Chapter 13
Sandra's face turned to wood and the rest of her body seemed to stop functioning. Her heart skipped a beat, quivered in terror for a moment, then pounded in her breast, threatening to tear itself from its confining cavity.
"That's impossible," She heard the words fill the room, but she wasn't aware she had spoken.
"Not for a minute, my aspiring dancer. You were at the Jumping Cholla Hotel in Palm Springs with Tony Gibbs. You went there in his car and you made love until almost dawn the next day."
Sandra's fear was replaced by anger, an anger which made her body tremble as though she were still afraid. But she felt strong. So their secret was out! So what? Together, she and Tony were strong. They could face any problem, any obstacle-even Hester St. Claire.
"You're nothing more than a filthy peeping Tom," she hissed, drawing away from the older woman. "How did you know where to do your snooping?"
"History was on my side-history and my excellent memory for it." She sighed, seemingly at peace with the world, as though she'd accomplished a much-sought goal. "Your Mr. Gibbs has been in Palm Springs before."
Sandra tossed her head. "I don't believe you."
"It's true. He was there last year." She rose and went to a door which led to another room, deeper in the office. She opened it. "Come in, please, Connie."
A red-headed counselor, the girl who had first spoken to Sandra on the porch outside that day so long ago, came into the room. She was the girl who had first warned Sandra bout Hester. Sandra and Connie Hofstedder had seen each other often since then, of course, and they were friends. Now the girl was cringing, and her eyes were red. She stood before them, like a child anxious to deliver its recitation and hurry away.
Hester looked from Connie to Sandra, and then back again. "All right, tell her."
The redhead spoke woodenly, as though she were drugged. "Last summer, Tony Gibbs and I drove to Palm Springs in his convertible several times, staying in various hotels. He made love to me in all of them. When we broke up in the fall, he told me he had taken other girls down there."
"It's a lie!" Sandra leaped to her feet, her eyes wide, her ears not wanting to hear any more.
"You're both in this together. You want to drive us apart." She pointed at Connie. "That's it! You're jealous. You want to get him back for yourself."
Connie shook her head. "I haven't seen him since last September except at the camp dance. Now I'm engaged to be married in November, to a boy from Denver. I can prove it, if you like."
"I'd like it if you got out," Hester snapped, pointing at the door. "Right now. Go!"
The redhead turned and went to the door, opening the catch, and going outside. She left like a zombie, not looking to left or right. Hester followed her and threw the lock home again.
"How could you make her tell such a lie?" Sandra demanded, shouting into Hester's face, her chin forward.
"It's not a lie. She consented to tell all because she knows I can ruin her reputation with what I know about her behavior." Hester shrugged. "It's as simple as that."
Sandra sat down on the old leather couch, her head drooping. She couldn't think. She was acting at the command of animal reflexes, clutching at hope where she could. "I don't care. Tony never lied to me. He never claimed I was the first. So there were others, but none like me. He's practically promised he'll propose at the right time."
Hester sat down next to Sandra, tenderly taking her hand, and she dropped her heavy bomb. "When will you get this proposal-after his divorce?"
Sandra didn't know what she had heard, but she felt the reaction deep in her belly. There was a sudden knot which twisted her insides, making them hurt. She merely looked at Hester, silently demanding proof.
"Anthony Gibbs. Assistant professor of English at Santa Barbara. Husband of Betty Gibbs and the father of four lovely children, two boys and two girls."
Sandra's head moved back and forth in protest.
"But yes, sweetheart. I have the address in my desk. Shall we have the telephone operator put us through? Would you like to speak to her, or perhaps to the children?"
Sandra said nothing for more than five minutes. She sat quietly, her hands gripping her knees, staring at the far wall. At last she murmured, "I'm going to be ill. May I leave now?"
"No! And you're not going to be sick." Hester commanded. "You only hope you will be, so you'll feel better later. You're going to stay right here, darling, and do your dance audition for me. Remember how the great Tony Gibbs himself interrupted us the last time?"
"No. I'm going outside."
"If you do, a number of things will happen." Hester ticked them off with her fingers as though she were reporting to a board of directors. "The Treacher Foundation will hear of your relationship, and you'll be fired in the morning. I'll make certain your friends at school get word about your nocturnal activities and, finally, one day next week your parents will get an anonymous letter-a fat letter."
Sandra didn't know why she still cared about protecting herself from scandal. Perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps she hoped she might still have a life to go back to, if she survived this terrible hour.
"And if I dance for you?"
Hester turned Sandra's face to her, kissing her on the lips. Sandra could feel the older woman trembling with anticipation, with the hope of final victory. "Then no one but Connie, Tony, you and I will ever know."
"So I will dance." She stood, looked down at
Hester, feeling as drugged as Connie had, knowing she had no will left. "I'll call it the dance of the blackmailed whore."
"Delightful!" Hester leaned back on the couch. "Turn on the radio and begin."
Sandra went to the desk and snapped on the portable. Obediently, it provided music, a wild sort of music with a beat which seemed to match the wanton, hopeless, black trance into which she had been plunged.
She danced and danced, doing every step she'd ever learned and improvising a good many more, her arms and legs and hips flashing this way and that, on and on and on...
Hester's eyes grew bright with anticipation, and she leaned forward, her hands twisting and knotting together and she licked the perspiration from her upper lip from time to time. Her breathing became harsh, and Sandra could hear it, even over the beat of the drums and the thudding of her own broken heart.
As she danced, Sandra felt her trance-like depression grow, taking control of her brain and her body until she was no longer a rational being. She had become a zombie, an automaton which could perform certain functions without a will of its own. She was, she knew, the slave of Hester St. Claire-the woman who held Sandra Albright's future in her hands.
Sandra's body writhed, back and forth, up and down, in broad, erotic circles, snake-like, sensual, until she caught the excitement, drummed it against her senses until they accepted it and, therefore, dulled the pain.
Then Hester was with her, dancing by her side as best she could, taking her hands, leading her like the male dancer leading the woman, taking her gracefully toward the couch.
Hester forced her to sit, and she did so, her body still going through the motions of the dance. Then Hester coaxed her to lie down, and she did, her hips still alive with the rhythm, refusing to stop, like a snake which-although dead-will not cease writhing until sunset.
At last Hester took complete charge and Sandra, reduced to a passionate and beautiful young animal, let her do as she wished. The older woman's expert hands removed the T-shirt, the shorts and the garments underneath until Sandra's body was fully exposed.
Hester proceeded with her ritual in a cool, calculated way, taking her time, not missing a single step in the intricate procedure. It was effective, and Sandra's yielding body responded fully, first accepting the stimulation, then welcoming it, then anticipating it and, finally, demanding it.
With Hester probing at the very core of her soul, Sandra's lips opened and a stream of foul oaths poured from her throat-horrible, wanton, black words and phrases Sandra had not known she knew.
"Wonderful, darling!" Hester exclaimed. "Now we're learning just what kind of candy and cake this little girl is made of. She's so sweet and so spoiled. Spoiled rotten!"
At last she was fully possessed, with Hester down over her, her face close, working, taking her, digging into places which had once been so private, so sacred. Now they were laid bare and used until they had no more to give.
There was a blinding flash, and Sandra heard herself whimpering like a wounded puppy, minute after minute after minute...
Her hand shook so badly she could barely hold the dime in her fingers. But she held on long enough to drop it into the slot. Then she ran her finger under the number, her lips moving as she repeated it.
She dialed and heard the buzzing. A young voice answered and she asked for him. She said it was an emergency, that she had to speak to him even if he were the referee in a championship volleyball game.
He came on the line. "Hello?"
"It's me."
She heard his intake of breath. "I told you never to call me here."
"Why not? What have we to hide?"
He was annoyed now. "Well, what is it? I'm in the middle of something."
"This is more important than volley ball. I must see you. Today. At once."
He sensed her strength, perhaps, for he did not protest further. "All right. Start walking up the road, and I'll meet you halfway."
They sat in the woods, on a soft blanket of pine needles, the branches from a huge circle of trees shutting out the slanting late summer sun.
She picked up a small cluster of needles, studying the way they grew in groups, three or four to a bundle, coming from a single core. Thoughtfully, she pulled the needles apart, one by one. She held them close to her face and her eyes were slightly crossed.
"Then she was telling the truth. You are married. You are a father." Her voice was flat, dead.
"Sandra, honey," he replied, his voice soft, pleading. He placed his hand over hers and she did not draw away. "God, how I wanted to tell you! How I wanted to spill out the whole mess, but I didn't want to ruin a beautiful relationship. I admit it, I was weak..."
She choked on a sarcastic laugh. "Not as weak as I was."
"Yes. It's my fault. Perhaps you were weak, but at least you were honest."
She dropped the needles and looked at him. "Did you believe me when I told you I loved you?"
He nodded. "And I wanted to tell you of my love, darling, but I didn't dare. I couldn't. Not with things the way they were in Santa Barbara."
Sbe squinted, studying his face. "How are things in Santa Barbara?"
"Like a nightmare. You don't know what it's like to feel trapped for the rest of your life." He kicked at the earth, apparently shaken anew by frustration. "I'd leave her tomorrow if it weren't for the children and my position at the college."
"Yes. It would look bad at the school, wouldn't it? The dean and the trustees and your students would be all shook up."
He nodded. "Of course. When one's a teacher, he's under the magnifying glass, so to speak. That's why I wanted us to be discreet here. The tiniest hint can be blown up into a mighty rumor and carried all the way back to Santa Barbara."
"For your sake, we'd better call it off, then."
He stared at her, apparently wondering if she were sincere, then deciding she was. He was easily fooled. "You're wonderful, Sandra. To think of how much you'd hoped would come of this. Then to have everything-your whole world-dashed into a thousand pieces. And you're still a good sport, a friend."
She smiled. "Sure. Why not? I enjoyed myself. Didn't you?"
Again he studied her, believing her again. "Wonderful fun. I ... hope we can get together next summer, too. I'll certainly be thinking of you during the winter months."
"Those cold winter months?" She winked. "With no one around but your wife and four little Gibbs tykes?"
"I'm being sincere, Sandra."
"So am I, darling, but I don't expect to return to the Treacher Camp next summer." She sucked on her lip, wondering why she was playing this game, wondering if she were going insane-especially when she didn't know whether to laugh or tear her clothes in screaming agony. "I understand Connie Hofstedder is returning, however, You won't be completely alone."
"Connie Hofstedder?"
She started to laugh. "Good Lord, you don't remember her. Believe me, she remembers you and, I'm afraid, I'll remember you, too."
He nodded. "I'll remember you, too, honey." He touched her hands again, squeezing them. "I won't be able to turn you off like a light switch."
"But you'll recover."
He nodded. "It won't be easy but, yes, eventually I'll be a whole man again."
She wanted to laugh, to have hysterics. It was like hearing lines from a bad soap opera. "I pray that someday I'll be as I once was."
"You will." He put his fingers on her cheek and let them drop to her breast where they wandered, straying about the stretched mounds inside the T-shirt. "You're taking it hard because I was your first, that's all. You'll have others, and you'll forget."
"Do you kill your love pains by possessing scads of woman, Tony?" she teased, letting him feel her body. She didn't respond. Something inside was cold and dead to his touch.
"I..." He looked into her eyes like a lovesick spaniel.
"What is it, darling? Speak to me." She patted his head while he fondled her. Still she had no sensation. It was as though she were watching him make love to someone else.
"I know one way we can both kill our pain, a way we can part forever, but part as friends with only the fondest of memories."
"How wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Do go on."
He cocked his head, frowning, perhaps suspecting her again. "You mean it?"
"Yes, yes. What's your plan ... and I'm hoping you'll say what I think you're going to say."
"We could make love one last time," he blurted. "Here and now, under the trees. It would be a fitting goodbye."
"Wouldn't it, since that sort of exercise has dominated our relationship, thanks to me and my insatiable body." She let her eyes widen. "Stand up, darling."
"All right," he said, his voice eager. He stood and she let him pull her to her feet.
"Now close your eyes and don't move.
He did so, waiting for her, exposed to her calculated plan.
But the plan abruptly ceased to work...
She had intended to do something to him; perhaps strike him in the face or in the stomach with her fists, with all her power. Or, better yet, she might have jammed her knee into his groin, seeking to ruin that part of him which had driven her so crazy with desire.
But Sandra wasn't the girl she thought she was. She couldn't be so cold and calculating. She couldn't punish him so deliberately. That would be the behavior of an animal and she was a human being-a warm, sensitive woman who was incapable of such trickery.
No, she couldn't mete out that sort of punishment. Tony Gibbs would be punished some day, by someone, but not by her. Perhaps ... Just perhaps, he would get his punishment when he was forced to return to Santa Barbara and his own woman.
She looked at him, still waiting like a faithful dog, his eyes closed, and her own eyes filled with tears so that she couldn't see him clearly.
Then she turned and ran, as fast as she could, stumbling, falling in her frantic haste to get to the road. She heard one brief call from him, and then he was out of hearing. She reached the road and turned toward the camp, still running, still falling, still sobbing as though her heart would force itself into her throat and choke her.
As she ran, she was glad of one thing. She had regained control of her emotions again. She was no longer a robot for Hester, no longer a calculating schemer seeking revenge on Tony.
She was hurt, wounded, bleeding, but she was still human and, thank God, still a woman...