picture was brought back to the Roxy.
Now, Boland knew from experience what he'd known before in understanding; there was no accounting for the ways of grief. His smile broadened into one of thanks and he lay back on the bed, actively reaching for Nola Peddersen and drawing her to him. They lay together that way for nearly ten minutes, Nola's hands moving slowly and lazily over his back and arms.
Then desire began to awaken in him, slowly but steadily. When Nola realized what was happening, she told him not to worry about a thing, this time, to leave everything to her, she'd take care of everything.
Boland closed his eyes and felt his body merge with this small, active woman. He was able to get some idea of how much sex meant to her by the way she seemed to take command and make brisk, exciting movements. It felt clean and exciting and good just holding her. This act of love between them was something extra, something more.
He quickened his movements, but had the feeling she was still ahead of him. Then he became aware of a tensing in her legs. Somehow, she gained the right kind of purchase with her knee and foot, expertly causing them to roll over, reversing their position. Then she began moving in earnest. Opening his eyes, Boland was aware of her dominating his field of vision, his awareness and his senses as release began showering through him.
When it was over, she made no move to leave him and he recalled thinking how lucky Mac Peddersen was, having such a warm, sensual, tender woman. He told himself he was fortunate to have her good wishes. He valued this, but now he must leave, he must.
But even in that aspect, Boland realized he was weak-weak or unwilling. He closed his eyes again and slept. When he awakened, it was dark and from the comparative absence of noise on the street below, he knew it was quite late. Next to him, Nola lay sound asleep, snuggling against him, her body imparting comfort and warmth.
Surely now was the time to leave, but when he made a slight movement to rise, her leg draped over him and her arm reached out. He lay there for a moment thinking, then slept again.