Chapter 4
Silence had fallen upon the room and shrouded the atmosphere of English 105 with tension. Maurice admired their dedication to the task at hand. He checked the watch on his desk, whispering to himself in irritation and wanting the time to go faster, so he could stop thinking so damn much and occupy his brain with talk.
"Fifteen minutes left, class," he announced. "Review your answers with care if you're finished. Otherwise, speed it up and make sure there are no blank spaces."
He wondered if the kids were pulling his leg. Although it was a routine weekly quiz, they studied in a collective trance of concentration as one might expect during the May finals.
Maurice chewed at the eraser on his pencil and squinted at Genevieve, in the front row. She had the mini-skirt on again. And with her legs opened wide in his direction, he saw that she had forgotten to wear panties to hide herself. I've seen more of the true Genevieve than her doctor ever hoped to, he thought. But the sight had become aggravating lately even when she displayed her rounded hips and flesh the hue of bleached lemon and the dark triangular patch which lay in sweet shadow beneath her abdomen.
Yes, indeed, Genevieve was built for breeding. He squirmed in his seat as libido dried out his tongue and turned his tweed suit into a hot water bag. He swung his eyes away from the girl. No wonder so many of these brazen coeds got marriage licenses before they had time to earn a diploma. Baby carriages and birth control devices were part of the scenery on campus.
He meditated for a moment, with intense bitterness, upon Ellen's failure to give him a son. She knew it was the thing he really wanted from life. Maybe she had tried ... hell, you couldn't demand response from her inner muscles and ovaries. But she could stand improvement in everything elese-a wife shouldn't be passive and thick-headed when it came to sharing bliss on the bed. As the days went by, she seemed to understand him less than ever before.
Why? He had grown weary of searching for the reasons, weary of blaming himself. He was not the insensitive clod who paraded through grade C movies ignoring his spouse for the sake of a laugh from the audience.
The time ticked by on his desk clock and only six minutes remained until the quiz would be ended. He glanced at Genevieve. She seized her left breast and massaged it quickly; he turned away, frowning.
She undoubtedly had a boyfriend in the class who got jealous when she made passes at someone else. Maurice felt his pulse thump with anger as he recalled the beating he had taken from John DiCauslow. It had been a sneak attack. Maybe John outwitted himself in believing that violence would frighten away this particular rival. Maurice was laconic and peace-loving on the surface, and yet he responded with a crescendo of vigor whenever anyone challenged him. Next time the kid got rough, if there were to be another time, he'd find himself being used as a blotter upon the pavement.
The buzzer on the stop-clock finally grated loudly. Maurice stood up and waved his arm toward the back of the room.
"Pass your papers down this way. Oscar, that means you, too."
Oscar's freckled cheeks lit up as his fellow students laughed at his slowness-a standing joke among them. After the exam sheets had been collected, Maurice lectured briefly on the symbolism of sex in Dante's works.
Then, after the period was over, he took his briefcase and strolled along a corridor which led to the cafeteria. He spotted Yvette Thober standing near the bulletin board. Her raven-black hair flowed down to her shoulders with wild abandon; she whirled toward him and grinned.
"Headed for your Java break?" she said teasingly.
"It passes the time away on a chilly autumn morning. We all have our quaint habits and hobbies-like reading the bulletin board until you've memorized it."
"What's that supposed to mean, prof? I like dances and parties and making out. I can't stand outdoor sports. So the only way to find out what's up is to read the-"
"I'm just kidding you."
"Yeah-hah, hah. Tell me what your big hobby is."
He reached over and patted her on the soft curve of her buttocks. "Running into eighteen-year-old vixens. I also have a membership in the Highport fish and game club. They refer to me as an expert caster."
Yvette shuddered and then wiggled her index finger into his groin. It was a pleasant sensation. "I can't stand to even think about slimy fish," she laughed.
"You're probably interested in the more lasting sports. Like being pinned to a fellow here at the school."
"No, sir."
He knew she was drawing him out; during the past week she had run into him so often that he suspected an ulterior motive. "A nice girl like you should have at least one frat pin."
"You come on pretty square. That's like getting engaged to be engaged. As soon as it happens they expect miracles from us-like sleeping with them as a wife or mistress would." She tossed her head quickly, and the ebony locks tumbled straighter upon her shoulders and backbone. "Are you against parties, prof?"
"Let's not talk politics."
"We have a blast almost every night in the dorm. I never see you at any of them. But I suppose you're busy at the house or at your club meetings-"
"I suppose."
"Let me know when you're available and I'll try to get you an invite."
After she had strutted away, he scratched his head in bewilderment. Yvette might have observed him talking to Ida and deduced that he enjoyed socializing with the student body. But very few teachers endangered their reputation through attendance at one of those parties. Maurice knew he'd have to bring his wife along if he ever did go, or there'd be chatter in the halls.
He had a coffee at the chow room and then went to his desk in the faculty study den. Yvette seemed rather nosey about his social life. Did she suspect him of seducing Ida, or was it simply an innocent hand offered in friendship? Or did Yvette have another scheme in mind?
He sighed, not knowing what or whom to believe, since the night he had taken Ida's maidenhead at the cottage. He tried to concentrate upon correcting test papers and found himself in a dither about the immediate future. His sexual involvement with her had solved nothing. It accented the hard, cold truth of dissatisfaction with his present life and the fact that things had changed ... they had imperilled his marriage.
The red pencil felt heavy in his hand as he scrawled upon the sheets. Then a set of cold, lady-like fingers appeared before him. They nestled upon his eyelids and closed them, and he felt a soft, warm breast digging into the back of his skull.
"I'll give you three guesses," said the voice behind him. .
Indecision clouded his mental processes. Spinning around in the swivel chair, he knew he had figured her identity right-but there remained the problem of how to handle her. "You could give someone a heart attack like that, Barbara."
"The owner has the right to touch her property. I do own part of you." She whispered the rest into his ear so that Smithers could not hear. "Surely you remember which part that was, at the motel where you and the Dean of Women-"
"Have it your way. Excuse me ... I was just leaving for first P.M. class."
Maurice got up and feigned urgency as he stuffed his briefcase with miscellaneous junk from the desk. He hoped the act would discourage her. But he didn't really expect miracles when dealing with this clutching, man-hungry she-devil.
She blocked his path and purred, "You don't get rid of me quite so easily, darling."
"We'll see each other again."
"Sure. When the moon turns blue. You keep promising, but it's like the goon on relief who swears he'll pay his rent tomorrow. Then another tomorrow comes, and another, and still no rent money!"
"Show some patience. I can't go along with the idea of a person owning any of me."
"I spoke metaphorically on purpose. When are you and I stepping out again, Maurie?"
He furrowed his brow in discomfort and watched tall, shapely Barbara dab powder on her nose. It was a regal and proud nose with a down-thrust in the bone which denoted organizational intelligence. He took advantage of her lapse in attention. Skipping around the desk, he was between her and the door before she glanced up from the compact mirror.
"Go on," she snapped. "Run away, as you've always done."
"I said I'll phone you when the coast is clear!"
He rushed off to the elevator without bothering to hear her curse words. Of course she resented his brush-off. But there seemed to be little she could do about it, unless she figured on blackmail by spilling the beans to Ellen.
He chuckled privately at the knowledge of his position. Barbara would keep her mouth shut, because she also had a name and a reputation that must be upheld.
When he arrived home that evening he found that Ellen had already gone out on her bridge club night. The notion of a TV dinner hardly appealed to him, for some reason; he locked up the house and drove across town toward the cafe district in the suburbs. His small car threaded a zigzag path between speeding vehicles on the highway. He turned off at Empire Street and stopped in front of Swingland.
It was a noisy dine-and-dance joint but at least the combo and B-girls offered new atmosphere. He gulped the steak sandwich, washed it down with three Dubonnets, then eased to the end of the bar and stood there for a while.
Liquor didn't do much to get the vision of Ida out of his mind. It did lower his inhibitions, though, and he felt an overwhelming urge sweep over him. He stared at the painted floozy beside him. She was sort of pretty-behind the rouge and lipstick, which she didn't need as aids in attracting men. The dress clung to her svelte, fantastic body as though it had been varnished directly upon her skin.
"Hey, baby," he said as he nudged her with his elbow. "You look pretty lonely sitting here at the bar."
"Everyone's lonely. Everywhere."
"My name's Joe Smith," he nodded. "I'd like to buy you a drink if that's okay with you. Miss-uh-what's your first name?" She appeared aware that he was disguising his identity and yet the charades must be done as she had undoubtedly accomplished them a thousand times.
He knew what he was getting. A beautiful, painted queen who would not ask for money because he had none to give.
"Ruby," she whispered casually.
"You and I-we're both out to forget something. Cheers."
The conversation was slim indeed as he stirred his drink, watching the ice cubes swirl in the gin and wine mixture. Ruby's lips pursed at the taste of her Dubonnet. "I love lemons," she said. "Nothing like a lemon twist to set off one's drink. Do you agree, Joe?"
Soon they were joking and teasing each other like old friends. Maurice brought up the subject of travel, especially toward a quiet indoor destination, an idea to which Ruby added her ballot. It required a ten-minute ride before they were in her flat at the Turf Apartments.
"I know you're not really a truck-driver, Joe. What difference does it make? I like you and I think you talk funny."
"Wait'll you hear the epilogue."
"Hey, speak English!"
She might have been denied a formal education, but her hands were wonderfully trained. They stripped his shirt off and then unbuckled his pants and slid them down his hairy legs. He enfolded her in his embrace. Ruby's breasts mashed against him and she rotated her hips until it seemed she must corkscrew her midsection into him.
"I'd try speaking Greek," he said, "but they never had a word for this."
He unzipped the entire rear portion of her dress with one long, staccato stroke. She stepped out of the garment with lithe strides.
"Surprised? I hate underwear-bras and all that."
Her nudity was magnificent, from the sandy brown mat of her aureolas past the full breasts and down to her waist and perfectly proportioned hips. Her legs shone in the lamp-light with breathtaking loveliness. He gawked at her while she turned on the hi-fi. A slow fox-trot hummed into being and he continued to study her nakedness.
Her flesh was alabaster white, like a statue of some unattainable mythical goddess. The cords rippled in her thighs and arms as she approached him near the bed.
"Make love to me," she gasped.
"What is love except dancing without music? I offer you togetherness. I've rescued you from Swingland and the hundred stags who want your affection and nearness."
He swept his arms around her and danced around and around, gripping her by the rear of her delicious rump. Then he eased her down to the rug. It was a soft, inviting blanket for their activities. The floor lamp cast their shadows upon the wall and created silhouettes of lust- an eerie pantomime where her lewdness reached dramatic heights.
Maurice squinted in ecstasy as she held him rigid and directed his ballooning need upon her. She gyrated up and down, positioning him like a see-saw upon the hub of her body.
She wept for joy with each violent arc of her lips. He caught on to the rhythm and shifted his weight in the opposite direction until he felt her innermost muscles grind upon him. A cataclyst of explosions detonated him. For several unbelievable moments he became a lunatic filled with irrational, hungry passion, and the echoing burst of completion.
Consciousness seemed to fade away. His brain whirled and he did not know if it was the gin or the woman's startling demands taking their toll upon him. He wanted to lie here forever, his bare chassis united with hers and feeling her kisses begin to burn him again.
The room which Yvette used as her abode was certainly the largest in the dormitory. With her penchant for parties, the vast apartment suited her own character exquisitely, a fact which must have influenced her choice of the place at registration time.
Her stereo echoed teen-age discotheque of the period as the crowd gathered. Maurice sat with Ellen on a couch in the corner and sipped at his drink. He counted at least twenty other couples in the room, some dancing already and others standing about like adults-which seemed rather unusual for such wild collegians.
Maurice leaned toward his wife. "Are you still wanting to stick it out? Things could easily reach the point of no return and maybe even change into a make-out session."
"Not with four members of the faculty in attendance, dear. Relax."
"It's amazing how they accepted us on the guest list so readily."
"You have contacts," Ellen said quietly. "I thought Yvette herself was the one who asked us here. And besides-I'm very anxious to see the beautiful coeds of Milltown U. There has to be something attractive about them or you wouldn't be spending as much time as you do on-shall we say, extra curricular activities."
"I haven't noticed."
"Ah, but I do notice things where my husband is concerned."
Her implications were getting plainer every day. He puffed nervously at the cigaret and wondered how she could have found reason to suspect him. Maybe I talk in my sleep, he thought with a wave of panic. II so, I couldn't have uttered Ida's name or else Ellen would know who her rival is. Her attendance at this party would have been unnecessary. No ... she's groping in the dark for answers.
He realized he must play the role cool. It would be curtains if Ellen should find evidence or corroboration for her suspicion of his infidelity.
As the night wore on, he saw that everyone was getting rather high on the smooth Canadian whiskey. He checked the faces of kids whom he knew: DiClauslow, Irene Payne, Genevieve, Oscar, and a redheaded soph named Korin who was Yvette's chum. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw that Ida had failed to show up.
Ellen was having a gay time doing the frug with Oscar. Maurice felt jealousy cold inside him; she never unbent enough at home to be-bop like this. What was her game?
He walked across the room toward the punch bowl. Most of the kids wore casual clothing with a mod look-epaulets on the shoulders of their suede or wool coats; bell-bottom trousers; one shapely girl was down to her T-shirt. Maurice felt ultra dignified in his gray tweed jacket and no-cuff navy pants.
"Hi-Yvette," he smiled as the young hostess joined him near the sofa.
"Isn't this a ball?" she winked. "A way-out blast from the word go."
"The greatest."
"And to think I had to fight Mr. Fedorhall for party rights last year. He must have thought there were sexy things going on in the dorm."
"Heaven perish the thought. I'm glad he changed his rule."
"Using a room at college for intercourse is out of style. We coeds have enough worries as it is. Come on and dance, prof. Your wife hasn't let any grass grow under her feet."
"No, she hasn't," he repeated dully, staring at the frank way Ellen was hugging Oscar in their fox-trot.
Maurice glided onto the huge rug with Yvette in his arms. He knew about the worries of these collegiate babes. In frosh year they had to figure out a defense against the boy who attempted making love to their breasts. As sophomores they had the worry of coping with the boy who explored the merchandise under their skirts. From then on-each coed to her own morality.
Yvette sang softly in his ear as she spun around, pressing her abdomen against him. He felt himself grow excited.
"Loosen up, prof. Tell me how it is to be an educated guy with his master's degree."
"Would you believe I don't enjoy talking shop?"
"I guess your wife is highly educated, too. My psychology books mention the intellectual wife-her habit of running things like a warden-her sensitive nature-expecting lofty standards from hubby and then cracking up if he fails. Or if she fails."
"You hit below the belt, kid."
"Is she like that? I'm asking you if she is, because I want to know."
As he prepared a blistering reply that would squelch the half-drunk hostess, he casually glanced toward Ellen. He did a double take. His eyes refused to focus or telegraph the obvious truth which assailed him.
Three females had stripped to the waist as they twisted with their partners. Ellen was one of the impromptu strippers.
And her male partner, reaching out to caress her as they danced in the shadows near the wall, was that punk himself, John DiCauslow!
Apparently no one really noticed who had chosen whom for the heavy stuff. Seven or eight couples were petting unashamedly on the floor. Maurice blinked in rage as he let go of Yvette and then he hurried toward the shadows. By now, pudgy John had his hands on those naked, quivering breasts and was kissing Ellen passionately. She seemed to enjoy it. Her arms circled him in response and she opened her mouth upon his with raw desire.
"Sorry to interrupt," Maurice spat out. He grabbed John's collar and yanked him aside savagely.
John sputtered, "Hey-what are you trying to do, be a party-pooper?" He guffawed fiendishly.
Ellen glared at Maurice with a sudden sober glint in her eye. "For crying out loud, I thought you had a sense of humor! The boy's only kidding around."
"Stop acting like a drunken whore and put this on!"
He threw the blouse at her, then spun around to face John. Even at such a victorious moment.
John's head was turned at a cocky angle as he shook with laughter. Many of the other guests had paused in their sex marathon long enough to view the action.
Maurice uncorked an uppercut that sent young John reeling into the davenport. The kid sat there, a look of puzzlement in his alcohol-dim eyes; for once he resembled something less than his genuine self.
"Please honor me," said Maurice to his wife, "by joining me as we leave this den of iniquity." He trembled horribly in fury and seized her by the wrist, although she had begun to weep without control.