Chapter 13
The next three weeks went more or less smoothly. Myra stood firm in her refusal to have an abortion, but I continued to urge her to do it. I was seeing less and less of her all the time, and she was becoming more and more possessive of me. Every day in the office, if I had not seen her or called the previous evening, Myra would look up at me with her dark, smoky eyes and ask where I had been and what I had done. Since she had admitted her love for me the night she told me she was pregnant, she became more of a menace to my freedom.
I felt that Myra was a thing of the past with me, becoming less and less important every day. She had been completely replaced in my thoughts by Eileen Walters. And, if a conversation I had with Frank Harris meant anything, she would soon be replaced in my office, too. Frank, who had accepted the first payment in our rigged price deal, had agreed to find a secretarial job for Myra at Gordon Foundries.
Although I had not yet succeeded in seducing Eileen, I believed I was making some progress. On our most recent date, she had let me fondle her firm, thrusting breasts and she returned my passionate kisses eagerly. When I slipped my hand between her legs, however, she balked and ended our petting session in the front seat of my station wagon.
"No, Paul, no!" she had muttered seriously as my hand moved up over the silky smoothness inside her thighs. She forced my hand down and moved away from me.
"Why, Eileen?" I asked, puzzled by her continuing refusal. "I love you and want you. Don't you love me?"
"I ... I don't know, Paul," she answered uncertainly. "I just know that ... that I ... when you touch me, I ... Oh, I don't know!" She cried then and suddenly bolted from the car.
I caught her on the front porch of the big old Walters home. "It's all right, Eileen," I whispered, holding her in my arms. "You're still not recovered from your divorce, I guess. You'll change your mind soon enough and then I'll love you like a man should love a woman."
She had just nodded, kissed me lightly on the cheek and disappeared into the dark house.
Little sister Bess, on the other hand, was still as ready and willing to play games as ever. She had come to my apartment several evenings when her mother and sister thought she was out on dates with Buddy. As soon as she closed the apartment door behind her, Bess would peel off her clothes and the fun would begin.
Sometimes we made wild, carefree love right on the living room floor and sometimes we made it into the bedroom. Wherever we did it, though, she gave herself completely to the pleasures of the moment.
She enjoyed whatever type of sexual act I could dream up-and she dreamed up a few beauties herself! I was constantly amazed by the amount of experience and worldliness she had for a high school girl.
One night, after we had screwed four times-reaching new heights of pleasure each time-Bess relaxed in my arms and told me how her sexual life had begun when she was only fourteen years old. Physically developed beyond her years, she explained, she had looked like a girl of 16 or 17 when she was 14. Her sexual hunger and desire was far ahead of her actual age, too, and she thought constantly of sex.
Finally, one summer afternoon when her mother was in the city shopping and she was alone in the big old house, Bess seduced a boy who was doing yard work for the family next door.
"He was 18," Bess recalled as I toyed with the then-soft nipples of her tan, tempting tits. "He wasn't very good looking, but he was hung like a stallion." She laughed out loud as she indicated the size of her first love's weapon with her hands. "Like that, at least," she said. "I invited him in for a cold drink. While he sat at the kitchen table guzzling the lemonade I poured for him, I went into the dining room and took off my blouse. When I walked back into the kitchen wearing only my skimpy shorts, I smiled at him and he almost fell off his chair. He just stared at my boobies with his mouth open."
As she told her story, I noticed that Bess' nipples were growing hard and erect again. Obviously recalling her first encounter with a man was having an exciting effect on her.
"I walked over to him slowly," she continued with a far-away look in her eyes. "When I was just a few inches from him, I stopped and asked if he'd like to stay for a while and listen to records. The poor kid was too shook up to answer. He just nodded his head slowly without taking his eyes off my bare breasts. Then I reached down and took his hand and brought it up to cup one of my tits. He stood up, finally, and kissed me on the lips. It was just what I wanted him to do, but I was a little surprised when he forced his tongue into my mouth. His hands were all over me, then, and I put my hand between his legs, too. Wow! was I surprised at the size of the thing I felt!"
Bess' story was having an effect on me, too, and she reached down to caress and squeeze my throbbing erection.
"Soon we were both completely naked, lying on the couch in the living room. He seemed reluctant to screw me, even though we were both ready to explode with passion. Finally, I took his big thing in my hand and guided it between my legs. 'Do it! Do it!' I told him. Boy! Did he ever do it! He went off in about fifteen seconds, but I wouldn't let him off me until I'd come about three or four times. He came a second time when I had my last climax, too. It was great, Paul, just like I knew it would be."
She paused and I lit cigarettes for both of us. Then she went on: "Well, that was the beginning. I loved it and wanted it all the time. Couldn't get enough. Still can't get enough," she giggled. "Last year, though I got kind of tired of screwing teenage boys. They always want to do it in a car or in a park somewhere. Never in bed where you can really enjoy it and make it last. That's when I decided to go after older men. The first one was my English teacher in high school. I stayed after school one day to do some extra work for him and conned him into driving me home. Well, I used a few tricks on him-stuff I knew would turn him on-and we wound up going out to dinner together and shacking up until after midnight in his apartment. I had to lie like hell to Momma, but it was worth it. The next day in school, I thought that teacher would go out of his mind every time he looked at me. He just couldn't wait to get his hands on me again, so I let me feel me a little bit right in the classroom during the lunch period. We went to his apartment again that evening and really blew our minds."
I interrupted her story then by rolling over on top of her fantastic young body and making love to her again. We finally left my place about 11:30 p.m. and I had her home by midnight, just as Buddy was required to do.
It was Wednesday and I happily left my office looking forward to my dinner date with Eileen. I told Myra that I wouldn't be able to see her that night. No explanation. She looked at me with hurt in her eyes as I left, but I didn't care. She had to learn that I was putting her out of my life for good.
I took Eileen to an intimate little steak house about 20 miles from the city that night. Her silence in the car as we drove out there should have told me that something was wrong. I dismissed it, though, figuring that she was just in a quiet mood.
After a few drinks and dinner, we danced slowly to the muted music from the juke box. It had been a pleasant evening but Eileen had not loosened up as I had expected.
"What's the problem?" I asked as we moved about the small dance floor. "You're extra quiet tonight."
"There's ... I want to ... there's something I have to tell you, Paul," she blurted out a few seconds later.
"Sounds important," I said. "Let's sit down."
Back at our secluded table, I signaled the waiter for another round of drinks and lit a cigarette. Eileen wouldn't look me in the eye and I knew then that our relationship would never be the same after our pending conversation.
"Well...?" I said, urging her to begin.
"I don't want to see you anymore, Paul," she said quietly, still avoiding my eyes. "It would be easier on me if you don't ask me to explain. I just don't want to see you again."
She sipped her drink and took a cigarette from her pack on the table.
"Sony if it will make it rough on you, baby, but I want an explanation," I told her. "I love you, Eileen. I've told you that many times and it's still true. I think that entitles me to an explanation as to why you don't want to see me anymore."
She was quiet for more than a minute and I was silent, too, waiting for her to speak.
"Paul," she said finally, "do you remember that first night when you came over to our house to see me? I think Bess brought you over."
I nodded.
"Well," she continued. "I asked you then if you knew anything about the circumstances of my divorce. Do you remember that?"
"Yes," I snapped, more than slightly irritated at the way she was putting off getting to the subject. "Get on with it!"
"Very well," she said. "You told me then that you knew nothing about my divorce and I said that it was probably best to leave it that way. I've changed my mind. I think now that you should know the circumstances of my divorce. It will help you understand why I can't see you any longer-why I don't want to see you."
I took a long sip on my drink then. Every word that Eileen spoke drove us farther and farther apart. From the tone of her voice and the hard glint in her eyes, I knew that nothing I could say would alter the decision she had announced while we were dancing.
"I am a lesbian, Paul," Eileen said calmly, letting the smoke she had just inhaled drift slowly from her mouth and nostrils. She looked me directly in the eye and repeated the word. "A lesbian!"
The impact of what she said nearly knocked me off my seat. How? Why? The questions shouted in my mind, but I remained silent waiting for her to continue.
"That's the reason why my husband divorced me," she said. "It was bad for business, being married to a queer woman." Eileen took a drink and a very long pull on her cigarette. What she was telling me was very difficult for her and it was obvious that she was struggling to control her nervousness. Frequently, she looked over her bare, white shoulders to see if a waiter was nearby or if any of the other patrons of the restaurant could possibly overhear.
"What happened?" I asked suddenly, surprised to hear myself speak.
"I got caught," she smiled. "George, my husband, walked in unexpectedly one afternoon and found me in bed with our maid. Lucy was her name-a sweet young thing, but not very bright." She stopped for a few seconds, and I could tell she was recalling the situation in detail. "I had just peeled that ugly black and white uniform off her voluptuous young body. She was built like a young Venus and was actually a virgin. Imagine! A virgin!"
Eileen laughed nervously and then continued. "At any rate, I had just thrown her down on the bed and was filling my mouth and my hands with her sweet, tender flesh-when George appeared in the bedroom door."
Again she laughed nervously, covering the sound with her hand this time. She looked at me to see the reaction her story was having and puffed furiously on her cigarette.
"Lucy screamed when she saw George. I think she was enjoying it up until then. George, of course, was too astonished to utter a word. He just stood there with a stupid look on his wonderfully handsome face while Lucy jumped up off the bed and raced out of the room without a stitch of clothes on. I knew I was caught, so I just lay there on the bed and waited to see what George would say. He said plenty, believe me."
I was stunned, but strangely fascinated by Eileen's tale. I gulped my drink and nodded to her, indicating that I had understood so far and wanted her to continue.
"We never slept together after that night," she said. "George hardly spoke to me or acknowledged that I was his wife. Lucy, poor thing, was fired, of course, even though I explained to George that what he had discovered was in no way her fault. She was black, you see, and I think it was terribly hard for her to find another position without references."
"Why did you go out with me, let me kiss you, have anything to do with me, if ... if you're ... you're the way you say you are?" I struggled to ask. "Why did you let me touch you and fall in love with you?"
"You were my one chance for escape," she explained. "My last hope. I thought that if I could make a go of it with you, love you as a woman loves a man, I would be cured of this strange, overpowering desire I have for other women. I was wrong, of course. Every time you put your arm around me, every time you put your hand on me, I almost went out of my mind ... with revulsion! I don't mean to hurt you, Paul, but it's the simple truth. I like you very much as a person and I would like, if it is possible, to keep you as a friend. I just can't stand for any man to touch me or to try to make love to me. I hope you understand."
Now it was my turn to be silent while I thought of what to say. My mind was a blank. A confused, hurt, mixed-up blank. What could I say?
What could! possibly say that would make any difference?
"Why now?" I muttered. "Why are you telling me all this now, tonight, instead of last week, or next week? Why now?"
"Fair enough," she said. "I'm telling you now, because, well because there's someone else ... and I just can't continue pretending that there can ever be anything more than simple friendship between us."
"Not another man, I assume," I said, glaring at her.
"Of course not," she replied quickly. "I've met a wonderful girl, a simple, loving person who really needs me."
"Great," I said sarcastically.
"I didn't expect you to understand," Eileen said, lowering her eyes. "Nonetheless, Myra's a wonderful girl and ... I know this must sound strange to you, but ... I love her very much."
Myra! The name rocked me, but I stifled my surprise with a question. "What does your new friend do?"
"She's a secretary," Eileen answered openly. "I don't know the name of the company she works for, but she's been sleeping with her boss and he must be a real bastard!"
"Why is that?" I inquired, unable to believe what I was hearing.
"Why, he's made her pregnant and now he's trying to get rid of her," Eileen answered indignantly. "He wants her to have an abortion! She loves him and wants his baby and he wants her to have an abortion! Goddamn men!"
"Very interesting," I commented weakly. I signaled the waiter for the check and reached for my wallet. I couldn't stand to hear much more of what Eileen was telling me. It was too fantastic!
Too much!
Outside in the car, Eileen added the words that completed the crushing blow she had begun in the restaurant. Up until then, I had held out some small glimmer of hope that everything she related about her new-found love was just a coincidence. There were lots of girls named Myra, and probably quite a few who were pregnant.
"Myra's black, too, you know," Eileen said with a trace of a smile. "Lucy and now Myra. There was one other black girl before Lucy, but I can't remember her name." She paused and then snickered. "I guess you might say that black women are 'my bag'."
I raced my station wagon back to the Walter's house and let Eileen off without another word. "Goodnight Paul," she murmured while I stared straight ahead through the windshield. "Don't hate me, please." Then she kissed my cheek lightly and got out of the car.
Fifteen minutes later I was in my apartment, pouring myself an extra-stiff drink. My mind was staggered, unable to accept everything I had heard in the past few hours. Eileen was queer and Myra-my Myra-was her new love. How could it be? Had my callousness toward her and our unborn child driven Myra into lesbianism?
Apparently that was the case. Eileen had even mentioned that she was especially glad Myra was pregnant because it would give her an opportunity to fulfill her maternal urge. Both she and Myra were hoping for a girl, she had added.
Three double drinks later I forced myself to go to bed. I wanted to drink myself into oblivion, but even more, I wanted to see Myra at the office in the morning and confront her with Eileen Walter's name. The look in her eye would tell me if everything Eileen said was true.
I remember thinking just before I went to sleep on the chair in the living room that my life had suddenly and certainly taken a violent turn for the worse. "I hope nothing else happens," I recall muttering to myself. "One catastrophe at a time is enough."
Disaster number two occurred without warning while I was drinking my morning coffee and looking over the newspaper before leaving the apartment the following day.
"FOUNDRY EXECUTIVE, MISTRESS FOUND DEAD" the headline screamed at me from the front page of the paper above pictures of Frank Harris and Lila, his girlfriend. I could feel the blood draining out of my face as I read the story alongside the photos.
Police had found the two bodies in Lila's apartment after neighbors reported hearing two shots. A bullet had struck Lila in the forehead, killing her instantly. Harris, who apparently killed his girlfriend before taking his own life, had fired the .45 caliber weapon in his mouth.
The gun and a lengthy suicide note were found near the bodies in the bedroom, the story related.
Trembling, I read the portion of the news story about the suicide note. The paragraph read:
"Police refused to reveal the contents of the note because, they said, it contained the names of persons who must be contacted first.
The note was four pages long, handwritten on notebook paper in a masculine script, police said."
If my name was in Frank Harris' suicide note, the ball game was over. I looked at my watch and saw that it was 7 a.m. According to the newspaper, the bodies had been discovered about 11 p.m. the night before. If my name was in the note, it seemed to me that the police would have contacted me during the night. That thought relaxed me for a moment and I leaned back and sipped my coffee.
Then it occurred to me that if Frank has spilled his guts about our price fixing deal, the cops would be taking their time putting the facts together before grabbing me. They'd want to look at the books at Gordon Foundries and at Space Age Metals. And, they would impound the new bank account set up in Frank's name until they figured out the difference between some of our records.
I was in a state of panic. What the hell could have driven Frank to suicide besides his fear of being discovered in the price fixing deal with me? And why would he have killed Lila? Perhaps I shouldn't have been so descriptive when I told him of the good time the Oriental beauty had shown me the night he and I closed our deal. Maybe he really loved her or something crazy like that and the thought of me enjoying her-and her enjoying me-drove him mad with jealousy.
By that time, I was shaking so badly that I nearly spilled my coffee. I had to get out of town, but I was afraid the police would be searching for me. My only chance was to hide out somewhere until I found out for sure whether or not Frank had blown the whistle on me. But where?
Donna wouldn't have anything to do with me, that was for sure. I couldn't go to her for help anyway. I had too much pride for that.
Eileen might help, but after last night, I doubted it. Bess and Momma Walters were possible sources of assistance, though. I hesitated to contact them because of what had happened with Eileen.
That left Myra. If she really loved me the way she said she did, maybe I could talk her into helping me get out of town if it turned out that the cops were after me.
It was about 7:15 a.m. when I telephoned Myra.
She answered after several rings and I knew I had awakened her.
"Myra, baby," I said trying not to sound overly excited. "Can you come over to my place right away? I may be in some real trouble and I might need your help."
"What's the matter?" she inquired with a note of hostility in her voice. "Did your white queen say no to your proposal last night?"
"I'm serious, Myra," I pleaded. "Please come over right away, hurry."
"What's the story, baby?" she asked with a new sound of interest.
"I can't tell you on the phone, but believe me, it's serious," I said. "Will you come over?"
"Yeah," she answered after a moment's silence. "There's something I have to tell you anyway."
Relieved to know that at least one person cared enough to help me, I raced into the bedroom and began packing my clothes. I was scared. Very scared, indeed.
Myra's knock on the door about 30 minutes later almost sent me through the roof. I let her in and embraced her momentarily. She noticed my bags beside the door and asked the obvious question:
"Where are you going?"
"I have to get out of town, Myra," I explained. "That's why I called you. Does your trombone playing friend, Malco, have any connections who can help me out of town and hide me for a few weeks?"
"Easy, baby, easy," she said. "Don't blow your cool. Just because Malco smokes a little pot and give me a few joints from time to time doesn't mean he's a goddamned Al Capone. What's your problem anyhow?"
Briefly I explained about the murder-suicide story in the newspaper and about my arrangement with Frank Harris.
"If he ratted on me in that note, Myra, the cops are probably on their way to get me now," I said urgently. "There isn't any time to lose. Can you and Malco help me?"
"I doubt it, Paul, baby," Myra said with a sad smile. "Malco's out of town with the band and I don't know anyone else who might have the right connections. Guess you better just hit the road. I'll send the fuzz in the other direction when they show up and at least maybe that will be of some help."
That was it. Nothing left. No one to help. Nowhere to run but right straight down the road where every cop would be looking in a few hours.
Suddenly there was a loud rap on the door. Even before the sound had completely registered in my brain, I knew it was the police and I knew my luck had run out.
When I opened the apartment door, two plain clothes detectives and two uniform guys stood there, crowding the hall.
"Mr. Norman?" one of the detectives asked and I nodded. He flashed his badge at me with a practiced flip of his hand and announced, "Police." Again I nodded. "We'd like to ask you some questions about your relationship with a Frank Harris and a Miss Lila Lee Wong. If you refuse to cooperate, I am authorized to place you under arrest on suspicion of fraud and grand larceny. May we come in?"
After that, everything including the two-week trial that resulted in my conviction and sentencing to five to twelve years, all of the events become fuzzy and hard to remember. Since I've been in prison, Jim Liggett has been reinstated as purchasing agent and Myra has given birth to a little girl. Myra escaped prosecution in connection with the doctored purchase orders that got Liggett fired by testifying against me. I couldn't blame her. I'd have done the same thing.
I think the most crushing thing that happened to me that day, when the police came to the apartment and my moon shot crashed back on the launching pad in flames was the brief comment that Myra made as I was leaving with the officers.
"You said on the phone that you had something to tell me," I reminded her. "What was it?"
"Oh, nothing important," she said shaking her head. "I just wanted to mention that I'd met a friend of yours. A girl by the name of Eileen."