Chapter 9
For the next several months he went almost daily to Mac's Bar, hoping either to see her or to have the bartender deliver a message from Jean. Such was not the case. He neither saw her nor received a message. He had just about given up ever seeing her again when he ran into her on the street one day. It was October and a bit on the chilly side. A wind was blowing her skirt up, and perhaps this was what first caused him to notice her. She was standing on a corner, apparently looking for a bus or cab. He spied her, walked up behind her. "Hey," he said in her ear.
She whirled about, saw him, started to smile, stopped it and frowned instead. "Hello, John," she said, and that was all she said.
He looked at her. She was wearing a simple, black dress that fit her perfectly. She had a jacket on, of sorts, and under it, a thin, white blouse. He noticed the top button of the blouse had come undone. He wanted to button it in order to touch her, and he did not want to. He saw her hold out her hand as a cab approached. The fact of her doing this hurt his feelings a little. Fortunately, for him, the cab was already in hire. He smiled when she swore softly, mildly.
"Joanie," he said. "I own a car now. Can I give you a lift?"
She turned around, looked him up and down. "You look quite prosperous. I'm glad to see you doing so well."
He knew she was putting him on in her own peculiar way, but he merely smiled at her. "Where are you going?" he asked. She was silent.
"Where are you going?" he repeated gently. "Let me drive you."
She smiled briefly. "All right, John. Looks like I'll never get a cab."
"Come with me," he said, hoping she would take his arm. She did not do it, however, and he felt disappointed.
The car was in a parking lot nearby and he took her there. They climbed in, he started the motor, looked at her. "Home?" he asked.
She nodded, did not speak. All the time he was driving her to the Ainsworth place, she remained silent. When he pulled into the drive and cut the motor, he looked at her again.
"Are you still angry at me, Joanie?"
"No," she said. "Want to come inside?"
He was surprised at her invitation. He had thought, by her coolness, that she was still provoked at him, although why, exactly, she should be, escaped him. Surely she was not that much interested in the money that would come to the Ainsworths if they had a child.
Or was she?
He followed her up the stone steps to the veranda, his eye not missing the swaying movement of her buttocks. He knew it would take very little to get him excited over her. Just looking at her beauty did that.
"Come along, John," she said, and opened the door herself, not waiting for him.
He did not care too much about the manner in which she was treating him. She seemed short, abrupt, not as pleasant as she had been. She's still annoyed at me, she thought. No use in her denying it; I can sense it.
He closed the door behind them, stood looking down the hallway. The maroon carpeting was gone. It was green now.
"Come in the big room, John," she said. "At least, we can have a drink together."
He did not like this at all. The way she said it implied she was not going to have anything more to do with him.
"All right," he said quietly.
He walked into the room, stood by the door, watched her as she fixed two drinks. She carried them over, handed his to him, did not look at him. He took a drink, put the glass down, took hers from her gently, set it down, put his arms about her and kissed her mouth. She did not respond, nor did she try to break free of him. He raised his head, looked down at her. Her blouse was unbuttoned about halfway now. He could see the tops of her breasts. This caused something to happen. She apparently realized this, for she quickly broke away from him, stepping back several feet.
"No, John," she said. "The answer is no."
He was slightly nettled. "I haven't asked yet."
"But you were about to. I know how you are."
"Is that bad?"
"You let me down," she said, picking up her drink. "So I won't let you. Not any more."
He did not know whether to be astonished or amused. "I didn't let anyone down, Joanie," he told her. "It's not my fault if nature is stubborn sometimes."
She downed her drink, went to the cabinet, poured another. I've never seen her put it away that fast, he thought. He watched her as she drank another, larger drink, poured a third.
"Are you trying to get high?" he asked, smiling.
"Why not?" she said, listlessly.
"What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," she said quite sharply.
He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry to say this, Joanie but I find your attitude somewhat silly."
"Is that so?" she said, flaring a little. "There's no law that says I have to let you make love to me."
"Just the law of nature," he said.
She wrinkled up her nose. "I brought you here that first time for a purpose. I wanted my aunt to be happy. She wanted a child. Her husband ... well, why even mention him? I told her I would find a man for her. I found you. I let you make love to me to ... keep you interested in staying here long enough for her ... for the service. But you-" she broke off.
"Nuts," he said calmly. "Don't kid me. You had a ball making love with me."
She quieted down immediately. "All right, John. I admit it. I did. But I won't let you again."
"Who's asking you?" he said sharply. "Stop flattering yourself."
"I don't want to quarrel, John."
"And who's quarreling?"
She smiled. "We seem to be getting off on the wrong foot, John. I-"
He put his arms about her quickly, pulled her close to him. "Listen," he said, "I happen to like you a lot. There's nothing I'd like better than to get off on the right foot with you. I-"
She interrupted his words by standing on her toes and kissing him. He was surprised at this. Pleasantly surprised. He held her up tightly to his body, placing his hand at the small of her back. He was sexually erect again and knew she knew it, for she sighed, kissed him wetly, drew back and looked up at him.
"I guess I'm a fool," she said softly. "I tried my best to refuse you. I can't. You can have me if you want me, John."
"Of course I want you," he said.
He picked her up, carried her out of the room and up the stairs. He did not care that Keith Ainsworth stood at the top of the stairs watching him, a sneer on his weak face. He brushed past Ainsworth, not even looking at him. He carried her to her room at the far end of the hall, opened the door, kicked it shut, put her on the bed. She lay there looking up at him, her lips parted, her breathing ragged.
He lay down beside her, removed her dress, she had to sit up to get it over her head. He gave it a toss. She did not even notice this, apparently.
"Oh, John ... what it is you do to me? I love you so."
He started to kiss her when the door burst open. John looked up, annoyed, saw Keith Ainsworth. The man's face was contorted with rage.
"What do you think you're doing?" Ainsworth yelled at him. "Turning my home into a brothel!"
John got up slowly from the bed, looked at Joan, saw the fear in her eyes. For the moment, he did not care whose house it was. He crossed the room, grabbed Keith by the scruff of the neck and the seat of the pants and threw him out of the room. The man struck the wall of the hall, bounced to the floor. He lay, looking up at John, his face twisted with hatred.
"Get out of my house, you!" he shouted at John.
"Shut up!" John said.
"I'm going to call the police!"
"Help yourself. You do that and I tell your old man about your little scheme."
Ainsworth got to his feet, cursed, walked down the stairs. "I'll take care of you," he said. "You just wait and see."
"Silly ass," John said lightly.
Ainsworth must have heard him. He stopped, turned around, "You think you're such a man, Deering. Why don't you go back in and ask her what her husband is gonna think about this, as soon as I tell him?"
John stared at him, turned away, walked into the room. Joanie was sitting up on the bed, her face looking strange. John could tell she had heard her uncle's words. The man had screamed them-anyone within a block might have heard them.
"Well?" he said, looking at her. "You heard him. Is it true? Are you married?"
She looked away from him. "Yes," she said listlessly. "At least I went through the process of being married."
"What's that mean?" he asked, puzzled and angry as well as hurt.
"It means," she said tonelessly, "that I got stuck, too."
"What?"
"My aunt and I. Both of us," she said. "I don't understand you."
"Mark was one of my uncle's friends," she said, looking at him carefully, oddly.
"Oh for Pete's sake, you mean you married a homosexual, too?"
"Looks that way."
"What are you," he demanded, "a fool?"
"I suppose so, John."
"Why did you marry a guy like that?"
"I thought he had ... money."
"And it turns out he hasn't?"
She pulled her dress on over her head, smoothed it down, got off the bed, looked across it at him. "He hasn't a dime. He married me for protection, I guess, just as my uncle married my aunt."
"Protection? What are you talking about?"
"He's a politician of sorts. They cannot have their ... habits known to the public."
"Of all the crazy things I ever heard, this is the craziest." He paused, sucked in his breath. "Why did you lie to me? You told me you were through with the guy, something of that nature."
"I didn't want you to know, John. I'm having the marriage annulled."
"I should think so," he said bitterly. "You're nuts. You know that? You're absolutely nuts."
He started for the door. "Don't leave, John?" she begged.
He stared at her. "When you get your annulment, call me at the Fairview Hotel," he said. "And don't call until you do."
It was another six weeks before he heard from her, the day after Thanksgiving. He had a bit of a hangover, having gone out the night before, and when the phone in his hotel room rang, he picked it up irritably.
"Yeah," he said, thinking it would be the desk downstairs.
He heard her clear her voice, knew it was Joan. "John," she said. "You told me to call you. Everything has been taken care of."
His irritation vanished. It was nice hearing her voice even though it sounded a bit different from the way he remembered it. He pictured her in his mind; her long dark hair, her dark eyes, the black lashes and eyelids, the cream-colored flawless skin. "Hello, Joanie," he said softly. "How are you?"
"I'm okay. How are you, John?"
"Now that I hear your voice, I'm all right," he said. "I've been working pretty hard. I-"
"Would you...." She stopped, cleared her throat again. "Would you come out to the house, please?"
"Why not meet somewhere?" he suggested. "Or I'll pick you up at the house and we'll go for a drive, or to a movie or something."
"Anything you say, John," she said, her voice low. "I just want to see you, I don't care where it is."
He glanced at his wrist, but did not have his watch on. "What time is it?"
"It's about one o'clock. You sound sleepy. Did I wake you up?"
"No, but I haven't been out of my room yet today. Look ... I'll come out at two o'clock. Is that okay, Joanie?"
"Yes. I guess I can wait that long, darling."
The word "darling" really sent him. He smiled to himself. "I like that," he said, "that word."
"'Darling'? I'm glad you do, darling. Please hurry, won't you?"
"Yes. I'll take a shower and shave and get dressed and be there before you know it."
"All right, darling," she said. "But hurry."
"Good-bye, baby," he said, and hung up.
He drove into their driveway at five minutes before two o'clock. He jumped out, almost running to the door. He pressed the button, waited. He was disappointed that Joan did not come to let him in. When the door was opened, he saw the old gentleman, Harvey Ainsworth. The old man stood looking at him, stroking his white trim mustache. He looked nervous, John thought.
"Come in, young man," he said. "I was just leaving."
"Hello," John said, and stepped by him into the hallway.
"Good-bye, young man," Harvey Ainsworth said, and went out of the house, leaving the door open.
John closed it, walked down the hall, turned into the front room. There was no one in it. He went to the music room and found Joan sitting at the piano. She was not playing; she was merely sitting on the bench. John saw she had a tall glass of something in her hand. He coughed purposely and she turned around.
He noticed almost for the first time that she was wearing pajamas. He wondered about this. Why wasn't she ready to go driving, or whatever?
"Hello," she said dully.
He grinned. "Aren't you gonna call me 'darling'," he asked jokingly.
She stared at Mm. He was startled by the look of her eyes. She looked ... drunk. He walked closer to her, caught the strong odor of alcohol.
"W-What did you say?" she stammered.
"Over the phone you called me 'darling'. I wanted to hear you say it in person."
"'Darling'? Phone? What are you talking about?"
He looked at her eyes again. They were red, cloudy-looking. "Hey," he said. "You look like you've been hitting the juice pretty hard."
She looked at him in a dull manner, lifted her glass to her mouth, drank from it, spilling some of the whiskey on her pajamas. "Yeah," she muttered. "What about it?"
He was taken aback. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all. Why are you ... well, you don't sound the way you did over the phone."
"Didn't call you on phone," she muttered thickly. "You made a mistake."
He was slightly annoyed. "You just called me an hour ago. Don't you remember it?"
She took another drink, again spilling some of it. "I didn't call nobody," she said thickly. "Must have been my aunt."
He went close to her, took the glass from her fingers, set it on the piano. He bent over, picked her up in his arms. "How did you get so lushed-up in one hour?" he asked, puzzled.
She did not reply.
He looked at her sharply, saw her eyes were closed. "She's passed out," he muttered aloud.
He carried her upstairs to put her in bed. He tried the door of her room, found it locked. He tried it again. Frowning, he carried her to the room he had slept in. This door was unlocked. He put her on the bed. She lay still, breathing irregularly. She's really drunk, he thought. I hate to see her like this. Why did she drink so much?
Her breasts, he saw, were exposed. He looked at them, felt almost no desire for her. He had an aversion for drunken women. He studied her face, felt a wave of pity, something, sweep over him. It must have been hell finding out she was married to a guy like Mark Harkins was supposed to be. Well, it was her own fault, wanting to marry money. At least, that was what she had admitted to him. Women, he thought-who can figure them?
"I can't," he said aloud.
He got a towel from the bathroom, wet it, brought it back to the bed, wiped her face, bosom and arms with it. He dried her with the other end of it. She did not stir. She seemed to be out cold.
He stood there for some time looking at her. Later, he walked from the room, knowing keen disappointment. He had waited a long time to see her, to love her, and now-he had found her drunk, almost senseless. He started to go down the stairs, stopped, turned about, strode to Mrs. Ainsworth's door. He rapped lightly on it.
"Come in," she called.
He opened the door quickly, just in time to catch her slipping the shoulder strap of her night gown down exposing a breast. He stepped farther into the room, closed the door, tried not to grin. He did not really feel like grinning, but the act of catching her prompted it.
"Hello, Mr. Deering," she said, smiling nicely. She sat up straighter in the bed, the other strap slipping off the other shoulder.
He stared at her, tried not to look at her breasts, which was what she wanted him to do, of course. He heard her clear her throat, and a suspicion hit him.
"Mrs. Ainsworth," he said slowly. "You called me an hour ago and pretended it was Joan. Why did you do that?"
Her face flushed slightly. "Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Deering?" She cleared her throat again.
He shrugged. So she wanted to play games. "Nothing," he said. "Forget it."
"Forget what, Mr. Deering?"
He did not answer. He saw her move on the bed, her breasts bouncing as she did so. She glanced down at herself, then up at him, smiled boldly. "Does this annoy you?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No."
"All right, Mr. Deering," she said, moving again, and again it caused her breasts to bounce. "I'll confess. I did call you. I did pretend it was Joan."
"Odd thing to do," he commented, moving closer to the bed.
"It was the only way I could get you to come, John," she said, using his first name now.
He took out his pack, lighted a cigarette, keeping his eyes on her. "So...." he said. "I'm here. What about it?"
She smiled at him, and he saw the lust in her eyes. Here it comes, he thought-her proposition to crawl in bed with her. Well ... why not? S-he's a desirable woman. I even like her, in a way. He smiled back at her, tried to think of something to say.
"Your niece. I just found her drunk downstairs. She looks like she's been hitting the bottle pretty hard of late."
Mrs. Ainsworth stopped smiling. "Yes, I know," she said softly. "Poor dear. She's been all upset since she killed her husband."