Chapter 9

A SHARP, pungent odor assailed Beth's nostrils, and she tried in vain to break away. The stinging sensation became more intense, and she gasped, then opened her eyes.

Dr. Henry Michaelson, one of Owendale's more prominent physicians, was bending over her, a vial of smelling salts in his hand, and she saw Charlie, dour and glum, standing nearby.

"There we are," the doctor said in his smoothest professional voice. "We won't need an ambulance after all, Mr. Hubbard."

"What's wrong with her?" Charlie sounded irritated, now that Beth was conscious.

Lying weakly on the bed, Beth realized she was dressed in shorts and T-shirt, and all at once remembered drinking huge quantities of bourbon. Charlie would give her no peace when he discovered she had drunk herself into a stupor, and she moaned.

Dr. Michaelson took a watch from his pocket, took hold of her limp wrist and was silent for a minute. "Let me have a few minutes alone with her, Mr. Hubbard," he said.

Charlie bridled. "Surely it's my right-"

"I prefer to examine patients in private. If you don't mind," the physician replied firmly.

Charlie left the room, muttering to himself. . Dr. Michaelson smiled down at Beth, then sat on the edge of the bed. "In my professional opinion," he said, "you're a healthy young woman. Your symptoms, combined with an unmistakable scent on your breath, lead me to believe you consumed liquor to excess and passed out."

Beth's head ached dully.

He studied the cosmetics-stained pillowcase with interest. "You were crying?" She nodded.

"I gather you aren't ordinarily much of a drinker, Mrs. Hubbard."

It was difficult for Beth to speak, but she made the effort. "I've been doing a lot-lately," she said in a hoarse voice. There was no reason to confess to a stranger, but a doctor represented authority, and she could not he.

The physician seemed to understand. "Anything specific, or life in general?" She hesitated. "Both."

"I diagnose a severe case of suburbia," he said and smiled.

Beth thought his sense of humor warped.

"We won't tell your husband, naturally. I'm afraid the condition might become aggravated." He took a container from his bag, shook out two pills and gave them to her with a glass of water. "This will relieve you in about twenty minutes."

"Thank you." Beth had not realized she was so parched.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No, doctor." She became alarmed at the possibility that he might try to pry her secret from her.

Dr. Michaelson patted her hand. "You'd be surprised if you knew how many woman in Owendale are going through the same sort of thing. Some of them," he added firmly, "are well on the road to alcoholism. I hope you have better sense than that."

"I won't become an alcoholic. I don't like liquor. I've had too much-just a few times. Before today. Then, this afternoon, I wanted to-drown myself."

He seemed to understand. "Have you ever given any thought to psychotherapy?"

Beth made the effort to prop herself on one elbow. "It wouldn't do any good."

"Don't be too sure of that. Many women have been helped. Life in suburbia isn't easy for you young girls who are bored, who are living your days in communities where there are no men ail day-"

Beth interrupted him with a wild laugh. "How I wish there were no men in Owendale, ever."

Dr. Michaelson raised an eyebrow. "Don't bother to reply to what I'm going to say now, Mrs. Hubbard. But even affairs aren't uncommon in these parts. If you're involved with a man, psychotherapy might help you to hack your way out of the jungle."

"It isn't a man." That was true, Beth told herself. Her problem was in the plural. Men. Total strangers who paid for her body and, for an hour or two at a time, owned her outright. Men who compelled her to do whatever struck their fancy. Men whose money enslaved her. Men who degraded her and made life a torment.

The physician sighed and stood. "If you find that you need professional help badly enough, you'll seek it. I'll gladly recommend several qualified psychiatrists. And if I can be of help to you, don't hesitate to call me or to make an appointment through my nurse."

"Thank you." Beth looked up at him. "Please, could you give me something to help me sleep tonight?"

"Ah, insomnia. Another byproduct of suburban fever." He took two yellow capsules from a container in his bag and handed them to her. "Don't make a habit of these." He started toward the door, then paused. "I'll tell your husband you're not to be disturbed this evening. Will that help?"

"Oh, yes."

"I thought as much," he said, smiling wryly as he left the room.

Beth took the two sleeping pills at once, then changed into a nightgown and climbed back into bed.

The door opened, and she feigned sleep as she heard Charlie creeping into the room. She could feel him staring down at her, but she made no move and he did not speak. He hovered nearby for a long time, but finally left the room, and Beth relaxed at last.

Memories of her experience with Dave swirled through her mind, and she resolutely put them aside, only to be filled with a sense of longing for Bruce. Her life was a mess, she thought, and she began to weep again, very quietly. Then the pills took effect, and she drifted off into a deep slumber.

The ringing of the telephone awakened Beth, and she opened her eyes to find herself alone in her bedroom. Bright sunlight was slanting in through the blinds, and when she looked at the clock, she was surprised to see it was now eleven in the morning. Her first, happy thought was that Charlie had gone off to the city hours earlier.

The telephone continued to shrill, and she lifted the instrument from its cradle. "Hello?"

"Well, sweetie," Sandra said at the other end of the wire, "I was beginning to wonder if you were still in this world. Good news for you. A new friend-someone who is a friend of yesterday's friend, if I make myself clear without becoming too graphic on the phone-is anxious to meet you. Usual place, usual time. I'll be along for you at the regular time."

"I can't," Beth replied promptly. "I'm sick. The reason I didn't answer just now is because I was still sleeping."

"Is your back door unlocked?"

"I-I guess so, but-"

"I'll be over." Sandra hung up abruptly.

Beth sighed and wondered if she should hurry downstairs to lock the back door. The effort was too much to contemplate, however. She discovered then that she was ravenously hungry but decided it would be better to wait until Sandra had gone before eating. If she were going to play the role of an invalid, there could be no slips. There seemed to be no reason she should not smoke, however, so she took a package of cigarettes and a lighter from her bedside table, then smiled as she stretched out in the bed.

Her mistake, she told herself, had been to think too much about her long-range future. It was wiser to take each day as it came, and today would be pleasant because she wouldn't have to meet some friend of Dave's at the motel. She laughed aloud, took a deep drag on her cigarette and watched the smoke drifting lazily toward the ceiling. Perhaps she was being neurotic to take refuge in a pretended illness, but she didn't care. In fact, if that made her a neurotic, she was proud to wear the label.

A quarter of an hour later there was a tap at the door, and Sandra, already dressed for her own date at the Stamen, came into the bedroom.

"What a lazy little pig you are," she said, her attitude indicating instantly that she did not believe a word of Beth's alleged illness. "What did you do, go back to bed after you gave Charlie his breakfast?"

"I haven't seen Charlie today. I have no idea whether he ate here or after he got into town." Beth was gratified to hear that her own voice still sounded convincingly hoarse.

"Well. I've never yet known a time when you didn't have to feed the monster his breakfast." Sandra seemed grudgingly impressed as she stared at the younger girl. "I must say, though, that you look disgustingly healthy, even if you still have yesterday's make-up smeared all over your face."

Beth raised a hand to her cheek. She had been in such a daze last night that she had completely forgotten about washing her face.

"Really, sweetie. You look so good that I envy you. So try to come, will you? A fellow Dave knows-by the name of Harold-saw you all tricked up yesterday and flipped for you. He sounded so disappointed just now when I told him you weren't well."

Beth remembered the man at the bar, and an unpleasant chill crept up her spine. "He'll just have to be disappointed, I'm afraid."

"I think you're shamming." Sandra's voice became cold. "Maybe you can fool Charlie but not me. I'm going to haul you out of that bed and stuff you into some clothes."

"Then you'll have to take full responsiblity with Dr. Michaelson." Beth enjoyed watching Sandra's expression change.

"Have you spoken to him?"

"At length. He was here last night."

"Mmm. What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know, exactly," Beth replied vaguely. "He gave me some medicine and told me to stay in bed."

"For how long?" Sandra demanded.

"Several days. I'm supposed to report to him every afternoon." Perhaps the pretended illness could be prolonged indefinitely.

"Harold is a heavy spender, and I don't like to put him off for too long," Sandra said. "Can't you make the effort to meet him tomorrow?"

Beth curbed her desire to smile. "Impossible."

"Be reasonable, sweetie. He's terribly thin-skinned, and if he thinks he's being snubbed, we'll lose him."

"It can't be helped." Beth sounded smug.

Sandra looked at her bleakly. "I wish I could prove that you're faking." She stood for a moment, tapping the toe of a pump on the floor. "I suppose you won't be able to go with Charlie to that dinner in town tomorrow night."

Beth had completely forgotten that all senior and junior executives of Charlie's investment firm were gathering the following night with their wives for an annual banquet that was, in effect, a command performance. "I won't be allowed to miss it," she said candidly, "even if they have to carry me in on a stretcher."

"In that case, you'll be well enough for me to set up a date tomorrow. You'll meet Harold in the Stamen bar at twelve forty-five."

"I'll do no such thing, and I refuse to be bullied." Beth sat up, glaring.

Sandra had to admit temporary defeat. "When you go back to work, I'll double your schedule to make up for lost time. Johns like Harold don't grow on trees."

"If Harold is anything like Dave, I suspect he climbs them." Beth smiled blandly, enjoying her feeling of holding the whip hand. "And you can forget about doubling schedules. I'll need time to regain my strength."

Sandra made a last, futile attempt to assert her authority. "Be ready by Monday. Or else." She stormed out of the room.

Beth waited until she heard the kitchen door slam. Then, clad only in her nightgown, she went downstairs and bolted the door. This was Thursday, so she had a minimum of four days' freedom, and she relished the prospect as she ate a large breakfast of eggs, bacon and buttered toast, washed down with several cups of coffee.

The afternoon was the most pleasant she had known in months. She worked for an hour in the garden, and then, afraid Sandra might see her en route home from the motel, stepped indoors again for her bath. She leafed through several magazines, did a little dusting and made her bed. Charlie had slept in the den but had carefully folded the sheets and blanket he had used, and she giggled as she put them away in the linen closet. Getting drunk was no fun, but it had almost been worth it to be rid of Charlie for the night.

In mid-afternoon Beth lazily decided to take a sunbath on the patio at the rear of the house, and changing into a bikini for the purpose, donned her sunglasses and went outdoors. Stretching out on a foam rubber mat, she luxuriated in the hot sun, wondering why she had ever considered her life dull in the days before Sandra had roped her into being a part-time prostitute.

She would never make the mistake of thinking her existence boring again, once she found a way out of her dilemma. Never had she appreciated peace and simplicity so much. Content to do nothing, to be free of unwanted entanglements, she drifted off to sleep.

The sound of footsteps penetrated Beth's consciousness, and she opened her eyes as someone came on to the patio from the house.

"Here you are," Charlie said. "I called, but you didn't answer."

She sat up on the mat. "Are you home early?"

"No, it's six o'clock." He looked at her appreciatively.

Tanned after her long exposure to the sun, she realized she had napped for at least three hours. "Oh, dear. I haven't done a thing about dinner."

"We can open some canned corned beef hash or something." Charlie opened the screen door and stood aside to let her precede him into the house. "I spoke to Dr. Michaelson this afternoon, and he said you'd be perfectly fine today."

Too late it occurred to her that, had she thought quickly enough, she might have pretended to Charlie that she was still ill. With luck, she could have had another night alone.

"You sure don't look like somebody who was sick." Again he eyed her.

Beth became conscious of her bareness. "I'll go upstairs and change."

"Don't bother." He caught hold of her hand and led her to the playroom. "We'll celebrate your recovery with some martinis."

She winced, thinking that, as long as she lived, martinis would always remind her of her illicit meetings at the motel.

Charlie was aware of her expression. "Rather have bourbon?"

After all the bourbon she had consumed the previous night, the very idea made her ill. "No, a martini will be fine," she said hastily, her high-heeled mules clacking on the tiles of the playroom floor.

He continued to study her as he mixed a pitcher of martinis.

His expression, Beth thought, was exactly like that of the men she met at the motel. "I wish you'd let me go upstairs to change. I feel so-naked."

"What's wrong with that?" Charlie asked and laughed.

Beth completely understood his mood now, and her insides turned over. She no more wanted sex with him than she did with the Johns at the Stamen. In fact, complete abstinence would be heaven on earth, and she tugged vainly at the bra, then at the panties of her bikini, in a vain effort to make the skimpy garments cover more of her body.

Charlie's expression indicated he thought her gesture provocative.

She accepted a drink from him, and short of risking another upheaval by mentioning her cousin's need for money, wondered how she could distract him. Perhaps a touch of domesticity would do the trick. "I'm sorry you didn't wake me up this morning."

"I'm not that much of a heel, after you were sick."

"You're not a heel at all," Beth said and meant it. He was narrow, rigid and a petty tyrant but, except on the subject of money, rarely displayed malice. '"Did you eat here and then do the dishes?"

"No, I had breakfast in town." He moved to a place beside her on the playroom couch.

Beth realized she had committed a tactical error by sitting on the couch in the first place and tried to think of a logical excuse to move.

Charlie reached for her and kissed her.

She had to return his embrace, and it crossed her mind that a husband was even more difficult to handle than a John. He knew her far better and could see through her subterfuges more easily. What was more, he was even more inclined to become offended if she evaded him. Nevertheless, she tried. "I'll spill my drink," she said.

"Either finish it or put down your glass," Charlie directed, a hint of asperity in his voice.

Beth drained her glass, then slipped into the mules she had kicked off when she had sat down. "I think I'll get another," she said, intending to cross the room to the bar.

"The martinis can wait." Charlie pulled her back to the couch.

She submitted to his love-making and did not protest when he removed her bikini. Her eyes closed, she responded to him mechanically, and told herself there was no difference between him and the men at the Stamen. Charlie supported her while the others gave her cash, but it all amounted to the same thing: in one way or another, a man provided for a woman and in return assumed that he was entitled to do as he pleased with her.

The little victory she had won over Sandra that morning seemed far distant, and Beth tried to reconcile herself to a life of meaningless sex. Bruce, she thought, had spoiled her for all other men.

Obviously, because Charlie was really trying this time.

He attempted to excite his wife in every possible way.

Beth mentally shrugged but dutifully cooperated in the act.

"Tell me, Beth-"

"What?"

"Tell me how you like it."

"Any way you enjoy it, Charlie."

"How's this?"

"Oh, that's very good, Charlie."

"You're not putting me on, are you?"

"No, Charlie."

"Maybe it's better for you-I mean-at this angle."

"It couldn't be better."

"You're one gorgeous female, Beth. That warm welcome down there always did drive me crazy."

"All for you, Charlie. Oh, that's great, great. You never put on such a drive. Faster-faster-"

"You love it, huh?"

"Yes."

"You want it bad, don't you?"

"Yes, yes."

"Then I'm on the chute-the-chute, baby."

"Do it, Charlie. Now, now," Beth hypocritically pleaded.

Thank God, she thought. It's finished.