Chapter 8
It was a helluva morning: Gray skies, dreary unseasonable coolness, and his head was bursting. He expected a belligerent indifference from Edie he had treated her like an animal last night but she was remarkably cheerful, and when he emerged from the bath and entered the kitchen, she greeted him with a warm kiss and a breakfast fit for a king.
"What's all this about?" he said, gesturing toward a platter of still-sizzling bacon, eggs and home fries. "I thought...."
She pressed the morning paper into his hands and pulled out his chair. "You're on vacation, remember?"
He managed a smile, slumped heavily to the kitchen chair. He complained of his headache; she promptly supplied him with aspirins and water.
During the breakfast, she chatted endlessly; but when he lit a cigarette and sailed into the morning paper, she became considerately quiet. All this royal treatment was wasted effort, he thought. He wasn't so dumb that he couldn't see what she was up to, and her obsequious sham only annoyed him. To escape it, he waited until Karen finished slopping through her morning cereal, then he volunteered to take her for a walk.
They headed for Central Park and he was glad to be away from Edie for a while. When they reached the park, he and Karen fed the pigeons, but it was too cool for a prolonged visit. Karen cried; she wanted to remain, and Bill pacified her with the purchase of three balloons, one of which was instantly swept skyward by a brisk wind.
When he returned, Edie was vacuuming. He dumped Karen on the sofa, told Edie he was going down to the library for a spell.
In the business section of the library, he thought he would refresh himself with the more current export trends; however, the study was less than fruitful. He examined several metallurgical pamphlets dealing with new alloys, but his absorption of the material was poor. He knew why. There was the inner gnawing problem of Edie, the mounting insecurity of his marriage how could he possibly digest the academics before him?
He left the library and went to a bar, tried to lose himself in the bang-bang of a juke box and the witless conversation of a bald-headed bartender, but he failed.
Finally, disconsolate more than drunk, he left the bar and again faced the bleak gray skies of afternoon. He did not want to return to the apartment, but there was no place else to go. He did, ultimately, sit through 20 minutes of a movie, but bored and sleepy, he walked slowly homeward.
When he reached the apartment lobby, he removed the single letter that was in their box. It was addressed to him and the handwriting looked oddly familiar. He tore it open.
Hot anger boiled inside him. It was another message from the creep, a sadistically tainted single sentence that asked: Did she enjoy what she did?
Angrily, he jammed the letter into his coat pocket. He shoved through the revolving door and hurried to the elevator. He'd confront her with the letter, dammit. Let her decide whether she enjoyed it.
He came out of the elevator and walked swiftly to their suite. Music played inside. He unlocked the door, Karen tumbled toward his feet.
"Edie!"
"Be out in a minute," she shouted. The shower was running, supper was cooking: Pork roast, but damned if he was hungry. Karen cried and he picked her up.
"Edie!"
"I said in a minute."
"Well, hurry."
Five minutes later she emerged from the bathroom in a green terry cloth robe. His hand went to his coat pocket, the letter. Almost at once, Edie began to rattle on about the company they were going to have this evening. "They just moved in ... the Bradfords, and I asked them over for cocktails, so we'll have to have a fast supper...." She pursued a pan on the stove that was boiling over. "...and you'll have to go out and get some wash...." She plugged in the electric percolator, removed a quart of milk from the refrigerator, and locked Karen in her high-chair.
Bill started to ask her about the letter.
"You'll need something for snacks, too," she said, placing a bagful of empty bottles in his arms. "Just get anything."
"Edie...."
"And hurry, because supper is almost ready."
The Bradfords arrived at eight o'clock. Bill had deferred the letter business; he'd ask Edie when they were alone, pretend gaiety at least for the Brad-fords who, it developed, turned out to be incredibly disappointing.
Tom Bradford had descended and that was the word he employed on New York to take over the managership of a Manhattan shoe store. In Bill's muted estimation, the man's sloppiness would bankrupt the store. Bradford came in coatless, lumpish around the middle; he wore thick-rimmed glasses, possessed a round boyish face, kinky red hair, lips that were Negroid in their thickness. He was shorter than Bill, demonstrated a fish-like handshake, and evidenced an avid, juvenile interest in Edie and her short white nylon dress.
His wife, Alice, was a flop and a slob. Fat and ungirdled, her tight black dress betrayed all the lumps and bumps of her chocolate-stuffed body. She'd spent precious little time with her pale brown hair; a vivid splash of orange lipstick comprised her make-up. In the close-up of introductions, Bill saw that her skin was bad, rather greasy, and she was too loud and hoydenish to be feminine. Her first gesture after flopping to the sofa was that of removing her shoes. Her feet were most unattractive.
Achieving the semblance of a host's smile, Bill decided to make the best of the worst. He riddled himself with straight shots of bourbon, hoped that Father Time would hasten the evening's end. He was not, however, quite so fortunate.
Tom Bradford delighted in talking about himself, distasteful bragging that seemed directed to Edie. Served in the Navy, he had. A two-year hitch. Good training, made a man out you. And got in the shoe business early. Came up through the ranks. Showed the brass how to zoom the sales. Naturally, that accounted for his current promotion.
Edie proved a good listener. Shoes were a pet weakness with her; she was dazzled by the ever-changing styles. Bitterly, Bill thought the hell with her.
Alice Bradford, on the other hand, never heard a word of the shoe conversation or perhaps she was brighter than he'd been willing to give her credit for being. She chewed her way through two packs of jelly candies that Edie had placed on the cocktail table, then picked desultorily at a dish of peanuts nearby, rinsed the entire mess down with bourbon highballs. She was occupying herself with a copy of Life, was seemingly unaware that the position of her legs had afforded Bill a generous view of her fat, but not unattractive, thighs; belched twice and then continued with the magazine.
In the zero status of drink bringer and general Mr. Nothing, he was forced to endure Tom Bradford's endless proclamations of self-importance. Edie was gullibly attentive and this caused Bill to do a slow burn. She was never that interested in metal stampings; furthermore, whether she knew it or not, she was giving Tom Bradford a shoe salesman's view of her enticing thighs. She wore no stockings; her legs were alluring enough without them. Twice, she made a feigned effort to pull down her dress, neither attempt being wholly successful.
After the fourth round of drinks, Bradford came on with some party jokes far too raw to be amusing however, Edie found them uproariously funny. Alice Bradford, meanwhile, had shed the Life magazine and boldly called for another drink. Bill welcomed the chance to escape to the kitchen.
Later, when the last of the bourbon was drained away, Bill presumed that Edie would come on with the snacks, and soon after that, the evening would draw to a thankful close. He was disappointed on this score; Edie thought it fitting that he and Tom go out after another bottle. Bradford quickly seconded the motion; Bill never had a chance to speak.
They took his Thunderbird, Bradford proved a garrulous driving companion, and his conversation was all sex. He detailed, and at great length, Alice's ripe qualifications as a bed partner. "You can't judge a book by its cover," he said, vainly trying to compensate his wife's inadequacies. "Alice might not look like much, but when she's had a few drinks, she's the hottest lay in the land. And I was in the Navy, pal ... so I know."
Bill was unimpressed, silent.
"All you have to do is play around with her nipples," he said, making it sound like a home-instruction course, "and she's a gone goose. Climbs on you like a tigress."
Bill spotted a cafe and they pulled over. They went inside and had some drinks; Bill attempted to change the subject. He was unsuccessful.
"That wife of yours, Bill ... and don't mind my saying this, fellow ... but she's all right. Makes a guy feel right at home."
Bill admitted that Edie was a companionable hostess.
"And nice, huh?" He wore a foolish smile. "I mean ... and don't get me wrong, fellow ... but like they say in the Navy: built for speed."
He wanted to smash this bastard in the mouth. He had a growing aversion for this tulip not simple jealousy, either; but the sonofabitch was so glowingly obvious. He wanted Bill to go beddy-bye with Alice, and then he an obliging bastard would then crawl between the sheets with Edie. It was a half-assed bargain at the very best.
After a few more drinks, Bill purchased a fifth of bourbon, and they left. He was surprised at the sudden effect of the drinks; he'd begun to think of himself as one who could really hold his hooch. He was obviously wrong, the stuff had socked him; he even found himself acting more amicable toward Tom Bradford, so he must be drunk.
He drove slowly and cautiously, and Bradford diddled around with the radio and brought in a love ballad. Bill quickly changed to another station; he didn't want to think about love, because love was a joke, something to make a sap out of a guy and bring the phony out in a woman. Bradford loudly concurred with this philosophy, reducing women to their basic urges. Women were for screwing and if you fell in love with them, they screwed you. He laughed then he thought he had told Bill a real corker.
"The hell with them," Bill muttered.
"Right," Bradford chorused. "Only first we take 'em to bed, and then the hell with them." He laughed loudly.
Bill maneuvered the Thunderbird around a comer. He rolled the window down to get some air. That bourbon...
"You know, pal," Tom said with a slap at Bill's thigh, "when we get back to them females, we oughta get something going. You know, make 'em prove they're women."
Bill fought off his grogginess. "Who the hell cares what they are?"
"That Alice is a hot customer, Bill. You wanna be where the action is, then try Alice." He gave Bill another jovial slap on the thigh. "Why if she took you to bed...."
Bill caught the picture. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have given Alice Bradford a second look, but the flood of bourbon and Tom's continuingly suggestive remarks now served to arouse him.
"What's she like, Tom?"
"Alice? Hell, she wiggles like a snake. Can't get enough, you know. Pushes herself up and begs for more. Crazy."
Bill felt the swell in his trousers. Maybe that fat bitch would be good, he thought. Christ, she had to have something good. And Edie well, she already had one lover; what the hell was so wrong about her having another?"
They finally reached the apartment, the girls were sacked out on the sofas. Alice's black dress was drawn halfway up her thighs, and when she came stiffly awake, she made no effort to pull it down. Bill saw her black panties, and he stumbled drunkenly toward her. He helped her off the sofa, Bradford did the same thing for Edie, and the four of them went to the kitchen.
Bill and Edie mixed the drinks. Tom busied himself with Alice's body, pulling her down on his lap, pushing her dress up, fondling her thighs. She looked a little sappy about the whole thing, Bill thought, or maybe drunker than he had supposed. She made no effort to stop her husband, giggling when he occasionally touched home plate, widely Ving her legs, dropping any and all barriers of modesty.
Bill pretended not to notice the display that Alice was affording him. Not bad for a fat girl, he thought, but it wasn't Alice alone that excited him; it was the lewd exhibition, Tom Bradford's look-at-this winks that aroused him. Suddenly, he pulled Edie into his arms. She flashed him a surprised look. He kissed her before she could protest, and then his hands were busy pulling up her dress and caressing her buttocks. He looked over her shoulder, his eyes smiling into Bradford's.
They had a few more drinks and the party moved to the living room. There the smooching continued. Edie was more restrained than the others until the drinks hit her then she let Bill do as he pleased.
He drew her dress up above her silky legs. He stroked the smooth hot flesh of her thighs and weakened her further with tongue kisses that caused her to squirm. He pushed her dress up still higher, exposing now the lush pink of her tight little panties.
Tom Bradford, meanwhile, was doing the same thing to his wife, Alice. His thick hand merged in and out of her conveniently spread thighs, her panties were pulled aside, and she joined the rapid rhythm of his finger. Neither man was fooling the other neither cared. Bill had drawn Edie's dress up merely to excite Tom Bradford; Bradford was doing exactly the same thing for Bill.
Both women were hot and drunk. Edie had begun to moan, now was grasping for his fly. Alice was equally hot. Her lips were parted, her eyes half closed. Bill winked at Bradford. Then he began to pull downward on Edie's panties. She was too drunk to help him, but he managed to tug them down to the edge of her shadowed triangle. Suddenly, she grasped his wrist and asked him to stop. She pushed him aside and staggered to the kitchen. Angry, he followed after her.
"You gonna poop out on us now?" he asked.
She fought for some semblance of sobriety. "Hasn't it gone far enough?" she asked. "Don't you think it's time we stopped?"
He fell against her body and forced his hand between her legs. "Stop? Christ, honey, we haven't even started!"
Her eyes darkened with anger. She pushed his hand away. "Let's not have a scene, Bill. We've had enough of that already."
He sobered briefly, found a smile, then promised her he would behave. No use fighting her, he thought; he'd never have his fun that way, but damn if he hadn't almost laid her and right there in front of Bradford.
"Shall we have one last drink?" he asked her.
"I don't know...."
"Please?"
She touched his hand gingerly. "AH right. Just one." She whispered the rest of it. "Then our friends are going to be politely told to leave."
He agreed. Placate her, he thought. Get her smiling and off the defensive, then bomb the hell out of her with this last drink. Once he knocked her out hell, he could do anything with her.
A minute later, he handed her the highball a real torpedo all the way. She might say something about it being so strong, but then it would hit bottom and wow.
He stood in front of her now and proposed a toast.
"To what?" she asked.
"To us. Is that corny?"
"Very," she said. "But I'll drink to it."
"Straight down," he said.
"Straight down."
She finished the drink and he watched her closely. The desired effect was quick in coming. Her eyes glassed, she blinked foolishly at him, then fell warmly into his arms. He stood quietly at the sink with her, letting the drink bomb the hell out of her insides, watching unconsciousness come slowly but surely.
She was soft and pliant in his arms, out cold on her feet at least, very nearly. He pulled her dress up and rubbed his lower body against her. She moaned helplessly in his arms, resistance was gone. He supported her against his body and worked her panties down her legs. When Bradford stumbled into the kitchen, Bill was massaging her bare buttocks. Alice was suddenly ill and ran for the bathroom.
"Hey, now that's all right," Bradford said thickly. "A real little bit of all right." He slumped in one of the kitchen chairs. "Or maybe you want me to leave."
Bill vehemently shook his head. "You can't leave now," he said excitedly. "The show is just beginning." He turned Edie around so that she was facing Bradford. His hands worked her dress up. "How does it look, pal? Nice, huh?"
Edie murmured something indistinguishable. Bradford inched forward to the edge of his chair. He wet his lips. "Some guys have really got it made," he said enviously.
"You wanna handle the merchandise, maybe?" Bill teased.
"Don't tempt me, pal."
Bill struggled with the dead weight of his wife. He managed to draw closer to Bradford. He pulled her dress up to her waist. "Go ahead, ol' boy. Softer than mink. Touch her."
Bradford's hand moved unsteadily toward the curly shadow between Edie's legs. Suddenly there was a scream from the bathroom.
"Alice!" Bradford exclaimed. He helped Bill lower Edie to a chair. They ran for the bathroom. Alice was on the floor, out cold; there was a cut on her forehead, something she had evidently received when her head struck the wash basin.
"Some people just can't take their drinks," Bradford bemoaned. He slopped a cold wash cloth over her face. She came to, said she was sick, and wanted to go home. At the same time, Edie had slumped over at the kitchen table, and the sexual momentum had come to a disappointing halt. They agreed that it was time to break up, Bill assisted Bradford in carrying his wife home, then he returned to undress Edie and help her into bed. He was about to climb in beside her when the phone rang.
It was crazy. Three o'clock in the morning and a phone call. He cursed and stumbled back to the living room to pick up the receiver.
"Mr. Trumball?"
"Speaking."
"Did you ask her if she had fun."
"Who is this."
"Did you ask her."
"Dammit, who is this?"
"You ask her, Mr. Trumball. Ask her if she enjoyed that sadistic little circus of hers."
"Who are you?" The line went dead. "Hello?" Silence.
"Bastard!" He slammed the phone down in its cradle. "Edie!" He stormed into the bedroom. "Goddamn you, get up!"