Community of Women

by Lawrence Block

  Maybe Roz was the poor, pathetic one.

  No, she thought. No, this isn’t the way it is. I’m Lincoln Barclay’s wife. I belong to him and he belongs to me and that’s all there is to it. He’s my husband and I’m his wife. I don’t play around because I need loving, not sexing. And what Elly Carr does isn’t making love. She makes sex instead of love, and maybe that’s fine for her, but it’s not what I want. I’m not built that way.

  I’m a woman, she told herself. I’m a woman, not a school girl, and I need to be loved. Just getting banged won’t do it. I’m married to one man and he’s the only man there is for me.

  Period.

  And when the slump was over, when Linc was a writer again and a man again, then everything would be all right again. Then the moon would beam and the sun would shine and the world would be golden. Then she would make love, not sex, and love would be a living force within her, and the world would whirl and the fulfillment would be sweet, very sweet.

  Sweet.

  She took out another cigarette, lighted it. She dragged deeply on the cylinder of paper and tobacco, took it from her mouth, stared at it. Her mind, slightly hysterical, saw new things in that one cigarette. If it were a little bit longer, the thought oddly, and a little bit thicker, and if it weren’t burning … .

  She laughed. She laughed happily and hysterically, and the laughter cut the edge of her frustration and made her whole again. It was amazing, the way laughter could do that for a person. You couldn’t feel too sorry for yourself when you saw the humor of the situation. You couldn’t wallow in self-pity when it was easier to throw your head back and roar with laughter. And, by the same token, you couldn’t be very highly inflamed with desire when you were so busy laughing.

  She smoked the cigarette, still chuckling softly to herself.

  Elly Carr was at a party.

  It was weekend in Cheshire Point, a venerable and venereal institution, and, as usual, Elly Carr was at a party. She was not especially certain whose party it was, and she was not at all certain what she was doing there, but there she was, by George, and in her hand was a martini glass, by gum, so she did the only thing possible under that set of circumstances.

  She drained the martini. Most of it went into her mouth, and on down her throat, and eventually into her bloodstream, to remain there until it was screened out by her liver at the excruciatingly slow pace of an ounce per hour. Some of it, however, missed her mouth. The part which missed her mouth then dribbled down her chin and onto her dress. She tried to wipe it away, flailing her hand drunkenly, but she somehow only managed to slap frenetically at her breasts.

  Which drew a little attention.

  Almost at once there was a man at her elbow. She turned, staring at him but only half seeing him. He was a short man, with crew-cut black hair and thick horn-rimmed spectacles. As far as she knew, she had never seen him before in her life.

  “You’ll hurt yourself,” he said.

  “How?”

  “Slapping yourself like that.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Nope, doesn’t hurt a bit. Could slap myself all day and it wouldn’t hurt a bit.”

  “But—”

  “See?” She slapped herself for emphasis, swatting her breast hard. This time it did hurt, strangely enough, and she clasped her hand to her breast, trying to soothe the pain. At the same time she looked into the eyes of the little man with the dark crew-cut and the horn-rimmed glasses, and this set up the usual chain reaction.

  Sex.

  She wanted him. It had happened that quickly—from drunken babbling to actual sexual desire. It was ridiculous, disgusting, but there was no way to deny the desire that existed now. It was genuine enough. She ached with want for him—want that had come quite literally out of the blue—and he was right there, and—

  “I told you,” the man said solicitously.

  “Told me what?”

  “That you’d hurt yourself. Hell, that’s no way to wipe up a drink. You should get a sponge or something.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or just let it evaporate.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Look,” he said, “now you’ve gone and hurt yourself. Why don’t we go somewhere so I can massage it for you?”

  “But—”

  “Just a gentle massage. Sure to do you a world of good. Nothing like an old breast massage to make you feel like a new woman.”

  A girl passed, carrying a tray with martinis on it. Elly traded her empty glass for a full one, drank off the gin, and replaced the glass on the tray all in one fluid motion. The short, dark, crew-cut, horn-rimmed man nodded at her with obvious approval. And equally obvious lust.

  No, she thought. This was the wrong way to do it. It was okay with a salesman and okay with a delivery boy because the natives and the exurbanites didn’t mingle. But when you started putting out for acquaintances at parties you were asking for trouble. Then word got back to your husband, and then the whole world started to fall in on you.

  “Come on,” he said. He was holding onto her arm.

  “But—”

  “You’ll like it.”

  “I know damn well I’ll like it.”

  “Then what’s holding you back?”

  “My husband.”

  The short man whirled around. “So you can go home with him. But first—”

  The man touched her. That was nasty, Elly thought. The son of a bitch had to go and put one hand on her breast, damn him, and that was all she needed. It was enough before, without his hands on her. Now, with him touching her, it was horrible.

  She needed him.

  “Right through that doorway,” he said persuasively, “there is a bedroom. It is empty now. We can go in there. We can lock the door, and no one will disturb us.”

  “How do you know?”

  He looked at her, puzzled.

  “About the bedroom,” she went on. “You act as if you’ve been here before. Do you take many women into that bedroom?”

  “Only my wife. Most of the time, that is. Sometimes other women, but generally my own wife.”

  “Huh?”

  “I live here,” the man said.

  Elly nodded slowly. All the martinis were piling up now, and she was quietly bombed, and martinis were never noted as having a particularly repressing effect upon the libido.

  “Your house,” she said dully.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re the host.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s your party.”

  “Sure, honey.”

  “Well,” she said carefully, trying her best to avoid slurring her words, “that makes a difference. After all, it’s only right to go to bed with the host. Like saying thank-you for the party, or something. Don’t you think so, honey?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Then let’s go.”

  They went. He still held her arm, and now he led her across the floor, through the doorway, into a bedroom. He closed the door and turned around just as she was getting her bra off.

  “Like?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “You’re the host,” she said. “I have to present my offerings for inspection, you see. For your approval.”

  “I think you’re a little drunk, honey.”

  “I think I’m a lot drunk, honey.”

  “Come here.”

  She went to him. It was wrong, and she knew damn well it was wrong, but there was nothing she could do about it. He was her phantom lover for the time being just as sure as God made little green virgins, a phantom lover on a coal-black stallion, and she was stuck.

  She had to go along for the ride.

  13

  LINC BARCLAY sat in the tavern with the townies. The tavern was Early American in decor, with candle molders and footwarmers hanging incongruously from the ceiling, with plenty of old wooden paneling and wide board floors. The bartender drew a mug of ale and passed it to Linc. The townsfolk ignored Linc masterfully. It seemed at
times that this was the townie’s mission in life—to serve the commuter, to take the commuter’s money, to make love on occasion to the commuter’s wife, and then, ultimately, to ignore that same commuter when their paths happened to cross socially.

  Linc did not concern himself with the philosophical aspects of the situation. He drank his ale. It was fine ale, and it went down smoothly. This was good. Everything else was pretty rough, and the smooth ale was a blessing.

  He lighted a cigarette, took two drags, ground it out on the wide board floor under his heel. He asked for, and received, and paid for, another mug of ale. Which he drank.

  He was a flop. Linc Barclay, Portrait of the Writer as a Young Flop. Man in a Slump. Man doing nothing with everything to do. Man—

  Man who wasn’t even a man. Man who couldn’t make love to his own wife because he was too hung up over everything else in the world. God, what was the matter with him?

  He belonged at the typewriter, but he hadn’t done a lick of typing in too long. He belonged with his wife, but here he was at the damned tavern drinking smooth ale and thinking unpleasant thoughts. He belonged elsewhere, and here he was, and to hell with it.

  He had another mug of ale.

  A jukebox, new and shining and not at all in keeping with the colonial air of the old tavern, gave forth with rock and roll. Linc scooped up his change, pocketed it, and headed for the door. He walked out into the night. His car was parked at the curb, but he sidestepped it and kept on walking. He was looking for something. He was not sure what he was looking for, but somewhere—

  The girl fell in step with him at the corner of Vine and Dawson. She was a frail girl, looked about seventeen, with hollows under her eyes and very little flesh to her body. She looked hungry, as though she had not had a really fulfilling meal in days.

  “Mister—”

  He turned, studied her. She was trying to look sexy and it did not work at all. She was too young to look sexy, and too thin, and too hungry, and altogether too pathetic.

  “You come with me, mister. I’ll show you a good time.”

  He wanted to laugh at her. Sister, he thought, you’re barking up the wrong fire hydrant. You couldn’t show me a good time. I’m the no-action kid. See me when the slump ends.

  “Any way you want it, mister. I go any way in the world. Just a couple dollars, sugar.”

  Mister had been better. The more intimate sugar was out of place on her thin bloodless lips.

  “Mister—”

  Not lust, he thought. Not lust, either because I am incapable of that emotion now or because she is incapable of arousing it. Not lust, certainly, but something else.

  Pathos.

  He reached into his pocket, found his wallet, drew out a five dollar bill. He gave it to the girl and her eyes brightened. She looked even younger now.

  “Come on,” she said. “I gotta room downtown. We’ll have a ball, mister. We’ll have ourselves a time.”

  “Keep the money,” he said. “I can’t come with you.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m not good enough for you?”

  He saw the pain in her eyes, the hurt, the injury. “No,” he said carefully. “No, it’s not that. But I’ve got a perfectly good wife at home. Go get yourself a meal.”

  He looked at her, saw the play of emotions across her face, saw injured pride give way slowly and be replaced by gratitude. Poor kid, he thought, she couldn’t be a professional hustler, not wasting her time in Cheshire Point. Just a kid on the skids, a traveling kid with no money in her jeans and only one thing to offer, only one commodity to put on the market. He watched her scurry off toward the all-night diner, the five-dollar bill clenched tightly in her fist.

  I’ve got a perfectly good wife at home. The sentence mocked him now. He had a perfectly good wife at home, but she was home and he was not, and she needed him while he remained unable to make her happy. What on earth was wrong with him?

  Just a slump, he answered himself. And it was not a permanent thing. It would improve.

  He found his way back to the tavern, got into his car. He started up the motor and drove slowly home. The slump would end. Soon, he hoped.

  Soon.

  Nan Haskell was at a party that Jenny and Les Cameron had had the temerity to throw. It was currently transforming the Cameron ranch house into something not far removed from a pigsty, and not even too far removed from the Augean stables. Nan sipped a Something Collins through a flavored straw and thought about Ted.

  Who, for his part, was absent.

  The Carrs were not at that particular party. The Carrs were never invited to the Camerons, and the Camerons in turn were never invited to the Carrs. Each had been frequently invited to the other home a year ago, but since then something had happened.

  Nan, like everyone else in Cheshire Point, had a fair idea what had happened. It was never openly discussed, but general word had it that Ted Carr had said something to Jennifer Cameron, and that the something had been indiscreet, since Ted Carr had never been awarded medals for discretion. The various stories ran different courses from that point on. Some had it that Jenny had slapped Ted’s face, and that was all. Others held that Jenny ran screaming to Les Cameron, who punched Ted in the nose. Still other versions had it that Les Cameron had walked into a bedchamber while Jenny and Ted were engaging in horizontal pleasantries.

  The stories varied, but the point they made was simple enough. The Camerons and the Carrs were not friends any more because Ted had wanted to take Jenny to bed. Whether or not he had been successful was a moot point.

  Now, Nan thought, he wants to take me to bed.

  And he would probably succeed.

  A woman was talking to her. She turned, spilling neither her Something Collins nor the ashes from her cigarette. She talked to the woman at her elbow, listened to a less-than-inspired monologue on the evils of crab grass and the impossibilities of keeping a crab-grass-free lawn. She replied, saying something innocuous, while trying to remember the woman’s name. She failed, and by the time the name came back to her the woman was delivering the identical monologue to a man who looked about as interested as Nan had been.

  Maybe the man, too, was thinking about adultery.

  Because Nan was. She could think of nothing else. It was on her mind all the time now, along with Ted’s voice over the telephone, and Ted’s hands in the kitchen after the bridge game.

  Howard could help her. Howard could pay more attention to her, and be more alive, and act more interested and interesting. Because, for the love of God, it was not as though she was in love with Ted Carr. Love? If she felt anything toward the man, it was a great deal closer to hatred than it was to love. She did not love him. She didn’t care if he lived or died, would almost have preferred it if, in fact, he did die.

  Then—

  No, it was simple boredom. Ennui, weltschmerz, and the same thing in any language. Either way it smelled as sweet, and stank to high heaven. She was almost ready to spread her plump thighs for a man she did not even like, and just because she was bored.

  She put out one cigarette and lighted another one. She took a deep breath, exchanged a few uninspired words about the weather with one man and parried half-hearted sex talk with another.

  “How about it, Nan Haskell? Why don’t you and I have a mad passionate affair?”

  “I’d love to. But I’m afraid not, Mr. Thorpe.”

  “I don’t appeal?”

  “Of course you appeal. But you’re one of those overworked executives. I wouldn’t dare have a mad passionate affair with you.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because you might have a coronary attack and die in my arms.”

  “In your legs, you mean.”

  “Whatever. And we’d be the talk of Cheshire Point. Imagine what the minister would say!”

  “You’re absolutely right,” he said, patting her thigh gently, almost paternally. “Besides, my insurance isn’t
paid up.”

  “Then we can’t, Mr. Thorpe.”

  “Quite right, Mrs. Haskell. See me again, please do.”

  She moved off, picked up somebody’s half-filled drink and finished it. There was a world of difference, she thought, between the sort of proposition Penn Thorpe had just handed her and the kind she’d gotten from Ted Carr. Ted was serious. Penn Thorpe, on the other hand, was making cocktail party passes, the perfunctory sort that flew through the air along with the gin fumes. They never stopped. They were the banter of Cheshire Point on weekends, the constant words that were always bandied about and never taken seriously. If she had accepted Perm’s pass, he would have had a coronary, probably brought on by shock.

  But Ted was different. He meant it.

  Maybe I should get drunk, she thought. Maybe I could get stinking drunk, screaming drunk, barking drunk, and then I would go puke and Howard would take me home and that would solve everything.

  She got stinking drunk.

  She drank everything in sight, and she wound up throwing up over the rug, and Howard wound up taking her home. But even with her head spinning in circles, even with her stomach turning itself inside out, she knew full well that everything would not be solved, not at all.

  The music on the phonograph was a Mozart piano sonata, simple and clean and precise, formal and crisp and cool. Roz Barclay sat on the sofa and smoked the last cigarette in the pack. Soon, she thought, she would have to get up and get another pack: She looked at the ashtray, overflowing with cigarette butts. Then she looked at the cigarette between the index and middle finger of her right hand. She remembered that last time she had studied a cigarette, remembered the thoughts she had thought then, remembered the laughter that had killed her frustrations for the time being.

  Now she smoked, and listened to the music, and waited. The music was enough to carry her off, to occupy her mind so that most of her thoughts would cease to bother her. She was waiting for Linc. He would come home soon, and then they could be together. They could not make love, because lovemaking was out until Linc’s slump ran its course. But they could be together. And simply being with the man you loved was a thousand times more satisfying than making love with a stranger.