Chapter 5
Slocum was drowsing in the hot afternoon sun as we drove down Main Street. Loafers, of course, were on the bench in front of the General Store. The shades on my shop windows were still down. Someone had soaped the front window and written: TRAMP..
Tim saw me looking at it. He glanced at the shop window and then at me. "I saw Sy cleaning that window this morning as I left town. I wonder who did that in broad daylight."
"Yeah. But that's just a sample of what I can expect in Solcum."
"It won't be so bad. But you're going to have to have a thick hide for a while. Just ignore it. Most of the men are behind you. Some are on the fence, of course. But they'll come over on your side in time. You always have a noisy few who try to make trouble. But if you ignore them, they shut up in time."
At the end of Main Street, where there is a sharp turn to the right, there was a narrow street turning left and up the hill. Tim turned left.
The car purred smoothly up the steep incline. My old chariot couldn't have made it in low gear.
I looked at Tim. "By the way, where is my car?"
"Sy has it. Did you know it has a cracked head?"
"No. But I know I have one."
He laughed. "If you have, you can get along with it. But your car can't."
"So I'll be walking for a while," I said.
"It's supposed to be a surprise. But Sy is fixing it for you. You'd be surprised at what good mechanics these high school kids are today. But be sure to act surprised when Sy tells you."
"I will. And thanks for the tip."
Again we were silent. We hit the top and the road meandered lazily in long looping curves across the flat land. Tim finally turned left and we began climbing again. Directly above us was a big old rambling house at the end of the short road. A veranda ran across the front of it. It had all the gingerbread or it of a hundred years ago.
"My, but that must be an old timer," I said.
"Yes. It was built just after the Civil War. Colonel Hampstead built it when he retired and went to ranching. He owned all the land around here. But his son sold it all off, even the house. From what I hear, he squandered the money in Europe and died broke."
"And where does Mamie live?"
"Back down the hill on the corner. She will have heard us. By now she's camped by the window and watching us."
The car nosed over and rolled along a driveway that curved to the right and encircled the house.
"Might as well keep Mamie guessing," Tim said, letting the car roll on. "We'll go in the back way."
There was a broad veranda across the rear of the house, too. Tim stopped at the steps and helped me out. Then we went up the steps and across the porch to an ornate door with a brass knocker on it.
"You'd never think this was a kitchen door, would you?" Tim said with a chuckle. "The old colonel believed in doing everything up brown."
He unlocked the door and waved me in. It was a big old fashioned kitchen like my grandmother had. But one concession had been made to the 20th Century. It had a modern refrigerator and range.
Tim took me on a tour of the house. The furniture looked like that which I had seen on TV in gangster movies during Prohibition Days. The couches and chairs were massive. The tables and chairs were monstrosities. But this was the home that Tim had grown up in. So I knew that they did not seem like monstrosities to him.
We were upstairs in a front bedroom. It had been his room when he was a boy. A kite still hung on the wall. On another wall hung a belt with all his Scout merit badges. There was also his tennis racket and his fishing pole. It was a room full of memories for him. And we stood there in silence as he looked around the room and let his mind drift back twenty-five or thirty years.
A car horn blared. Tim went to the window and pulled back the curtain.
"It's Pete McDonald. We were in high school together."
Tim threw up the window, planted his hands on the sill, and leaned out of it.
"Hey, Pete," he yelled.
"Hi, Tim. Come on down. We heard you were in town."
"I'll be right down," Tim called.
He pulled back into the room and shut the window. He looked at me.
"I won't be but a minute. Look around all you like."
And then he was gone. I heard him thudding down the stairs.
I went through the doorway and down the hall, glancing into the bedrooms on either side. The house was big enough to be a hotel.
I was in a back bedroom admiring a four-poster bed when I heard Tim pounding up the stairs. "Where are you?" he called.
"Right here," I said, heading down the hall. "I didn't expect you back so soon."
He mumbled something and pulled his cigarettes. He offered me one. He lit it for me and lit one for himself. And then he turned and headed toward the stairs.
He was troubled. I wondered what was wrong. He went down the stairs in silence. Gone was his gay and carefree manner.
In the foyer at the bottom of the stairs he turned to me. "Want a drink?"
"Yes. That would be fine."
He led me into a den off the living room. He went to a bar in the corner and built two drinks. He was still silent. So I matched his mood. He finally shoved a drink across the bar to me. He lifted his own.
"Here's to your freedom," he said.
We clinked glasses and sipped our drinks. I began to feel uncomfortable.
"Tim," I finally said, "what's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"I know better. You're not the same. I think it's best that you take me home."
"But I don't want you to go home," he said. "It's just that ... that...."
"Yes?"
He shrugged and sighed. He sucked on his cigarette and dribbled smoke through his nose. "Nothing."
"Tim, you're troubled. If you can't share it with me, then I think I had better be going. Because I'm depressed enough with the jam I'm in."
He tossed off his drink and went back behind the bar. Again there was silence as he built his drink.
He finally looked up.
"How broadminded are you?" he asked. I shrugged. "As broad as any, I guess."
"You've lived in Beverly Hills and Hollywood?"
"Yes. Why?"
He fell silent again. He picked up his drink and sipped it.
"Tim," I said, "what in hell is the matter? We were having so much fun before that guy came. And now it's all over. Why?"
"Okay, I'll lay it on the line," Tim said. "I'm not asking you to go. But Pete and his wife, Delia, are having a party down at their place in Racoon Hollow."
"Well, why didn't you say so?" I said. "Go on and go. You can drop me off at home on your way."
He shook his head. "I don't want to stag it. Pete saw us driving up the hill. So he knew you were here. That's why he came over to invite us. If I don't go, they'll think I'm trying to be a snob. That I've outgrown everyone around here. And that isn't so."
"But I'll be glad to go with you," I said.
Again he shook his head. He gave me a half-smile. "That's why I asked you if you were broadminded."
"Tim, what in hell are you talking about? Stop beating around the barn. Come flat out and tell me what this is all about."
"Okay, I will. Did you ever hear of swapping partners?"
I stared at him. He had jolted me.
"I thought so," Tim said with a sigh, and he began gulping his drink.
"Now just a minute. I'm no prude. But you did rock me."
"You mean you never heard of it before?"
"Of course I have. I know couples who swap all the time."
"Didn't they ever invite you to join in?"
"Yes. But, like you, I didn't want to stag it."
"Then you weren't horrified at the idea?"
"I don't know. How can you know about something until you've tried it? I'm not married. I'm not bound to any one man. But I can't see a man and wife swapping and being untrue to each other."
"Aw, for Crysake," Tim exploded. "That's as old-fashioned as the furniture around here."
"Have you ever swapped?" I asked.
"Sure. Dolly Barnes and I went steady all during high school. We used to swap all the time. Pete and Delia were going steady then, too. They got married right after they got out of high school. And all the other guys and gals, whether they went steady or not, would swap at a party. We thought nothing of it."
"But did you swap after you were married?"
"Yes. Patti thought it was great. But, at first, she held back like you."
"So who's going to be at the party?" I asked. "Just those you were in school with?"
"Who else?"
"In L.A., I'm told, they had all ages at a swap party."
"Not here. Hell, the old folks would have a convulsion if they knew what was going on. That's why Pete built his house down in Racoon Hollow. There's only one way in and the same way out. He's all alone down there. Once he locks the gate, nobody can crash the party."
"You mean they've been swapping all these years?"
"Sure. Why not? Everybody knows everybody else." I nodded and stubbed out my cigarette. I knew Tim wanted to go. He had bailed me out. I owed him a lot. But I wondered if I owed him that much-to go to a swap party with him. But, on the other hand, what was so horrible about it? I wasn't married. I liked variety. And, with the right man, I liked sex.
"Is there any rough stuff?" I asked. "What do you mean?"
"You know. Whips and all that sort of thine."
"Hell no. No woman is mistreated. Hell, if she was, all of the men would beat him to a pulp. But, no, there's none of that rough stuff. And you would like all the fellows."
"Okay," I said. "I'm game. But I want to ask one favor."
"What's that?"
"If the party gets too rough, or if everybody gets drunk, that you'll bring me home when I ask you to."
"That's fair enough. But nobody gets drunk. I'm sure you'll have a good time."
He took my arm and steered me through the living room and on through the kitchen and out the back door. He locked it. And then he helped me into the car.
He was his boyish self again. He was no longer pouting. But, as the car rolled down the hill, I realized it was more than all that. This was part of his boyhood. It would be like Old Home Week to get back with his gang again.
"Tim," I said.
"Yes?"
"I'm in business here. I don't want to jeopardize that business."
"How will you?"
"I don't know. But I'm an outsider. I wasn't born and raised here. They may accept me as a barber. But will they accept me as a swapper?"
"Why not? In fact, since you were with me today, it put you on the spot. If you hadn't gone, they would have thought you were a snob."
"But it wouldn't have been that way at all," I protested.
"That's right. And it's the same with me. If I didn't show up today, they'd think I had outgrown them. So, through me, you'll get to them and be accepted. They're the ones for you to cultivate. The older folks will die off. It's the younger ones that will take over and have kids and more customers for you."
"I suppose that's right."
When we reached the bottom of the hill Tim turned left and went around the corner on Main Street. We dropped down a steep grade that was a corkscrew like the road coming up through Slocum on the other side of the town. The pine trees were shoulder to shoulder. The birds were singing. The squirrels were chattering. It was cool and calm and peaceful. How beautiful it was.
Tim suddenly stood on the brake. I wondered what was wrong. He turned right and eased the car into a narrow road that rambled across an open field.
"Where in hell are you going?" I asked.
"To Racoon Hollow."
The road turned left and then went straight down. Below us I could see a long low rambling house with smoke curling up from a huge chimney at the end of it. Beyond the house was a barn lot.
"Pete really got away from it all," Tim said. "I understand he has a big spread back here. Sy says he's running two-thousand head of cattle below here."
We turned right and then left in an S turn. We could now see the end of the house opposite the smoking chimney. The yard was full of cars.
"Looks like we're the last ones to get here," Tim said.
We hit the bottom and Tim angled into a slot. He came around and helped me out. We headed toward the door.
My knees were knocking. I was scared. I must have been trembling. Because Tim noticed it.
"There's nothing to be afraid of," he said. "But if you're chicken, I'll take you home now."
"Nobody calls me chicken," I told him. "So let's go on in."
We went up two steps to a concrete stoop. Tim jabbed at a button beside a white slab door. And from the way he was jittering around, I knew that he had the shakes, too.
The door opened. A tall gangling guy with a mop of tousled blond hair stood in the opening.
"Tim," he cried. "We wondered if you'd come down."
Tim put an arm around my waist. "Have you met Connie yet?"
"Yes. I was up there for a haircut a while back. Best haircut I ever had, in fact. So come on in."
We entered a long living room. The air was so smoky you could have sawed it into chunks. And the room was jumping with the sounds of laughter and everybody talking at once. The party was apparently just getting under way. Laughing men and women, with drinks in their hands, were standing around and gabbling like geese. Some were on the couch. All the chairs were taken. But the thing I noticed most was that all the women were wearing dresses. And I noticed something else, too. Not one of the women looked as though she were wearing a bra.
I clung to Tim and looked around the noisy room. If it hadn't been for Tim, I would have broken and run.
"Hey, everybody," Pete yelled. "Knock it off for a minute."
The room was silent. Everyone peered through the smoke at us.
"All of you know Tim Riley," Pete said. There were lusty cheers.
"And," Pete went on, "some of you may have gone to Connie for a haircut, or bumped into her around town."
There were a few cheers. But nothing like for Tim. I was an outsider. And they were letting me know it.
Pete grabbed Tim's arm. "Come on, you two. I've set up a bar in the kitchen."
We followed Pete through a doorway and into a big kitchen. It looked almost like the one at Tim's house. There was even a big butcher block standing in the middle of the room. And on that block Pete had set up his bar, with booze and mix and glasses and a bucket of ice.
"What's your poison?" Pete asked me.
"Bourbon on the rocks," I told him.
Pete looked at Tim. "That's good enough for me."
Pete nodded and went to work. He handed us two drinks.
"Come on, now," Pete said, "this thing has been a drag so far. I'm going to make it roll."
We trailed Pete into the living room. He climbed on a chair.
"Okay, what did we come here for? To talk? Let's get the show on the road. The barrel's over there in the corner. Roll it out."
Two men went over into the corner and wheeled out a barrel mounted on a frame.
"Okay, you know how it's done. You spin the barrel, Jerry."
A short muscular guy with a black crew cut went over to the barrel and spun it around. He finally stopped it and opened the door.
"Okay, girls, reach inside and pull a slip. We're going to have a fashion parade."
Tim gave me a gentle push. "That goes for you, too."
I gave him a frightened look. He gave me a reassuring smile and patted me on the back.
Pete saw what was going on. He turned and yelled, "Say, one of you girls come over here and be a buddy to Connie. She's new to all this. But from the way she's stacked, she'll make a wonderful addition to the gang."
A little brunette with a pug nose and laughing eyes came over to me. "Hi, I'm Polly." She took my arm and gave me a reassuring smile. "Come on, honey. This is fun."
The women were all ganged around the barrel. A tall willowy gal with blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders reached into the barrel. She pulled out a slip of paper.
"Read it," Pete yelled.
"Panties," she read.
There was a cheer. I wondered what was coming next. I soon found out.
There was a long table at the end of the room with a chair at either end of it. The blonde walked over to one chair, climbed on it, and stepped onto the table.
I saw one of the men turn on a record player. Brassy music blared. And the blonde marched around on the table like a stripper in burlesque. She was wearing a sweater and skirt. And from the way she jiggled and bounced I knew she had nothing on underneath.
"Come on, Marge," one of the men yelled. "Get with it."
She crossed her arms and grabbed the bottom of her sweater. She slowly tugged the sweater up. And then with a flourish she yanked it over her head and tossed it out on the crowd.
She kept parading around on the table, with her firm upthrust breasts bouncing. Her belly was flat. Her tanned arms were lean and muscular. And she walked with the tawny grace of a jungle cat.
"Come on, Marge. This isn't burlesque," Pete yelled.
I turned to one of the girls. "I thought she was to take off her panties."
"She does. But she has to take off the top layer first."
Her skirt was the next to go. I was surprised. She was wearing a pair of black net panties trimmed with black lace. Her thighs were lean and lithe. She had beautiful legs.
"Get the panties off," one of the men yelled.
The panties were the next to go. She waved them with a flourish and a big grin. Then she tossed them to the crowd. She went to the end of the table and stepped down onto the chair and to the floor.
"Who's next?" Jerry yelled.
"Let's initiate Connie," one of the women said.
I was terrified. I was no stripper. The hell with it.
I turned and saw Tim staring at me. I had never seen eyes so expressive. They were urging me on. And he was mouthing the word, "chicken".
I gave him a grin. Like Hell I was chicken.
I marched up to the barrel and reached inside I pulled a slip.
"What does it say?" Pete asked.
I stared at the slip of paper. I was too stunned to say anything.
"Well, what does it say?" Pete asked.
I tried to talk. But it came out as a whisper. "It says The Works."
There was a cheer. I looked at Tim. And again he was mouthing the word, "chicken".
If I get mad enough, I'll do anything. And Tim calling me chicken made me boil over.
I shoved through the women and stepped onto the chair and then onto the table. The record player was turned on.
"Give us a dance," one of the men yelled.
There was clapping and cheers. As I looked out over the crowd I saw happy faces full of anticipation. They were having fun. I saw no lust on any face. They weren't being vulgar. To them, this was fun. So I decided that I had better join into the spirit of the party.
I had done some tap dancing as a kid. And, for the fun of it, I occasionally went into some of my routines if the music on the radio or TV was right. But, of course, I was rusty.
I had steel taps on my sandals. If I didn't, they didn't last a month.
I hesitated a moment, to get with the beat. Then my arms went out and my heels and toes beat a rhythmic tattoo on the table.
They applauded and yelled. Their faces were happy. I was happy, too. And I tapped routines I hadn't done for years. And I was surprised that I didn't miss a beat.
"Take it off, take it off," one of the men yelled.
This was all new to me. I had never even been to burlesque. But, without missing a step, my hands went behind me and to the nape of my neck. I pulled a zipper tab. Then I shrugged from my dress and let it fall. I stepped from it, kicked it away, and resumed tapping.
There were more cheers. I was wearing only panties and bra with my sandals. And I knew that I was as stacked as any woman there.
I reached between my shoulders blades. I freed my bra and tossed it away. My breasts were as big as the blonde's, and just as firm. And they began bouncing to the tempo of my dancing feet.
I pulled down my panties. They fell. I kicked them away. And I tapped my way to the end of the table and stepped down.
There were cheers and more applause. I waved and blew everybody a kiss. I was surprised at myself. I was having fun.
There were eight couples there. Each woman pulled a slip of paper. Some women had to make two or three trips to the top of the table before they were stripped. Because if the slip said sweater, that's all they took off.
Pete took charge again.
"And now we'll choose partners," he said. "Throw all the panties into the barrel."
The panties were gathered up and dumped into the barrel.
"Okay, men, reach into the barrel. But if you get your wife's panties, you have to draw again."
The men lined up and took turns at the barrel. When a pair of panties was drawn, the man would hold them high above his head and wave them with a big grin. I wondered who would get my panties. Although Tim and I weren't married, I knew I couldn't have him on the first round.
I suddenly saw my panties being waved in the air. They were held by a big strapping guy with a jut jaw and a mop of black curly hair.
"Whose are those?" Pete yelled.
I shoved forward. "They're mine," I said.
He gave me a big grin. "I was born in a field of four-leaf clovers. Thai's why I'm always lucky." He took my arm and grinned down at me. "I'm Freddie."
I gave him my best smile. Again I was surprised at myself. No longer was I terrified.
"Where do we go?" I asked.
"We stay right here. We'll wait for the others to draw."
The couples were paired off. Tim had a short chunky dishwater blonde with drooping breasts and a bulging belly. But he was chattering away with her as if she were Venus.
"Okay," Pete yelled, "drag out the mattresses."
Mattresses? What the hell were they going to do?
The men went into the next room. They came back dragging mattresses. They scattered them around all over the floor.
"Okay, take your pick," Pete yelled.
"Come on," Freddie told me.
He dragged me over to a mattress. The other women were flopping on them all around me. I had heard of a community sing. But I had never heard of a community screw.
Once more terror rose up within me. I glanced over at Tim. He and the blonde were already rolling around on their mattress. The other men were already loving up their women.
I dropped onto the mattress and Freddie joined me. "Why don't we go up in the middle of Main Street and do it there?" I asked. "It would probably be more private."