Chapter 4
A DREARY dinner with Charlie and the equally limp evening that followed were almost too much for Beth to bear. She could not look her husband in the face and for once was glad he was preoccupied and had brought work home with him in his attache case. That night, long after he had fallen asleep, she roamed through the house. At one point she felt hungry and made herself a sandwich but lost her appetite and could not eat it. Then she went to the playroom bar and poured herself a stiff shot of brandy but choked on the first swallow and threw the rest away. Not until dawn did she stop prowling and return to bed where, miraculously, she fell asleep at once and did not stir until the ringing of the alarm awakened her.
The morning routines were an even worse agony than the preceding evening had been. Beth felt nothing but loathing for Charlie as she prepared his breakfast and sat with him at the table while he ate it. Her mind was still whirling too rapidly for her even to indulge in token conversation, but she finally decided as he was finishing coffee to make one last attempt to persuade him to advance her the money she needed to protect her inheritance.
"Charlie," she said, "I can't put off writing to Phil Bates any longer. I've got to send him a letter today."
"Tell him to go to hell," said the disembodied voice behind the morning newspaper.
"If my five thousand dollars were yours," she said, a dull anger taking hold of her, "you'd be hopping up and down. For the last time, will you help me out?"
The newspaper crumpled, and Charlie glared at her in a towering rage. "I've told you not to mention that money or your idiot cousin to me again. It will serve you right for not listening to me if you lose every damn cent you put into that crazy business. And I sure as hell don't intend to throw good money after bad. So, for the last time, shut up. Stop your damned bellyaching. If I hear another word, I'll start cutting down your allowance." His chair toppled over backward as he rose to his feet, and the newspaper scattered all over the floor.
Beth sat unmoving, saying nothing and making no attempt to observe the amenities as he left. For a long time she continued to sit motionless, then reached for the coffee pot, but she made a wry face at the first, tasteless sip. Charlie's threat to cut down her household allowance, to treat her like a wayward child who needed to be punished, was the last straw. He had stirred her contempt for him into active, livid hatred, but she felt thankful for one thing, at least-his conduct relieved her own sense of guilt over her infidelity with Bruce.
She picked up the chair and the newspaper, washed the dishes and then mounted the stairs to dress for the morning. In spite of her lack of sleep, she felt no fatigue, and only when she thought of Charlie's absurd threat and consistently stubborn attitude did she give in to despair.
There was a hint of snow in the sky, so she donned stretch pants, a white, cable-knit pullover sweater and a pair of calf-high boots. Then she sat down at her little desk, scribbled a quick note to Cousin Phil and, after addressing the envelope, re-read the letter. "I don't know how much I'll be able to send you," she had written, "but you know I'll scrape up as much as I can, for your sake as well as my own. Anyway, here is one hundred dollars in cash as a sign of my good intentions."
She put Brace's one hundred dollar bill inside the note, donned her short leather auto coat and stepped outside to mail the letter. She walked briskly to the nearest mailbox, waving to Bob Winterton who honked his horn as he sped toward the station. From the box at the corner she could see a light burning in the Winterton kitchen and, knowing Sandra must be awake, gave in to an impulse and decided to make a morning visit. A face-to-face chat would be far more satisfactory than a phone call, Beth thought, although even so Sandra could be infuriatingly evasive when she chose.
Skirting several mounds of snow, Beth went to the kitchen door and rang.
Sandra appeared, surprisingly glamorous in a fluffy peignoir and high-heeled mules. She did an exaggerated, comic double-take. "You're up with the milkman, sweetie. Or have you been out for the night with the milkman? Come in and have a healing brandy."
"Coffee will be just fine, thanks." Beth removed her gloves and rubbed her hands together. "It's nippy out there today."
"Serves you right for being up so early. That's a darling coat. New?"
"Ha!"
"I'H say no more." Sandra pointed toward her own half-finished drink on the counter. "Sure you won't have one of these?"
"Positive."
"Everybody to her own poison. Me, I can't even open my eyes without a couple."
Beth threw her coat over a kitchen chair, accepted a cup of coffee and sat down with it at a high stool in front of the counter. Sandra was apparently telling the truth about the liquor she consumed early in the day, but she seemed completely sober and was probably one of those fortunate people who could drink whenever they pleased without ill effect.
"I'll make like a hostess," Sandra said. "Cream? Sugar?"
"I prefer it straight. Mmm, this is good."
"Oh, I'm a jim-dandy cook. That's last night's coffee, in case you're interested. I can't be bothered to measure heaping spoons when I'm up with the birds, especially that vulture who sometimes shares my room."
Beth was reluctant to open the conversation that had brought her to the Winterton house so early in the day but knew she had to begin somewhere. "I want to pick a bone with you."
"Oh, dear," Sandra replied in pretended dismay, "what have I done?"
"I'm not sure. Why did you make a flimsy excuse to leave me alone with Bruce Gibson yesterday?"
Sandra laughed as she opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of vodka and splashed more liquor into her drink. "You aren't sorry, are you?" she countered.
"Yes-and no," Beth replied honestly. "Now, where was the fire?"
Again Sandra laughed. "In your eyes-and Bruce's. As if you didn't know."
Beth made a self-conscious, deprecating gesture.
"You looked so cozy and contented together that I didn't have the heart to hang around with you. I'm not one for old adages and Bless Our Home on samplers, but there really are times when two's company and three's a crowd."
Her flippant attitude annoyed Beth. "What if someone I know saw me there with him?" she demanded. The question had been bothering her, far more than she had cared to admit to herself, for the better part of the night.
"All right, let's suppose." Sandra drifted to the counter and leaned on it as she sipped her drink, carelessly allowing the upper part of her peignoir to slip open.
"Maybe you don't care about your reputation," Beth said hotly, "but mine means something to me."
"I can't imagine anyone losing her good name because she happens to sit in a public place with a man. A drink doesn't mean you've been debauched, and neither does a low-calorie lunch. So, come off it, sweetie. You're a modern, bright and shining American girl. And even Charlie lives in the twentieth century. I think."
Beth could not bring herself to say what was uppermost in her mind, that someone may have seen her going with Bruce to a motel bedroom.
"Besides," Sandra continued, "you had a good time with him, didn't you?"
Beth averted her eyes and felt her cheeks burning.
"Aha," Sandra said. "Or maybe I ought to say-oho."
"Just what do you know about what happened yesterday?" Beth raised her head and challenged her friend.
"Is there something for me to know?" Sandra grinned slyly, her eyes knowing.
Beth was horrified by the realization that Sandra was aware of the seduction. "Did Bruce tell you-"
"If you want to know whether he and I saw each other later in the day or spoke on the phone, the answer is a loud no."
Beth looked as bewildered as she felt.
"He didn't have to tell me a thing," Sandra continued. "Some facts in this life are self-evident, to coin a phrase. For instance, I'm spoiled rotten. So are you. So are thousands like us. We live in split-level traps, bounded on one side by picture windows, and on the other by views of other people's picture windows from our built-in kitchen ranges. We're surrounded by household appliances, we're caught in a rat-race of suburban trains, suburban husbands and suburban neighbors. We're like puppies who chase our own tails because we have nothing better to do, and half the time we don't even know we're chasing."
Beth felt like an adolescent fool, being chucked under the chin. "What has all this to do with Bruce and me?" she said.
"Listen, my child, and you shall hear." Sandra drained her drink, went to the refrigerator for more ice and mixed herself another.
"You'd better go easy with that stuff," Beth warned.
"I know what I'm doing. I always know." Sandra shook some Worcestershire sauce into her drink and stirred it with a spoon. "What I'm saying to you, fundamentally, is that we're bored. You. Me. Every other girl up and down the street. Every other woman in Owendale. Right?"
"I think you're being a little drastic," Beth said and was prepared to elaborate.
"Nuts. You're bored. Yes or no?"
"Well-"
"You do nothing useful. Nothing gainful. Nothing to occup your mind. You keep the body beautiful in trim running up and down stairs all day, but for what? Your husband doesn't appreciate your beauty, and the best you can hope for is a leer-and maybe a quick pat on the fanny-from a lecherous old goat who lives down the block. It isn't just you, remember. It's Carolyn Anderson. And Patsy What's her-name. And that dizzy redhead with the little waist and oversized breasts who just moved into the Miller house. And me."
Never had Beth seen Sandra so intense. Still concerned only about her own problem, however, she wanted to interrupt but was given no opportunity.
"Boredom is only half the story," Sandra resumed. "The other half is money. We're starved for it. We get wall-to-wall carpeting, because that's a status symbol to show off when the lord and master's boss comes to dinner. We get washers and clothes dryers, and we spend fortunes on trees and grass and loam and a million other things we can do without. But hard cash, to spend as we please? Never!"
Beth was certainly in no position to argue the point but felt a tiny, almost smug sense of satisfaction when she thought of the one hundred dollars she had just mailed to Cousin Phil.
"The suburban husband," Sandra continued, moving toward the counter and perching on a stool, "may not be a born tight-fisted son-of-a-bitch. But after a few years of living this way, he can't help himself. He's caught in his own rat-race, making like a big wheel executive until he finally becomes one. I don't pretend to understand his worries. All I know is that Bob never gives me even a fraction of the money I need. And I don't see you glowing from Charlie's Midas touch."
"Charlie," Beth said succinctly, "is a penny-pinching, fat-headed slob."
"Sure. Exactly what I'm saying." Sandra patted the other girl's knee. "So we do something about it. We kill two birds with one stone, sweetie. We relieve our boredom, and at the same time we get ourselves some folding money to spend as we want, with no questions asked or answered, no budgets to meet, no scrimping and no saving on the week's meat bills."
Beth stirred uneasily. "What are you trying to say to me?"
Sandra put her glass on the counter. "For the better part of a year," she said, speaking very slowly and distinctly, "I've been meeting men in the daytime. And going to bed with them. For money. Since the Stamen opened, it's been my headquarters. Before that, it was a motel down in Worcester County."
Beth suddenly felt violently ill and gripped the edge of the counter with both hands.
"I'm not the only one," Sandra went on. "Carolyn and Patsy have been doing it, too. And so have most of the others in our crowd. Now there's a new addition. You. Welcome to the club."
Only by exerting all of her will power was Beth able to prevent herself from bursting into tears. Turning away to hide her emotions, she fished in her handbag for a cigarette and lighted it with a hand that trembled.
"Technically, I suppose, we're whores," Sandra said in the same tone. "Or high-class, part-time call girls. If there's a difference. Personally, I don't care what anybody else may call me. I'm having a ball, and I'm doing fine. I have my mink to prove it. Satisfied?"
After a struggle, Beth found her voice. "Do many men go to the Stamen-for pickups?"
"Pickups are comparatively rare," Sandra replied. "The John with a fat bankroll and the yen to spend it on a matinee with a girl usually makes a date ahead of time by telephone. Besides, pickups can be dangerous. You never know when the police might get wind of the arrangement and send somebody in plain clothes to check. It hasn't happened in Owendale, but girls in other towns have found themselves in jail because they didn't take the simple precaution of making certain the men they were meeting weren't detectives."
"Please, I'd like some more coffee." Beth waited until Sandra's back was turned before asking, "Have you known Bruce Gibson-for very long?"
Sandra nodded, pleased with herself. "He's a real sweetie, isn't he? And how he fell for you the minute he saw you. I knew he would."
Beth's worst fears were being confirmed. "You made the arrangements-for him to meet me?"
"There you go, being naive again. If you stopped to think about it, you'd know it couldn't have been an accident."
"Then he thinks I'm a whore," Beth said in a dead voice.
"Hardly, and don't be so melodramatic, sweetie. He's a big boy, and he knows precisely what you are. An exceptionally attractive suburban housewife who doesn't object to a roll in the hay with a handsome hunk of man. For cash. He's in no position to call names or throw stones. And he isn't."
Beth gagged on her coffee.
Sandra was watching her shrewdly. "Want to lie down for a few minutes?"
"No, thanks. I-I guess I need a little air. I'll go home, if you don't mind." Beth dragged herself to her feet and struggled into her coat.
Sandra waited until she had almost reached the door before saying casually, "I'll stop off for you at twelve-thirty."
Beth halted, one hand on the doorknob, feeling and looking as though she had been hit between the eyes.
"I'm sure," Sandra added quietly, "that Bruce will be there, expecting you."
Beth fled into the cold winter air. She stood for a few moments, trying to catch her breath. Then, controlling an insane desire to run, she walked home, not bothering to look up when someone tooted a horn and called a greeting to her.
Physically numb, yet so anguished that it was actually painful to think, she buried her face in the pillows of the living room divan and sprawled motionless for what felt like a very long time. Then, scarcely knowing what she was doing, she dragged herself upstairs, quickly stripped off her clothes and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
I'm a whore, she thought. A call girl. A tramp paid one hundred dollars per throw.
She wished she could cry but instead laughed hysterically. Then she raced into the bathroom and took a shower, adjusting the head so that the fine spray stung her body. The cold water that she turned on at the last shocked her, and at last her mind began to function more rationally.
Under no circumstances, she told herself as she dried herself vigorously with an oversized towel, would she go to the Stamen again. Sandra's conduct was disgraceful, but-now that she thought of it-not really surprising. Carolyn Anderson, who was so quiet and demure, was something else again. And so was Patsy Blair, who always made such a great show of affection toward her husband. It was dreadful to think of them as prostitutes, and Beth's sense of values whirled and turned upside down.
Was she herself any better? She forced herself to face the issure squarely. She was compelled to admit that she had enjoyed Bruce's love-making immensely. Never had sex meant more to her, and her erotic memories of the previous day were precious. In fact, she regretted she hadn't been sober enough to fix each detail in mind.
And the money had been useful, too. Phil Bates would use it to good advantage, and she resisted the mental image of sending him a steady stream of one hundred dollar bills. Charles Hubbard, she thought suddenly, can go to hell, go to hell, go to hell.
The immediate question that troubled her was whether to go to the motel again, today, with Sandra. It was now eleven forty-five, and Beth had to make up her mind quickly. She was sure of one thing: she didn't intend to go to bed with any man other than her husband again, and that included Bruce. However, she felt an urgent desire to clear her record with Bruce. It was unbearable that he should think of her as a cheap tramp, an unfaithful wife who regarded love so casually that she was willing to let a total stranger make love to her.
She stood before the mirror, practising a speech she would make to Bruce. No, it was too elaborate. A simple statement of a few words would be best. She tried again.
Aware, abruptly, of time pressing, Beth snatched underclothes from a drawer and began to dress frantically. When Sandra dropped by on the dot of twelve-thirty, Beth was in the living room, waiting.