by Tedd Thomey
Outside the department store, the sidewalk traffic was thicker than usual and he groaned when he saw the time on a jewelry store clock. Nearly three-thirty. Alma would be pacing the room like a cat. Unless he came up with something good, exactly the right gift, she would make the first few minutes miserable for him.
He hurried along a side street, slowing his footsteps when he came to a small pharmacy with a minimum number of colored apothecary jars and boxed drugs in its single, dingy display window. With a fresh handker chief he blotted the perspiration from his forehead and glasses, recalling as he did so one of his mother’s fond expressions: “A common laborer sweats; a white-collar worker perspires.” His mother talked almost continually, everything, but she would be shocked into silence if she quoting the Bible, supplying a favorite expression for knew what he was about to purchase.
Inside the store, which was deserted except for a solitary druggist, he began the proceedings by buying a carton of clove gum and a box of perfumed bath soap.
“And a couple of bottles,” he said.
The druggist’s quick eyes studied him carefully.
“Bottles of what?”
“All right, all right,” Ward said. “Make it the best you’ve got.”
For another moment the druggist continued the scrutiny he undoubtedly awarded all new patrons. Then he shrugged the shoulders of his soiled white jacket.
“It’ll have to be rye,” he said.
“All right. But hurry up.”
“Three dollars.”
“I don’t care about the price. Just hurry.”
“Each,” said the druggist.
Ward nodded, placed the money on the glass case and waited while the druggist slipped behind a partition at the rear. After a brief interval he returned with a package wrapped in newspapers which completely failed to disguise its contents. Ward put the package in his sample case and strode from the store.
He wanted to hurry directly to the hotel, but since the department store was on his way, and he was late anyway, he decided another minute’s detour would be permissible. He went in a side entrance and kept to the far portion of the main floor to avoid any chance meeting with Mr. Trimble. In the men’s room on the second floor, he stepped into a stall, closed the door and unwrapped the two medicine bottles.
He took one drink. It wasn’t a long drink, but it was a satisfactory one, the quality of the whiskey being better than he’d anticipated. He left the store by another side entrance, the fashionable one on John Newton Way, and as soon as he stepped out into the sunlight he raised his eyes to the hotel’s fourth row of windows.
The blind was no longer in the three-quarters position in which he’d placed it during his visit to the room at noon. It was al1 the way down. He felt a glow within which was caused only partially by the whiskey.
In the hotel lobby he chose his direction with caution until he located the blond top of Eileen’s head. She sat with her small chin resting on her hand, gazing at the goldfish pool. He kept well outside her line of vision as he walked to the elevator, stepping aboard just before the doors closed.
When he was finally in the corridor of the fourth floor, with all the many obstacles of the afternoon safely behind him, his blood began to stir with a rapidity that astonished him. He always felt like this when he knew Alma was near, but each time he was equally astonished at himself. His fingers pushed the key into the lock, but it failed to turn until he withdrew it and inserted it right side up.
The first objects he saw were her clothes, arranged neatly on a chair. He pushed the door shut and strode further into the room.
He glanced across the unoccupied bed to the bathroom door, which was open..
“Alma?” he said.
He walked to the closet door and opened it. There was nothing inside except his unopened suitcase and a few wooden hangers on a wooden pole.
He was not surprised. She did this quite often, and it always added to their pleasure. Today he particularly welcomed the game because it meant she wouldn’t be too angry about his tardiness.
“I brought you some presents,” he said. “Where are you, Alma?”
There was no reply. He glanced behind the overstuffed Morris chair and then behind the bathroom door.
“Two presents,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t you want them?”
He heard her laughter on the far side of the room, near the window, and turned in time to see a movement behind one of the plum-colored, damask drapes. Crossing over, he chose a portion of drape which displayed a noticeable extra curve and gave it a gentle pinch.
She squealed with delight. Her hands and arms came into view at the edge of the drape and performed an undulating Javanese-like dance with numerous writhing motions of the elbows and wrists. He increased the pressure of his fingers on her hip and she sighed happily in rhythm with the movements of her arms.
“Come out,” he said. “Let me see you.”
“No.” Her tone was mock anger. “I’m mad at you.”
“Why?”
“You’re terribly late.”
“I was delayed with a buyer. Don’t you want your presents?”
“No.”
“Please come out, Alma. Let me see you.”
“No. Not until you say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry, Alma. Terribly sorry.”
“That’s not enough. Get down on your knees and say it.”
Pulling up his trousers to prevent damage to the creases, he dropped to his knees before the drape.
“All right,” he said. “I’m very, very sorry.”
Her blond head appeared at the side of the drape and her blue-green eyes glared at him hotly.
“Still not enough,” she said. “Kiss my foot and say you’re sorry.”
Her leg, slim and smooth, came from behind the drape and was exposed to the knee. Lifting her foot, he kissed her ankle near the yellow edge of her shoe.
“Not there,” she scolded. “On the bottom.”
He slipped off her shoe and touched his lips to the smooth skin of her arch.
She sighed. He felt the blood increase its beat at his temples.
“Are you my slave?” she demanded.
“Yes.” He kept his head bowed.
“You will do anything I tell you to do?”
“Yes.”
“All right. You’re forgiven.”
Looking up, he saw that she had drawn the drape tightly across her body, molding the plum-colored material to her figure like an expensive gown. His excitement rose sharply. He stood up and tugged at the drape, revealing part of her shoulder.
“No,” she said, drawing the cloth back over her skin, “not till I see the presents.”
He handed her the box of perfumed soap.
“Smells heavenly.” She smiled. “Come here.”
She kissed him on the cheek.
“And a little something else,” he said, handing her the gum.
“A whole box! You shouldn’t have, darling!”
“Sugar for my sugar,” he said.
“Oh, Bud, you darling! You say the prettiest things!”
She kissed him on the cheek again, this time closer to his mouth. He put his arms around Her and kissed her on the lips. Her mouth was very warm. Something struck the rug near his feet and as her arms came around him he realized she had dropped the boxes of soap and gum. Her hands caressed his neck and cheek.
“Oh, Bud, darling,” she said. “You’re so good for me. So very good.”
He tugged at the drape, but it was caught between them. He pulled harder. As it came free he thrust it away from them.
She danced away from his grasp, turned and let him gaze at her nudeness, standing with her left foot on tiptoe to make up for the absence of its yellow slipper. As always, the first look at her magnificent body took his breath away. Her breasts had an astonishing tilted beauty which she emphasized by drawing her shoulders back. Her abdomen was slender, the skin silky, the slightly irregular appendectomy scar p
roviding a fascinating distraction. Her eyes were full of fire and her cheeks, usually a light apricot color, were flushed with color and excitement.
He reached for her, gently fondled her left breast, and she gave a small cry of pleasure.
“You damned devil,” she said. “You kept me waiting so long!”
With sudden force, she threw herself against him. Her legs twined around his and he tripped. He dropped to one knee, balanced momentarily, but she thrust herself harder against him and he tumbled backward onto the rug. It was not a hard fall and she was upon him at once, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his chin and mouth, her warm nakedness covering his body and setting up a tumult of sensation that was all-engulfing.
Her fingers moved swiftly, tearing open his collar, unbuttoning his shirt, kindling his excitement to unendurable heights.
“You darling devil!” she said, as their eager hands took their will of each other’s yielding flesh. “I’ll teach you to keep me waiting so long!”
And then, their arms and legs entwined, their bodies fused into one, their moist mouths hotly joined, they lost themselves in a dizzying whirl of sensation.
Later they sat side by side on the bed, shoulders resting against the headboard, the top sheet covering them lightly.
“More?” he said, tilting the bottle toward her glass.
“I better not.” She set her glass on the nightstand. “Norman might get suspicious.”
“I thought you said he’s never suspicious.”
“He never seems to be. But you can’t tell about him. He seems so dumb, never asking about where I’ve been, never caring. And then he’ll do something so mean it makes me wonder.”
“Has he done something else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“He hit me with his fist. Here.”
Leaning forward, she indicated an area between her shoulderblades.
“Is there a bruise?”
“I don’t see one. Turn a little more and I’ll fix it for you.”
She turned, keeping the sheet draped across her front, but revealing all of her back which narrowed beautifully to her waist. He kissed the spot she had indicated and felt her shiver as he drew his lips away.
“Better?” he said.
“Much better, darling.”
She smiled, but onlv briefly. She clenched her teeth and the smooth line of her jaw became more pronounced.
“God, how I hate him!”
He nodded sympathetically, his pale cheeks taking on a hint of color.
“If only I wasn’t married to him. If only something would—” She hesitated, then turned and faced him, her eves narrowed and intent. “Did I tell you what happened last Fridav night?”
“No. What?”
“Him and his damned boat and his damned car, that’s all he ever thinks about, or talks about. He was out in the garage, lying underneath the new Essex he’s so proud of, changing the grease or something. All of a sudden the jack slipped and the whole car came down.”
“Did he get hurt?”
“No, worse luck! The wheel missed his head by an inch.”
“You shouldn’t say that.” Bud’s voice registered shock.
“Say what?”
“Say worse luck, like that.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t?” Her eyes became fierv with anger. “After the things he’s done to me? I’ll sav more than that! I’ll sav I wish he was out of my life, gone, buried, anything!”
He stared at her, surprised at her intensity.
“That’s an awful thing to sav, Alma.”
“I don’t care. I hate him. I wish he was buried!”
His surprise gave wav to consternation. “Alma, you shouldn’t! Don’t you know what that means in the eyes of God?”
“I don’t care! And vou should hate him, too!”
“Me? I’ve never even met him.”
“But you should, Bud. You should hate him.” Sliding closer to him on the bed, Alma kissed the side of his neck. “Couldn’t vou hate him a little, for mv sake?”
He put his arms around her and caressed her body through the thin sheet.
“I suppose so, Alma.”
“You devil—” Her teeth fastened on the flesh of his neck and remained there a moment, inflicting a pleasant pain. ‘Are you trying to start the fire all over again, darling?”
“Yes. I can’t help it.”
“You’re really sweet. I could just go on loving you and loving you but—” She glanced at her wrist watch. “My God, it’s after five! I’ve got to fly!”
She hurried from the bed and began to put on her clothes.
“I hate to run, darling, but I must. Poor little Eileen must be wondering what’s happened!”
Watching her slide with graceful ease into her white petticoat, Bud wondered how he had ever managed to win the love of such a beautiful and exciting woman. It was a question he had pondered many times during the three months he had known her. Everything she did was exciting. Even the way she fastened the hooks on her dress was exciting.
He stepped from the bed and pressed his face against the yellow waves of her hair.
“Don’t go, Alma.”
“Stop it.” She gave him a quick, affectionate squeeze. “Don’t touch me again or you know what’ll happen. But I must go, Bud, really.”
“Friday?” he asked, his eyes and voice eager.
“Of course.”
“Same time?”
“Yes, darling.”
She picked up her yellow hat and purse. “And don’t keep me waiting, understand?” “I won’t, dear.”
She hurried to the door, opened it, slammed it and was gone.
Sitting down on the bed, he gazed at the door and sighed. She was amazing. Even the way she’d slammed the door was exciting.
CHAPTER 3
Wednesday night Norman did not go near the garage, preferring to spend the hours after dinner romping in the yard with Eileen and the dog.
But when he arrived home from the office on Thursday night he announced that the car’s timing was off and that he was going to fix it.
“Tonight?” complained Alma’s mother, Mrs. Jansson. “Do you have to fix it tonight?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re supposed to take me and Eileen to the church play.”
“Sorry.”
Alma made no comment. She glanced coldly at her husband and continued setting the table.
During the meal there was little conversation and Norman left the table just as Mrs. Jansson arrived from the kitchen bearing a pan of hot cinnamon rolls which she had baked especially for him.
“Sit back down, Norman,” she said. “This is your favorite dessert and if you think you—”
“Sorry. Work to be done.”
Alma clenched her teeth and kept silent. He could be hateful in so many small, deliberate ways. She watched him walk to the hall and reach for his khaki work smock. He was a big man, slightly over six feet, making him five inches taller than Bud. In a way he was better-looking than Bud because his features were strong and more masculine. As he pushed his arms into the sleeves of the smock, his movements were slow and methodical, totally unlike Bud’s who was so quick and deft with his hands. And yet, strangely, Norman’s hands were the more skilled money-wise, his talent with pencil and ruler earning him an excellent salary at the publishing house where he was art editor.
After Norman went outside, the two women and Eileen remained at the table for a few minutes eating the rolls and sipping tea. Alma helped her mother clear the dishes and then she went into the sitting room while Mrs. Jansson and Eileen finished up in the kitchen.
She picked up a magazine and tried to continue with the love story she’d been reading before dinner, but she was unable to concentrate. She thought about Bud and her pulse quickened as she remembered how much pleasure they’d had the day before. And tomorrow afternoon might be even more enjoyable.
She frowned as the engine of the Essex started up. I
t raced madly for a moment, the sound coming clearly into the sitting room even though the garage was out back and separated from the house. Then it backfired loudly and stopped.
The phone rang.
Eileen came dashing from the kitchen to answer it, but Alma was there a step before her.
“Hello?” She hoped it was Bud, although she had told him more than once never to phone in the evening.
“Alma?”
It was Mame, one of her girl friends.
“Yes,” Alma said. “How’s everything?”
“Fine. Say, Alma, there’s a keen one at the Liberty tonight with Edmund Lowe nnd Carole Lombard. How’s if I phone up Martha and we make it a threesome?”
“Tonight?” Alma paused. “’Fraid not, Mame. I’ve got a lot to catch up on tonight.”
“Heavy date?”
“No, not tonight.”
“How are you and Ward Green getting along? I hear you’ve been prettv chummy lately.”
“All right, I guess.”
“Only all right?” Mame giggled. “That ain’t the way I’ve been hearing it. His pal Ralphie has been telling me that Ward and-”
“Please, Mame. Some other time.”
“Oh, all right, spoil my fun. How about a movie next Tuesday instead?”
“Sounds fine. Give me a ring.”
“O.K. ’Bye.”
“’Bye.”
When Alma returned to her chair, the car’s engine was sputtering and backfiring, filling the house with noise. She picked up her magazine but did not open it. Instead she gazed past the top of the floor lamp to the framed photograph centered on the sitting room’s most prominent wall. It was the portrait of a girl of twenty, with large, sensitive eyes and a sad mouth. Poor Winifred, she thought. You’ll never know how lucky you were to escape all this.
In a few minutes, Mrs. Jansson and Eileen came in, donning sweaters because the September evening had turned chilly. Beneath the sweater Airs. Jansson wore her cotton housedress and sturdy white cotton stockings.
“We’ll have to hurry,” she said. “It’s a long walk to the church.”
She sighed. It was the sigh of a woman of fifty who wore her widowhood well, but who occasionally lapsed into small displays of self-pity. She was still quite good-looking, although her short blond hair was fading and there was more than a hint of good Swedish heaviness around her hips. Her face was similar to Alma’s—nose small, brow-line excellent, complexion clear. It was only in recent years that a few wrinkles had appeared near her eyes and beneath her strong chin.