Chapter 11
Veronica was naked, lying across the bed. She gazed idly out into the darkness beyond the opened French windows, momentarily hypnotized by the lace curtains moving in and out of the room in the slight evening breeze. After Harry and Stevie had left, she had gathered up the peignoirs she had tossed onto the bathroom floor and onto the kitchen table and had pushed them into the clothes hamper. Then she had changed the sheets on the bed and put fresh towels in the bathroom. Now, after a long and relaxing bath, she was lying on top of the bed as if she were waiting. Veronica, what are you doing? Veronica?
She glanced at the clock on the lapis nightstand. It was almost midnight which meant that it was nearly 3:00 am in Boston. It was unlike George not to have telephoned. He had not even told her in which hotel he was staying. She pouted at the clock and turned her gaze again towards the window.
He'll be sorry, the stupid bastard. Just wait. He'll be sorry. When he finds out...."
Veronica sat bolt upright. She shook her head and then fell upon her back again, her hands over her mouth. For a minute she didn't know whether she was about to laugh or to cry.
She was waiting to be raped! All of the tension surrounding the day was suddenly explainable. She was waiting to be raped, waiting for the ultimate sexual thrill, and it had only just occurred to her. Her hands fell to her side and she smiled. She smiled at her own folly, smiled to suddenly realize that no one would rape a willing woman. The rapist would not see fear in her eyes, the fear which he needed to achieve gratification. He would see only lust. He would not be able to rape her. In effect, she would rape him. It would be her ultimate triumph.
Veronica considered the thoughts which invaded her, the thoughts which she had managed to avoid or push from her mind all day long. She experienced suddenly something she had never known before: calm. A wave of calmness like something soft and luminous exploding inside her. She understood.
Her activities had become increasingly reckless. Today she had strutted across a stage before a group which had included some of the richest and the most socially prominent women known to her. Now she was exposing herself to rape. There had been a purpose to her growing recklessness. She had wanted George to find out. She had wanted him to discover her lascivious activities. She had wanted him to find out and then bring her into line. In short, she had wanted George to conquer her!
Veronica digested this new self-knowledge slowly. But didn't George find out? Why didn't he force her to reform, force her to stop being the woman her mother had always said she would become?
Intruding into her calm like a knife thrust into her chest, Veronica half-rose with a sudden pang of fear. Perhaps she had gone too far. If she was frightened now, the rapist might come. She no longer wanted that. She swung her legs off the bed, intending to quickly bolt the French windows.
As she began to stand up the telephone rang. She looked at the phone doubtfully and then glanced towards the opened windows. With a sudden rush of hope that it was George she forgot the windows and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Ron?"
George, too, was lying naked on the bed of his hotel room. The flashing red neon light had long since stopped flickering, and he lay in the murky half-light coming from the street lamps outside. Yvonne had only just left him, hurrying back to her family after having had another round of loving sex. On her hands and knees on the floor, she had bucked wildly as he had entered her hot tunnel from behind. Now he was exhausted but unable to sleep.
"Oh, George! George, I'm so glad you called. George, I have something to tell you...."
"No, Veronica," he cut her off sharply. "I have something to tell you. It's always you running the show. When I leave on a trip you never say, 'Have a good trip' or, even, 'Good luck.' It's always 'Call me, George.' George do this or George do that. George fuck me. George eat me. Well, Veronica, this time I have something to say to you."
Veronica was stunned. Her chest heaved with the sudden thought that she might have come to her senses too late. George was angry, speaking to her in the flat tone she recognized from only one incident in the past And he was calling her "Veronica."
"George, I've got to confess...." she said quickly.
"Confess?" he laughed. "Do you really think I don't know, Veronica. I am not a stupid man. I've known for sometime now."
She gasped as if she had been hit in the stomach with a knotted fist. She leaned forward. Tears had sprung into her eyes. "You know?" she sobbed.
"Yes, I know." Her tone exasperated him, but he had also begun to feel a slight sensation of alarm.
"But you don't know why, George. You couldn't know why, because I only just found out myself."
"I don't want to hear it, Veronica." Despite his determination to break cleanly with Veronica, George began to feel doubt. He had never heard her emotionally distraught before. Her driving need to control every situation had always prevented her from giving in to anything except the passions of sex.
"George, I've got to say it!"
"You've said it all, Veronica. With your lust."
"No, not lust, George! You. It was you! I wanted you to find out! Don't you understand that? I wanted you to find out so ,...." her voice broke off in a long sob.
George shuddered and pushed himself into a sitting position. Had it, then, really been conscious on her part? She had deliberately wanted to cripple his sense of self-respect?...." so you would force me to be good again. George, I wanted you to conquer me." Then she began to cry, hysterical and beyond control.
"Veronica! Get yourself under control and listen to me!" George was genuinely alarmed now. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps there was just the slightest chance, and he knew that, however remote that chance might be, he had to take it.
Veronica drew in her breath sharply and struggled to control her sobbing. George had responded. Perhaps there was a chance. She had to rise to the challenge. She could not let herself go to pieces. Not now.
"George," she whispered finally.
"Veronica, listen. I'll catch the next plane out of here. We'll talk about it then. Okay?"
"Oh, yes! Hurry, darling. Thank you."
"See you soon. Are you all right now?"
"Fine," she said and wiped at her eyes. "Good night, George."
"Good night." He hung up the phone. His chest was pounding. More than that, his member had begun to pulsate slightly with the hope surging through the rest of his body. George loved her, had always loved her although he had never understood her before. Perhaps she had solved the puzzle, after all. He had to find out. He called the front desk and made the arrangements for departure quickly. Then, fully erected, he jumped off the bed with a happy shout.
When she hung up the telephone, Veronica continued sitting on the edge of the bed until the sobbing began to subside. Finally quiet and under control, she leaned forward and buried her face in her hands with gratitude and love. Then her head jerked up and she looked aghast towards the French windows. She had heard a noise. The curtains moved into the room and then rushed out into the night again. She listened intently. Again she heard a sound as of someone was stepping on branches.
She stood up and stepped forward to run towards the opened French windows to bolt them shut. Her heart began to pound. The figure of a man appeared on the sill. A tall threatening figure with a nylon stocking pulled over his head.
Veronica reached behind and wrapped her sweating hand around the base of the marble lamp, which stood on the nightstand. She jerked the lamp free of the socket and, stepping forward, she threw it with all her force towards the intruder. Then, with her head thrown back and her fists clenched tightly at her sides, Veronica screamed with outrage.
Moving through the early morning traffic, George had a growing sense of danger. His fears were confirmed when, pulling up their driveway, he saw an ambulance and police cruisers parked in front of their house. He jumped from the car and ran towards the house. "Veronica! Veronica!"
As he approached the house, some attendants were carrying a stretcher through the front door. On the stretcher was a body wrapped in a white sheet. George stood still, shocked and alarmed. He stared at the covered body and moaned, "Veronica?"
"George!"
He looked up and saw Veronica standing in the doorway. She was wrapped in a heavy, quilted robe, and her face was pale. She broke away from the policemen who were questioning her and ran, laughing and sobbing, down the steps into his arms.
"Veronica, I love you," he murmured.
"I love you, George. I'll never doubt that or myself again."
They pushed past the policemen into the house.
"What happened?" George asked the lieutenant who appeared to be in charge.
"Your wife killed the rapist, Mr. Wainwright. I assume you are Mr. Wainwright?"
"Yes. Very much so."
The telephone rang and Veronica turned away to pick it up. "Hello?"
"Veronica? Veronica, this is Monica Lewis. I couldn't sleep all night and just had to call you to tell you ... well, to tell you that I was at Tony's yesterday afternoon, and I think what you did was simply splendid. Don't worry about a thing."
Veronica flushed. Monica was the grande dame of society. If anyone could cover a scandal by simply denying that it had ever happened, Monica was just the one to do it. "Thank you, Monica," she whispered. "I had begun to regret it. I'm very grateful."
"Nonsense. It is I who am grateful. Let's have lunch next week."
"Fine," Veronica said. "Fine. I'll call you."
"Excellent. Good-bye, dear."
"Good-bye."
Veronica hung up and turned to George. He was looking at her and smiling.
"Officer," he said, turning towards the lieutenant. "Can you finish questioning my wife later? I think she needs some rest."
"Sure. I understand." The police began to move away from the house.
As George and Veronica were walking towards the bedroom, John came into the living room.
"John," George said. "See that Mrs. Wainwright and I are not disturbed."
"Not for a very long time," Veronica added.