Chapter 13
WHEN BARRY NORTON fled the drive-in, he had a bad bruise on the jaw where Rodney Barrett had struck him Otherwise he was intact. Physically, that is. Mentally he was in a boil of sickly emotion. He simmered down considerably, however, after he had slunk back to his car. During the drive home, his mind was rather a blank. All he wanted to do was sleep.
Reaching the Gothic horror where he lived with his strange drunken parents, he marched straight to his room. But once again he found himself restless. The diseased thoughts and maunderings boiled up again, and after a while he was so disturbed that he was shaking.
He went into a bathroom, tore off his clothing. For a long time he lay in a tub of very hot water. At last the shakes subsided. He left the tub and, without bothering to dry himself, flung himself on his bed. He was asleep instantly.
Next morning he could not get out of bed. He bleated for his mother, who came and hovered for a while. He cursed her, finally, with such shrinking violence that she tottered away to drink some coffee laced richly with bourbon.
For some reason his whole body was aching.
It was midday before he could drag himself from the bed down to the kitchen. He sat at a table not far from the big range and ate with his usual slow preoccupation. The help discreetly found business elsewhere, a fact that gradually reacted on him. They were off in some dark corner, he decided, plotting. He wiped his mouth on his wrist, got up and slunk into the darkened hall. He spent the rest of the afternoon spying on the activities of the servants and his mother.
The next several days Barry passed in similar fashion, nursing his bruise and his maniacal ego. Then came the early evening when the phone rang and rang. Realizing that no one was going to answer it, he did so himself. He was relieved to hear Joyce's voice. He liked Joyce Flemming. She liked him. She supported him and encouraged the romance between him and Melody. He talked with Joyce in low tones for quite a while. Then he hung up and stood rigidly still for a full fifteen minutes, his eyes staring unblinking at the wall, the twitchy half-smile jerking his lips occasionally.
Then he went soundlessly upstairs to his studio. Locking its door behind him, he took out all his paintings. He studied them with a careful eye. The picture of the rape of Melody was well set, thoroughly dry now. He was quite satisfied with it. It was not as satisfactory, though, as the portrait of his mother or the depiction of the Delery girl. Recalling her, he scowled. What a wonderful evening that had been. So wonderful that it frightened him to think of it. If they ever found out who did those things to the girl, it would mean the end of him and he knew it. The part of his brain devoted to animal cunning never ceased to function, although at times it suffered a short circuit enabling him to ignore it temporarily.
He studied the ghastly oil painting some more. A masterpiece, he assured himself. But there was something stark and pale about the Delery girl, he decided, as though she'd never had any blood in her body. After all, paint was no more than paint even when red. The reddest paint had little more richness than the pale olive colors. Blood, though. Blood might supply the proper red, thought Barry. An opaque mist seemed to fall over his eyes.
He put away his treasures and sat in the gloom. He was trying to decide what to do. On the telephone, Joyce had told him of Melody's accident, had suggested with rhinocerine subtlety that he come visiting. Melody would have to receive him. Her scratches were just about healed up but she was still confined to her room.
Something was telling Barry not to go. He wanted to see Melody and repeat the wild night of the thunderstorm. But that cunning of his was holding him back. He tried to overcome it by thinking of blood. Rich red blood...
Rod Barrett, still using Missy's truck, had driven by early that morning to pick up Nola Pilgrim. Since neither of them was in a hurry, they tarried long enough to join Bridge in a second cup of coffee.
"Seen Melody yet?" he asked Bridge.
"No. Been pretty busy these last few days. And nights I'm too worn out to go calling."
They both looked at him skeptically. Bridge was a man as strong as a horse, strictly not the type to tire.
"I get up so early," he explained lamely. "This is my second time around for coffee, you know. I always like to start things, then come back for a second coffee and breakfast."
"Then later on he takes another coffee break," Nola said to Rod. She looked crisp and efficient in her trim white uniform. She managed to look ravishing at the same time, the well-cut nylon clinging to her smooth curves.
Nola rose and donned her nurse's cape. Rod got up, too. Looking Bridge straight in the eye, he said, "Go see her, Bridge. I'm sure she'd welcome it."
Bridge blushed pink and stared into his coffee.
As they tooled along the road to Kenton, Rod remarked, "Is your brother shy of women or something?"
"Oh, no," Nola assured him. "Back home he always had lots of dates and things. He's a marvelous dancer, you know."
"Then what's with him?"
"He has an idea the Flemmings, mother and daughter, are too class-conscious for his taste. Undemocratic. They look at him, he says, as if he were a farm implement, not a man."
"That might be true of the mother," Rod protested, "but Melody-why she's as warm and friendly and-well, democratic-as a girl can possibly be."
"I know," Nola agreed. "But a girl raised on a big, wealthy plantation... Maybe, without knowing it, she's in the habit of taking the help for granted."
Rod turned on the seat and looked at her. "I'll never take my help for granted."
"I should hope not! If you do, I'll quit."
They both laughed. They were in a cheerful mood. He was driving her to town to show her his new office space. The painting and finishing had been completed on schedule and both doctor and nurse were elated by the prospect of soon being able to get to work.
In town, he took her directly to the Dunphy Building. The self-service elevator lifted them to the ninth floor. That was high enough to feel, as they looked through the windows, that they were soaring above the countryside.
Nola clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, it's a beautiful view. And lots of light. I'm glad we're so high."
"I wanted to be as near as I could to that bar and grill overhead," he joked. "Of course, this would be practically underground at MacDonald General. That place sticks up thirty-two stories."
The suite consisted of a tiny foyer, a large outer room, a smaller inner room, a bathroom and an alcove that could serve as laboratory and darkroom. The only furniture visible was the broad desk and matching swivel chair in the inner office.
Rod strode about, making a minute examination of the suite. He had chosen it, actually, on the advice of Dr. Fontenot. But it was plain many things would be needed to which that gentleman had given no thought.
Rod prowled back and forth, giving terse orders while Nola took notes. He had her list supplies, apparatus, tools, cabinets, and told her where he wanted them placed. "And don't forget a typewriter. Might as well get an electric one," he finished.
"Gosh, Rod! Do you have money enough for all that?"
"Why? Gonna offer to lend me some?"
"Not me. I don't have a penny. But Bridge has managed to put a few dollars away. If I asked him to, I'm sure he would lend you what you needed."
He pulled her close and kissed her. "Thanks, Nola. You're a darling. But for several years I was a hardworking general practitioner, you see, before I decided to specialize in psychiatry. I made some money and saved quite a bit of it."
Her smile was bright. "Good. Then all that remains is for you to pick out a rug and some furniture."
"Not on your life. That's your job. Your salary starts as of today, and as of tomorrow you'll have to start earning it. By the way, I suppose you've heard that Missy is giving what she calls a 'fang-dang' next week. I gather a fang-dang is some sort of hootenanny without the folk music or the beatniks."
"Oh, don't fool yourself. They don't use Yankee terms like beatniks or hipsters down here-but I hear that for eccentrics, this county ranks with any. And my guess is that every one of them will be on hand."
"Yes... but will you?"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, if I'm invited," Nola assured him. "Bridge has told me all about Missy's parties. They're famous."
"Missy says the hair comes down first, then the pants."
Nola chuckled. "Let me tell you, when they made Missy they threw the mold away-and maybe that's a good thing."
"I suppose. I doubt if the country could stand two like her. Well, does Kenton have a decent furniture store?"
"I wouldn't be surprised. Where do you think you are, doctor? On the moon?"
"Well, you go and pick out what we need and I'll go to the bank. When you're through, meet me in the drugstore on the ground floor."
"Shall I let go or watch the pennies?"
"Might as well get good stuff. Be sure it complements or blends or matches or something. Soothing, you understand. No clashing colors."
She walked out ahead of him and he locked up the office.
After lunch, having no further business in Kenton, they started for home in the pick-up truck.
As they jogged along, Nola's knees were drawn up on the seat, almost touching his right thigh. Her left arm was stretched out, fingers dangling close to his right shoulder, and her head lay on the arm. He could feel her eyes on him as he drove along, but he kept his on the road.
Suddenly she sat up, sighed. She ran her fingers through her heavy, silky hair. "Oh, Rod-I don't really want to go back so soon. It's such a glorious, golden day! Let's ride around and explore a little."
"Explore? Where?"
"Look, there's a side road. Let's see where it goes. You know, I'm practically a stranger in these parts, just like you."
He slowed, turned into a narrow, rutted road overgrown with weeds.
"Doesn't look as if it goes anywhere," he said dubiously. "Looks as if it quit going a long time ago."
But it wound on stubbornly through a heavily wooded area. Tall pines whispered at them as they passed. The sun dappled the weeded roadway in fanciful shapes. A red squirrel dashed in front of them and swarmed up a pine, sending back a spray of loose bark. He stuck his head around the bole and chattered shrilly at the truck.
A mile or more from the main highway the road ended in a wide grassy sward, the edge of which was marked by a steep bluff. He drove the truck near the edge and they looked over. It was an old gravel pit, the sides and bottom eroded, a miniature Grand Canyon, the brilliant reds of the clay standing out sharply in the bright sunlight. In the bottom was a still pool of clear blue water.
"How does the water get itself so blue? You'd think that with so much red clay about... "
Nola stifled a sound of annoyance. Maybe he was talking because he was afraid of what might come next, she thought. But she, living ahead of time, was short-tempered with delay. And it was not merely because she had a warm, stinging desire for him. There was a better reason than that. There was something she had to find out, and the sooner the better. In fact, there were two things she had to find out. First, what would it be like with someone she was certain she was in love with? Would it, as this psychiatrist had promised, be really better than the crazed paroxysms she had known in Barry Norton's steely embrace? And second, was she really released from the spell Barry Norton had cast upon her? A touch of near panic made her tremble. How could anyone so revolting have such a grip on her? True, when she was in Rod's presence, she always felt delivered of that hold, as if Barry were destroyed, disintegrated. But when Rod was absent, gradually doubts assembled. Because sometimes a lust would gather in her loins and she would think back to the times with Barry. And she would feel that if Barry would appear, surely she would turn water weak and yield to him again. So now she wanted to find out whether it was Barry she craved-in which case she would hate herself forever-or just a man, any man. This was the diagnosis that Rod had made of her trouble. It differed from Melody's apparent compulsion to repeat an act-the act of being raped-because that compulsion had been for the act itself and not the man who had performed it. Now Nola was desperate to confirm Rod's diagnosis of her weakness.
She insinuated herself closer to him, looked up at him. She flogged herself into action, though he might think it indecent of her-her heart trembling in her soft eyes, her lips twisted into an aching smile. She ground her thighs against his, and said, "Now let's pick up where we left off the other day-" He remembered well where they had left off. Right at calamity's door. And now she was begging for that calamity. Already he was involved professionally with this warm, lovely woman. She was his office nurse. That was strain enough, surely. To take her body, use it as so clearly she wanted him to, would mean still further involvement- the involvement of love. Because surely to know the delights of that body would break down his last defenses. He would surrender to the tug of his heart. He would find himself in the same spot as when he had loved that other lovely girl: vulnerable to hurt, to thralldom, to betrayal.
How could he risk it? A soul as generous and affectionate as Nola might some day, for instance, feel sorry for some soldier-boy again. She might fall in love with some other man, or for her own reasons accept the advances of someone like Barry Norton. Any such occurrence would mean disaster for Rod if he allowed himself further involvement, and so he neurotically feared it. Icy fear sleeted over him. He opened his mouth to say something; he was not quite sure what. But she covered it with her soft, hot lips, pressing herself to him and throwing her arms around his neck.
Blood thrashed through his system. Want pounded him. And then, as she twisted and squirmed, trying to suck sweetness from his mouth, he cracked. After all, Rod was only human. His quivering nerves and his reflexes and his whole physiological heritage took over, banishing his fears and constrictions and dynamiting his mental blocks. He clutched her to him frantically.
Sensing triumph, the woman in her gloated. She took one of his hands and guided it to a sensitive goal. The effect was to make both of them ravenous for consummation. But they were still on the front seat of the truck, awkwardly constrained, hampered by the steering wheel.
"Let's improve the environment," he whispered.
He helped her from the truck, found an old threadbare blanket in the back and took it with him. They sought a shady, secluded spot under the trees and he spread the blanket. When he looked up, he saw that she had divested herself of the nurse's cloak and white nylon uniform, and of what had been beneath them. The garments fluttered on a nearby bush, and she was standing beside him, straight, proud, trembling for his touch, utterly nude.
The fearful, hesitant, unsure man was wholly gone. In his place was one who knew what he wanted, and meant to get it at all costs. With sure instinct, Rod pulled her to the blanket and did exactly those things, in exactly the right manner, to bring the squealing, twitching Nola to exactly the right pitch of physiological readiness. And as she squirmed, kissed him thirstily, intimately and boldly fondled him, her love for him made of it all a wondrous delight, a rapture beyond any that heaven itself could have given her.
And then she felt him pierce the velvety heart of her womanhood. With a glad cry, she lifted to receive him, accommodate him. With slow, mighty strokes he brought her to utmost pleasure, then stiffened galvanically. Again she cried out. Her long legs supplely kicked and thrashed. Her whole body shook and quivered. In a paroxysm of bliss, they rocketed together into paradise.
Some moments later, a wail emerged from her mouth and a great sob from his. Then she went as limp as death...
The sun was westering and low when finally they were ready to leave. He helped her dress. They were sharing a feeling of unutterable oneness, a closeness that man and woman can achieve in only one way. They did not speak as they got back into the truck. Nor did they speak during the return drive. But each was busy with private thoughts.
Nola was thinking that she loved this man. He had been absolutely right about love being the finest source for sex, too. Never, with Barry Norton or anyone else, had her body responded so ardently. It seemed certain to her now that Barry's spell was broken. Of course, she reflected, it had seemed that way to her before...
As for Rod, driving carefully in the twilight, he too was thinking of love. Did he love Nola? He could hardly deny it. But he did not allow himself to confirm it, either. By a complicated mental process, he managed to evade answering the question. The very thought of love, of commitments, of enduring alliances with an attractive woman, made him shudder. Now that physical urgency was not upon him, his fears and hesitations were reverting. Besides, this emotion of his, centering on Nola... not long before, it had been centering on someone else. On the unique, inimitable, overwhelming Tangi.
Ah, thought Rod. Now there was a girl. Tangi.
Why did he feel no fears or reservations as far as Tangi was concerned?
He stole a somewhat absorbed glance at Nola. He did not feel less one with her, less close. Yet here he was thinking of another girl, of Tangi. It was downright treachery on his part. Impulsively he took one hand from the wheel, reached out and stroked Nola's golden hair.
She turned in response and smiled like a sunburst.
"Nola, darling-"
"Yes?"
"Will you go with me to Missy's party?"
"If I'm invited."
"Oh, I'm sure we both will be. She thinks you're great. And by the way, so do I."
That was not exactly the declaration she had been hoping to hear. But it was still too early, she supposed, for him to speak of love.