enovel A Party For Laura Lee L.L.H [Future Story Codes]

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A Party For Laura Lee ....(79k)    by L.L.H

It looks like everybody here knows everybody else. A real quiet, friendly neighborhood group. And I'm the new girl in town.

I already notice that the men are turning to look at me a lot more often than they look at the other girls.

After all, I tell myself, I am the newest girl the place has tonight. So live it up, kid.

One fellow comes over and asks if I want to dance. I smile nicely and say thanks and we go to the dance floor.

It's juke box music, and fast. I haven't danced fast in a long time, but I haven't forgotten how.

I let the music slide through my body, let my every muscle respond to the beat.

My hair is flying out, my mini skirt is sliding up above my pantie line, and I don't care. I let myself go loose.

Every fibre of my body is trembling now.

As the music goes into a sustained beat, I stand still, and as the drums take over, I go into a shimmy, and it stops everybody.

It there's one thing I know how to do, it's shimmy.

My arms are held out on each side, my head is thrown back, my legs are slightly parted.

My breasts are thrust forward, my hips straight-lined.

And every inch of my body-every precious, lovely inch of my body, is shaking.

CHAPTER ONE

WHERE I CAME FROM

Walking on the beach, the windy beach, with Jon and Laura. Two sandpipers darting toward the waves ("Liz and Dick!" shouts Laura laughing, her hair caught in the wind.)

Angry sea, hard sand, the afternoon wide and clean and Time closing in, and for a second I feel-panic.

The sea distended, looking taller than myself, and I cannot see the sky's end. The sea a wall. Jon walks back to me and we sit for a second or so on a rock, watching Laura throw sticks at the water. The portable radio is blaring, the news of violence, hatred, despair coming through loud and clear.

Or maybe it is only my own despair that I hear. Nothing is right for me. It is not what I'd hoped for when I got married, not at all what I thought it would be like. My daughter there happily playing with the grey-green sea, my husband beside me, sullen and quiet. I know everything is breaking apart, as surely as the waves are breaking on the shore.

I watch the spots of grass on a dune, bending in the wind relentlessly. There is a lesson in those tugs of grass that defy the sea, but for the life of me, I cannot understand.

* * *

I came to California, oh, in hopes of a new world, or a better world, or possibly to forget all worlds, but I came to California from Texas, to sit dimly in the glazed sunlight of the city park, to eat lukewarm lunches while I hunt for work, and finding work, I find I can survive alone in the city.

Los Angeles. They call it the whore of cities: someone, I think Gore Vidal (?) pictures it as "that great, fat whore, sprawled on the beach," and I think this is a very good picture of the place.

I get an apartment, a small, one-bedroom affair, and there set up housekeeping.

I like the apartment. Being close to the bus stop is only one of its conveniences. It's a lovely place. Even if it is small.

It has tall windows that overlook a small garden area (all these places out here seem to have at least a small garden area), both from the living room and the dining area. It's an old fashioned place, not one of those slick chrome steel and glass affairs, but a solidly built, old fashioned apartment building-and I like it for its oldness.

The furniture is sort of ratty-except for the green couch which is virtually new, and the coffee and end tables. That is what they meant, I suppose, when they said the place had been recently "decorated." It certainly needs a paint job.

But I let that go. It isn't important to me. The place is roomy for one person, with a place for my books and records, and there is no one living over me, so it is quiet.

My first months in California, I write endless letters home to my friends-not to my parents-then suddenly I get the urge to wipe out all my past existence, and I quit writing to people, until finally they also quit writing to me, and then I really feel I have begun a new life.

What I like about this place is the way the rooms catch the light, in the mornings through the dining room in the afternoons in the living room, and late at night the moonlight falling through the open windows onto the floor.

I waste a lot of time here, but I find it fun to waste my time. In the evenings, lights off, the windows open, the television blaring, spewing forth, and myself, toweling off the back of my neck, and if the telephone rings, ignoring it. A whiskey and soda-a hangover from Texas days-within reach. I take a sip and look out my window at the multi-windowed building down the block on Wilshire Boulevard. And I tell myself "I'm in California, alone, and on my own, and no one to boss me. Me. Living in one of the world's biggest cities!" It seems unbelievable. There is nothing in my past to prepare me for this kind of life.

There are cushions all over the floor, a drink in my hand, cigarettes, a smudge of paper in the room, and so much darkness outside.

Not much doing really, but here and there little spots of life. Someone taking a shower, someone arguing down the street loudly enough to be heard through the open patio door.

The ticking of a clock and a horn in the distance. These are the sounds of California, in the autumn, in the evening.

* * *

I meet Jon. We are at the library together, and walking down the stairs together, I can't help but look at him. He's tall-maybe skinny-with light hair on his arms and the back of his hands. He has brown eyes and brown hair, and a sort of smudgy look, as though he might have just climbed out of some hole. We find we are waiting for the same bus, so we feel a little forced to speak-I mean, we'd come down the library stairs together, walked together for three blocks, and now here we are standing side by side at the bus stop in the cold night air.

"Were you at the library this evening," I ask, stupidly. I know he's just come from there.

"Yes," he says. "I saw you there."

"Yes. I was doing some reading-research. For work."

He laughs. "I was looking up some Welsh books-they don't have very many."

"Welsh?"

"I'm studying it. Plan to go to Wales this fall."

"Your job?"

"You might say that."

Just then the bus comes by, and Jon and I both get on. We sit next to each other toward the front of the bus. I don't want this to end, and I try to keep the conversation going. Finally, Jon says, "I get off at the next stop. Want to have some coffee with me? There's a little coffee shop near here."

Of course I agree.

And from then on I'm trapped. I fall for this guy from the first sight of his lanky body.

And not two nights later I'm at his apartment having a drink.

He lives alone, and his place is so much like himself.

A little messy, like when I go out to the kitchen for a towel or something to clean up a little of my drink that I'd spilled, I see that he hasn't done his dishes. I want to do them for him, but am shy about saying anything.

And then, sitting at his feet while he tells me of the places he's been-England, Wales, Scotland-so many places, and all the time I'm looking into his eyes, and watching his face, and hoping he will lean down and kiss me.

And then he does. His lips are firm on mine, his hand goes behind my head to pull me to him. I half rise from my position on the floor, and I put my arms around him, and we are locked there for a few seconds, clinging to each other.

And then Jon releases me. I sink back onto the floor, and he smiles. He leaves his chair and sits beside me, and soon we are lying on the floor, side by side, arms around each other, our kisses longer, more feeling.

He has me at his mercy, and he seems to know it. Everything about him is hard and rough and masculine in a gentle sort of way-he doesn't push himself at me, but yet is forceful.

And I give in to him.

This first love making between us is good. There is very little talk, mostly doing.

Jon strips in the semi-dark room, and I listen as he unbuttons his shirt then unzips his pants.

I sit on the edge of the bed listening as he drops his clothes. Then he walks over to me, and his hand comes down to my blouse to open it, to search beneath it for the hot flesh there. He pushes me back on the bed, his body hard against mine.

I can feel his manhood pushing eagerly against my stomach, can feel him pressing against me.

I want him so badly! He begins to lift my skirt then, and run his hands over my cheeks, cupping them one in each hand, and my panties are lowered swiftly, expertly. I can feel him fumbling with my zipper on the side of my skirt, and then that too, is lowered and off.

My blouse and bra are still on. He finishes unbuttoning the blouse, letting it fall open, and then he reaches underneath me, between the fabric of my blouse and my skin, and unhooks my bra, and lifts it off, leaving my blouse on.

I feel strange, as though I were being ravaged instead of loved. I've never made love to a man before with my blouse on, and it is somehow very erotic.

"Jon," I whisper hotly in his ear, "now, take me now, darling."

"Shhh, I will, I will," he says. His mouth covers one of my nipples and I grab hold of his hair, holding him there. I can feel the breath from his nostrils hitting my skin, it feels a little cold and sends goose bumps shooting up and down my body. His beard, a five o'clock shadow, rubs against my soft skin, and this, too, tingles erotically. And then his lips start moving downward over my breast to my belly, where he halts for a moment, his tongue licking out, touching first my belly and then the little dip where my navel hides.

I am shivering now, wanting him to go lower, wanting him to quit this foreplay and make the final entrance. I am almost whimpering in my need, my head and neck arched back, my fingers lost in his hair, my mind and body lost to his touch.

I feel his lips around my pubic hairs now, he nibbles them gently with his teeth, his tongue still searching until finally it finds its goal, and enters, sending a spasm of sheer delight through my entire body. I push my hips upward trying to engulf his face, trying to force him to do more with me.

He murmurs something, but his words are lost in the muffler of my pelvis. I don't want him to talk, want only for him to act, to finish this, to help me.

And then, just as I am about to shudder with the final explosion, he stops his action, and moves up beside me. His arm goes under the crook of my neck. He places his lips on mine. He holds me like that as he kisses me. I can taste the lingering taste of my body on his lips, and his hands caress my breasts.

I feel his hard, hairy hips moving closer to me, feel him mounting me-feel him entering me at last. He does it roughly, quickly, but because of the foreplay I am ready for his entrance, and there is only a slight gasp from my lips to tell him that he is being rough-that he is entering a little too quickly. It doesn't stop him. He pushes inward, inward, until for a second I think I am going to split apart-and then he halts-pauses, still kissing me. He rests his weight on me. I am panting. And then the slow, regular movements of love making begin. We are one person now. He sets the pace for our action, and soon it is fast-paced, furious, intense. I hardly have time to feel it building before I feel his body tighten. I know he is going to climax, know that he is going to bust loose in me at any moment, and I try to slow him down, try hard to make him go slower, but his body is insistant, and all thinking is gone, as he reaches his orgasm. I feel the hot liquid spurt against my inner walls, feel his turgid penis stiffen and throb, feel his entire body stop and stiffen as he climaxes.

And then he is done.

He lays within me for a precious moment, and then withdraws.

He lights a cigarette, and it glows red in the semi-dark room. I lay with my head on his chest.

"You're a good fuck," he says to me, and the sudden use of such rough language makes me giggle. He laughs with me, and lights a cigarette for me.

"Want to go again in a few minutes," he asks. It's an unnecessary question. "Ummm hum," I murmur. I cuddle closer to him.

"Good," he says. "It's been a long time. Almost a couple of weeks since my last lay." I laughed then. I thought he was kidding me.

* * *

We do not ask each other about our past, Jon and I. We seem to accept each other. For the first few months we live separately, meeting occasionally, and always having sex. It becomes almost a ritual.

Then Jon asks me to move in with him. "What," I say, "No clergyman? No marriage? Just living together in sin? That's a big step for a little Texas girl."

He grins at me. "Not so little-except where it matters."

"Sir," I said jokingly, "I would be proud to move in with you."

There is an ulterior motive in agreeing with Jon to live together. Not the obvious reason, that we both want sex with each other, but a closer and more calculated reason.

I want things to become permanent. I know that Jon is not the "marrying kind." But I hope to convince him to marry me some day. So if I am living there, if he gets used to having me around, then come the day when he wants to make it permanent, I'll be the one who gets him.

So I move in with him. We move in together. He gets a new apartment, so that his landlady won't interfere with us.

It is a studio apartment, two stories tall, bedrooms upstairs, messing-around-rooms downstairs, and with a balcony overlooking a small patio-a great deal of glass and chrome, but also a great deal of wall to give privacy to each a-partment. It has all the modern conveniences that Jon loves, and the good privacy that I like so much.

Moving in, and the first day:

Myself, moving around the kitchen, cleaning things. First the shelves, scrubbing and scrubbing, then spreading clean paper on them, washing all the dishes, more scrubbing and a great flurry of towels as I dry them, then put them slowly and carefully away, and then the floors-my god the scrubbing of the floors, and all the while, Jon coming in and out with cartons and small pieces of personal furniture, and telling me stories about how his mother used to clean places when his family moved, and how much I look like her down on my knees scrubbing the old tiled floor. Somehow or another he swings the conversation to a recent visit of his to his home town. (Went to see my old school-scrub scrub scrub-Just like it always was, Laura Lee-scrub scrub scrub-same damned green walls, even the same goddamned drinking fountains-scrub scrub scrub-wouldn't know it had been ten years. I'll bet if I'd looked in her old room I'd have seen Old Lady Lattimer still teaching math-scrub scrub scrub.)

Then he hangs up his paintings-the Beardsley drawing he bought in London, a nude man holding a nude baby, a strange face looking green and yellow in the daylight, and then he begins to unpack his books.

We are ready to start living here.

We don't have any real food in the place today, just staples-things like salt and sugar, tea and pepper, canned soup, etc. We have a liquid lunch: soup and tea and tea and soup. So many liquids that by evening we are using the freshly scrubbed bathroom a little too frequently.

There are two-count 'em-two bathrooms in the place. One upstairs, one downstairs. The one downstairs is a small one, no tub, what they call a three-quarter bath.

Then it is almost dawn. We worked all day and through most of the night, to get done in time for morning, so Jon could be at work at the usual time.

I go to bed, and hear the shower running, and listen to Jon scrubbing himself down. And then I sleep.

The apartment seems relaxed, even if we don't. It ought to be good for us.

* * *

The arguing starts. You can't live together, two people can't, without rubbing against each other now and then.

"Don't complicate things anymore than you have to," Jon tells me once. "There isn't anything to this except a truce that two people have reached. We've declared a truce and we're living together in an uneasy peace. That's all there is to it."

And that's about the way it is. We begin to argue about the little things. "I want you'to start eating breakfast, Jon."

"Alright, mother."

"No, I mean it, Jon. You've been coming home pooped every night, and I think you'll feel better all the way around if you start eating decently."

"OK, OK, OK."

"Well, you don't have to if you don't want to."

"Oh, I will-I will if you will."

"Okay."

* * *

"I've got to have some work done on the car." I tell Jon.

"Again?" he sounds sour.

"It wouldn't start this morning, and half way to work it died on me, and I had to get a tow and I was late to work."

"How much."

"What?"

"How much will it cost, Laura?"

"Well, they've got to give it a tune-up-it needs new sparks, and ... "

"Just give me the gory total, not the details."

"Two hundred and fifty."

"That's not a tune up! That's a new engine!"

"Well, I have to have it done!"

"Why don't you quit that lousy job. You don't have to work. We're not so poor."

"We're also not married...."

"Oh, that again."

"Yes, that again."

* * *

"Laura, this place is a mess."

"Well, you straighten it up! I work, too, you know!"

"Well, it's your choice."

"Let's not go into that again."

* * *

"Let's go out tonight."

"Okay. The Monte Carlo, or...."

"Oh, Jon, not the Monte Carlo."

"Why not?"

"The piano player smiles too damned much."

"Well, where do you want to go, Laura Lee?"

"Someplace where there are people. Real live breathing living people." Tex sr "Yes!"

"I don't care for that place."

"Well, anywhere, as long as it's not the Monte Carlo."

"How about George's Parlor?"

"Oh, alright."

"Alright."

* * *

It's all just a truce, alright. Just as Jon said it was. The good times come when we are in bed together, because then we know our places, know who we are and what we're supposed to do.

Jon is always the man in this house when it comes to bedtime. And I am always the woman. His woman.

God, I would do anything for him. As long as he will make love to me, I will be his....

We move again. This time to a real house.

A steep slope to the roof, large windows looking out over the scattered houses in the developing town, a tall, gangly house, set on a corner next to a vacant lot, a quiet house, white clapboard and brick faced, strangely shaped, long and narrow, with the roof skidding dizzily down toward the ground.

And a room, a library, den, what have you, but a room now for my books.

And yes, it is good to have such a room, with a few of my favorite paintings, a few of my favorite bric-a-brac, and my books and records. I open the window, and let the soft wind blow over my face. It has been a long time since I have been able to relax or to enjoy anything. Now, in this room, what else could I do.

It is a long way from Texas and the ranch, and yet, somehow, it is just the same. It is the feeling of being home, the feeling of belonging. I have worked for this ideal for some time, and having found it, do not think I will be disappointed. It is well worth the struggles and battles, well worth the efforts of the past few years. But now, it is mine, and I can relax.

There is work to be done of course, but somehow the work takes on a fun flavor. The sanding down of the old cherrywood table with its walnut inlay, the refinishing of it, and then the delicious wait while it dries and finally the carrying up of it to the library, where it sits under the window, and on it now the statue of David which has accompanied me since I got my first apartment, since I began the work and praying that led to this time, this place. A little bit battered maybe, but there it is, and here I am. His arm has long been broken off, his leg chipped, the base cracked, but he can still stand up, and I am proud of him, and of myself. No real work of art, but still it is the first purchase I made in California which was not a necessity. It fits in nicely here.

The real David, my Jon, is in the City with his friends today. We are taking this Sunday to relax, to do all the things we have so long neglected, neglected in favor of working for this house. And I have the place to myself, this house, this contact, this alliance, this objet d'vide.

Last night I was sitting in the library writing a letter to my sister, and thinking, 'My God, who would have thought I would ever have a library, let alone a two story house in sunny California?' And of course, I told myself-I would have thought so. I did think so.

Had forgotten the pleasure children have in new toys, things that belong. But I am easily recalling it, easily falling back into the groove.

It is a pleasure to live here.

They are nuts in this town. I don't mean the Brazilian variety: I mean the insane variety. As I stagger out of the building at seven in the morning, dragging myself to work, there is one young man who comes running briskly by the house in his turtle neck sweater and shorts: a little pot bellied, but still in the running. In the evenings the family next door goes out en mass to leap over tall hurdles with singular bounds, or to play tennis, or practice their golf or baseball: the mother is no better than the father, with her bounding energy and far flung hair. The children are in on it too: following father over the roughest terrain and weediest portion of the vacant lot nearby.

And they are not all, these characters: the whole neighborhood rings with the sounds of health, lights go off regularly at nine or at the latest, on Saturdays, at ten. Not so much as the blue glow of a late movie to be seen.

But I am not letting this affect me. I still stay up past midnight, a leftover from my childhood when eight o'clock bedtimes were mandatory, I still smoke steadily, drink my whiskey, my cokes, and groan as the alarm rings. With a schedule like mine, I cannot afford the debilitating effects of exercise: I wouldn't have time to do my reading and relaxing if I did all that business.

Tonight I sit alone in this town, listening to a fine old Al Jolsen record, looking out a window at a darkened vista, and wonder where everybody went, and not really caring, just glad that they more or less leave me alone (more or less-a little missionary lady came by leaving tracts for the fourth weekend in a row when I answered the door. "Do you enjoy the little books I leave with you?"

"Don't tell anyone, but do you know what happened to the last missionary who came by this house?"

"No."

"No one else does either." Since then, no peddlars or missionaries.).

It is sometimes a luxury to be alone in the world.

* * *

And one of those little nagging ghosts that I have known comes by:

"How are you feeling tonight-pretty calm?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Well, it's time we sat down and talked over the bills. You know we owe the finance company 180, and the furniture payment of 40 is due, and then your insurance payment of 37 is due tomorrow, and...."

"Look, I know what we owe. I also know we have no money. So what's to . talk about?"

"Well, will you listen to me? Now, we get paid in another ten days...."

"I know when we get paid."

"Will you listen?!"

"So, I'm listening."

"Alright. Now don't get shook. And don't shout at me. Now, if I go down to the house tomorrow, the tenants have promised...."

"They have been promising to pay that rent for a month now. What makes you think they have it today. Or will have it tomorrow."

"Will you listen to me? Now, maybe they will have it, maybe they won't. But if we go down and they do have it, that's some money in our pockets. Then we can put off the others for ten days-surely they can wait."

"Which ones do you want to put off?"

"Well, I thought if we paid the house payment, and the furniture payment we'd be okay."

"Those are your bills. What about my bill at the finance company."

"Well, these are all our bills. They belong to the two of us."

"Yeah, but if we pay those two of our bills and let the finance company go, then I get sued ... I lose my job."

"Well can't you call the finance company. Put them off for ten days?"

"I've been putting them off for a month. They were always going to be next, but no, every time we turn a-round, there's another one of our bills that has to be paid now to save your job, to save your furniture, to save your house...."

"But these are for both of us."

"And I will be sued, and you will have saved your house, and job, and furniture, and I will have nothing."

"But look at it like this ... I'm not doing this for me. I'm doing this for US.

"For us."

"Yes, damn it, for us."

"Okay. I'll accept that. And right now, I'm going to take a bath."

"But I want to talk to you about the bills."

"We've talked enough. I'm tired."

"But we owe ... "

"I know what we owe."

"We owe for the house payment, and the furniture, and...."

"For god's sake, don't start listing them again. I know all about it. I'll do what I can on my bills. We'll pay whatever bills you want to pay. Only don't start listing them again. I'm depressed enough already."

"You've always been'that way. You never want to talk seriously. You always shut me up."

"Oh god."

"Oh, go ahead and take your bath. I'm only trying to solve our problems."

"Sure."

"Laura Lee."

"Yeah."

"When you get through, could you rub my back. Just the back of my neck. I've got a headache."

"You have a headache."

"It just started. Would you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Jon. No trouble."

"Thanks. You know, if we worked it right, we could have all our bills paid off in six months."

"I'm going to take a bath."

"Six months. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

* * *

Suburbia is getting to me. Beginning to take its toll.

Sitting in the Monte Carlo and seeing it all in the smoked glass mirror behind the piano, seeing it all: in the first place I have just seen a friend to the airport and it is and was raining, a fact which always slightly depresses me, and goodbyes of any sort even the trivial also depress, so I have not begun the evening auspiciously, rather greyly anyway, and now sitting in this damp and beer stenched bar, my mood does not really improve, merely has company, and that is not good, so when Dan comes to where I sit, near the fireplace and near the piano player, I am ready for any sort of sorrow, looking for it, probably, in every word, adding a desperate nuance to every gesture and Dan is not the happiest of men to talk to: too many divorces and mistresses in his life, but what can one expect of a newspaper reporter?

He sets his whiskey on my table and sits himself in my empty chair, and stares at me while I ignore him and listen to Jimmie at the piano 'Falling In Love Again.' He finally speaks, as I had half hoped he would and would not, and it is to complain of the emptiness of his life, and me thinking My God, Why Tell Me, My Own Life Is Empty, but I listen with half my mind on what he is saying, allowing the rain to distract me and the music to influence me, and suddenly I remember that I sat in this booth facing Dan not four years ago this morning, and it was raining then too, and he had lost people, to that limbo of loving hearts that drifts around any alcoholic, or to the demanding grave, and knowing that I have sat here before, talked with Dan about this subject before, heard the rain and the music before, I see by the clock in the old mirror that Time is running out, and I see it all. And I am no longer interested in it, just think about it.

* * *

Sometimes I lay naked on my back in the dark room, looking out the window and up to the stars which are almost all lost in the glare of city lights, and so to dream and drowze away the evening waiting for Jon to come home, to make love to me.

Now and then I light a cigarette, and smoke. In the background a record-preferably Chopin, and I try not to think of anything except the exciting possibilities of Jon's arms around me, holding me.

I try to stay away from the bars-knowing that at the rate I am going, I will wind up alcoholic.

And when Jon does come home, he knows the mood I am in, and he quietly undresses and comes upstairs to lay beside me naked also, and we make love like that, and everything is fine between us again.

There is something about having his rock-hard body lay next to me, lay on top of me, that makes me forgive him everything, makes me forget all the sordid arguments we have had.

I like the feel of him, the feel of his bony, hairy legs, the tautness of his muscles, the strange silky quality of his hair, which is such a contrast to his body because it is so soft.

He is all man, and to me he is all men. No one can compare with him.

But he doesn't know that I've been going out on my own and drinking.

I'll have to stop this drinking. It's really bad for me. For the both of us.

And I lay in Jon's arms letting him make love to me in any way he chooses.

As rough or as gentle as he likes.

His love making depends a lot on the way his work day has gone. When everything has gone well at work, Jon is as gentle a man as can be found in bed. He takes his time, letting me enjoy every inch of him, letting me set the pace.

His climax then seems more complete.

But a hard day at the office, and he tries to drive it all out of system while we are making love.

He is rough then, much rougher than normal, and those are the times when he wants me to perform fellatio, to get down on my hands and knees between his legs and act "whorish" and I do it for him, and it seems to satisfy some inner need of his.

Whatever the way Jon wants it, I give it to him.

And I keep thinking that this is the way to win him.

Something seems to be bothering Jon, but he won't tell me about it. I get hints.

I do not think he is happy in his work-he seems to do the job alright, but don't think he really feels good about his work.

Like he wasn't suited for it or something. So I try to make things nice at home.

* * *

Jon sits bent tautly over his shoes, polishing them inch by inch, a newspaper on the floor to catch the slightest amount of dirt or polish that might somehow land there.

"These are like my suit-part of my equipment for work. They need to be taken care of," he tells me seriously, "and taken care of daily. They are tools."

But I think of a very nervous prisoner anxious to please the inspecting authorities, or possibly an Air Force youngster, and I can see that this cleaning thing of Jon's is becoming an obsession, not just a responsibility.

* * *

It's raining outside. At least it's trying to rain outside. We are having a very good winter. I had been told Los Angeles winters were all rain, and this is now my second winter here: the first one with rain. Outside everything seems to have taken on a Sunday afternoon tone, win-tery grey with unusual and common clouds drifting about aimlessly and hopelessly, dripping a noncommittal dampness on the day below.

Letters came yesterday, which I saved over for today, in hopes it would do what it is doing, rain; I settle down now in the dining area in a heavy chair to read them.

The first one is from a friend in London, and I put it aside. Best for last.

The second is from my sister, announcing a new column of hers in the Babylon Blat or some such paper, and filled with news of sunny, serene sameness. "Bets, (her daughter) gambols a lot about the house and has learned to open drawers and take lids off poison bottles ... tried reasoning with her, but have now developed a 'leave her alone' attitude. 'Go ahead,' says I from my perch on the couch. 'And if you die don't say Mommy didn't warn you.' Whereupon I have another chocolate and go back to my reading: True Romance.

"About your letter" she continues, "if anyone but you had written it and told me that story of you and Jon living like you do-without benefit of marriage-I might have enjoijed it. But as it is, I just read it and wonder what happened to my baby sister who used to be such a tomboy, swinging from trees, playing cowboys, and coming home at recess by mistake-or secret design." What happened, indeed.

* * *

Jon comes home one day and announces that he has lost his job. It seems like such a disaster, and I don't know whether he has been fired, whether he quit, or whether he was trying to make them fire him.

But he is very passionate all day the rest of the day.

He walks around in his underwear, and has a constant erection, and we make love some four times before we finally fall asleep.

And all of it rough, very rough, and hard on me. My skin feels rubbed raw from his beard.

He goes down on me twice today.

He's in a funny mood, half Master, half Slave, and I don't know quite what to make of this, only to be responsive to whatever strange needs he has at whatever time he has them.

He is finally tired out, and falls asleep.

I lay between his legs, my breasts on his thighs, my mouth just inches away from his depleted organ.

His hairs tickle my nose and I shift my weight, and his hand comes down to my hair, and he holds my head in place, and we fall asleep like that.

A strange mood for a strange man. He likes his freedom. I know that. I think a new job might help him.

* * *

It's Monday, and I know the office lies in wait for me, so I drag out my coffee making activity, and then call Jon, a fatuous thing to do, since he has nowhere to go, and has probably just fallen asleep again after a wakeful night, but this morning for some reason he comes downstairs and joins me for the light breakfast that I loathe but force myself to eat because it's a long time to noon and I frequently miss lunch anyway.

Jon comes downstairs, heavy eyed, red faced, and yawning. He's forgotten to tie his robe properly, and he scratches his belly, an irritating gesture reminding me of people in my life I'd rather forget.

He pours his orange juice and opens up the paper while I fix toast.

The conversation is trivial at first:

"Cereal or eggs?" I ask.

"Cereal. Not so heavy."

"Uhm."

"Sleep last night?" He doesn't really sound interested.

"Some. Got up after you came in. Heard the T.V. in the den going."

"Fell asleep watching the damned thing." He looks at me. "Uhm."

"Notice you've been drinking."

"Uhm."

"Don't hit it too heavy." Back to his paper. "Ya want me to move out?"

"That's non-sequiter. And not relevant. Stay, leave, I could care less."

"People get tired of me easily." I watch him. "Fact."

"Yeah. If you do, let me know."

"Something on your mind Laura? Here's your toast."

"No. Just tired of you being out of work. Ought to go out and get a job."

"Yep."

This sort of thing goes on for too long, and after breakfast I ask Jon if he wants to ride into town with me and look for a job.

He stares at the floor and his belly for awhile, and then says no. I drive in alone. The car seems worse this morninc so I leave it at the garage and walk the two spring like blocks to the office.

Ann, the office receptionist is there and busy typing. I hardly notice her, making it a point, frankly, because she is trying for some illicit overtime, and I wonder if I can tactfully take her office key away from her, or if I should just talk with her or fire her. I decide to do nothing right now, and I open the drapes in the lobby. There's a fine spray of drizzle in the air (it didn't frost over last night) and a break in the clouds some few miles away.

The day has started and I am already waiting for evening.

My job becomes a sop to us, bringing in money and little else, but I take to it with the sublimated energies I once gave living, and though my successes at the office are minimal and not startling they do startle me, and I find myself inamoured of the intricacies of this odd thing, business, though I never love business itself, and suddenly I find I have locked my cage, and there I am, growing moulty in my youth.

* * *

There is the beach world of California, with the musclemen sprawled and exercising on the gritty sand, oiling their cavorting bodies, and winding up looking like the machine made copies of Greek Gods one would find in a Five and Dime, but here, on the beaches, on weekends I am able to lose my hangovers and doze in the sun, and so the beach becomes my way of life after I seal myself off, because it is warm. The tumbling sea sings little thundering songs at me.

I watch this great Whore Mother from the corner of one eye, and hate the smell of her, that rancid smell of too much sweat. The greasy men wander out of the sand and sink into her lapping womb, rising again almost covered with the seaweed cilia from her belly and laugh into the sun. I hate them all.

I turn my carcass over and go back into my headaching self.

I do not think they sing to me, either, these mermen with the muscles rolled.

"I'm bored," I say to Jon. "Very, very bored."

"Bored?! How can you possibly be bored? Do you realize what's in the world around you? Why, my God, do you realize what miracles you live with everyday? No, I guess you don't. Because they aren't miracles to you.

"But believe me, the fact that the world is still here is a miracle.

"And take a look at tonight's television. Yeah. The vast wasteland. A Marlene Dietrich movie, Bert Bachrach playing his own compositions and singing them, a new comedian, not too intelligent, but clever enough, three new and possibly rising singers, your choice of seven different channels with enough variety to have kept your parents in a daze, and your grandparents in awe. Or if not that, there's a radio, with new albeit fleeting songs, or failing that recordings of voices, some long ago stilled by death, some still with us, and even in records you have a hell of a choice, a great variety-the Royal Shakespearian Theatre with several readings, or Nellie Melba, Dylan Thomas reading his own poetry, Caruso still singing, a thousand small comedians, a few choice tragedians, songsters, shows, and hubbub. It's all there.

"Or if sound and fury, sight and singing aren't enough, what about a newspaper, or a weekly summary magazine, or a digest of books.

"Or hobbies-for two dollars you can have a good solid week of boatbuilding, or model car building, or model plane building.

"Bored? How can you be bored? There's a junior collage not ten miles away with several adult education courses you can take, from accounting to art, and not too expensive.

"Or how about a cool walk in the dark? Just a short walk to let your mind settle into itself. There's a park not too far away. And yourself-great company.

"But don't sit there and say you're bored. I couldn't believe it.

"There's a world out there. And you haven't seen much of it. Or you couldn't be bored. Tired maybe. But never bored."

"Well, wow, Jon, I didn't know you were going to lecture me like that! I wouldn't have said anything about it!"

"So come over here, you little slut, and give me a kiss. And not on the mouth. A little bit lower."

I punch his chin lightly. "This low enough?" I ask innocently. He grins. "You little bitch. You know where." I get on my knees.

* * *

We'd lived together for six months before the truth hit me. Jon had just gotten a new job, when I felt faint at work. Then the doctor the next week confirmed it.

Jon and I were going to be parents.

I didn't tell Jon right away.

I felt I had to wait.

So I wait. There never seems to be a time when everything is right. I wait for another month. Finally, I have to tell Jon.

"I don't want you to get upset," I tell him, "but...."

"You're pregnant." He says it flatly.

I'm shocked. "But how ... how could you know? It doesn't show?"

"Not physically," he says. "But you've been very weird lately. And you haven't had a period in almost four months. That, plus you, makes for a baby."

"I ... I'm sorry."

"Don't be, kid. It had to happen. We haven't been too careful. So don't let it worry you."

"Will ... will you leave me?" He looks at me then and finally speaks. What he has to say makes me feel happier than I have felt in a long, long time.

"No, Babe, I won't leave you. I'll even make an honest woman out of you." He takes me in his arms. "I should have worn rubbers, so it's my fault. I'll marry you."

I think everything is solved then.

We have the ceremony at a little Justice of the Peace's place a few counties north of us and tell no one-they all think we are already married.

But we are married now, for real. I have Jon.

That's what I think.

* * *

"Kiss it," he tells me.

"I don't feel like...."

"Goddamn it, woman, I said suck on it."

"Ouch! Jon, don't be so rough!"

"Look, babe, I married you. Now get down between my legs and start acting like a wife."

That is it of course. That is when the brutality and cruelty start.

I could have accepted it, if I had made him marry me. But he was the one who brought the subject up. He was the one who said marriage was okay. I would never have pushed for it.

And now here we are, the three of us, myself and Jon and Laura on the beach.

And I have come to hate Jon, almost passionately, and all my love goes now to my daughter-and seeing them run together on the beach, I almost feel normal, almost feel in love with Jon again....

But then I recall how he is in bed now, how rough.

And how he expects me to be completely passive and obey his every whim. Which I do.

But I don't know why-or even what else I can expect to do.

CHAPTER TWO THE COCKTAIL AFFAIR

If there's one thing that Jon and I have managed to do, it's keep most of our domestic difficulties away from the eyes and ears of the neighbors and our friends. I mean, we may argue constantly, but at least most of the arguing is done at home, in private. I don't even think Laura is quite aware of how many problems Jon and I have had lately.

We are always civilized in public.

That's one of Jon's favorite words, and it just about describes the way I feel, too, sometimes. Like maybe we are two nations at war with each other, but everything is still on a diplomatic level at this time. All politeness and thin veneer, and underneath hell is bubbling and seething, and we want to scream at each other.

But we have a cocktail party to go to tonight, over at Ed and Dorothy's. Cocktail party.

More like an indoor, formal barbecue. This sort of thing is what I hate most. But Jon and I have been invited, and we've missed every party that Ed and Dorothy have given so this time, Jon feels, we ought to make a special effort and go. After all, they have started to miss our parties.

So we have to get the ball rolling again.

"Don't want any bad feelings in our little group," Jon tells me, and I feel like telling him, "I couldn't give a damn less for what Ed and Dorothy or ANYBODY in our stupid group may think. I want to stay home."

But I say nothing. It's better to go out to one of these parties than it is to stay at home and watch television and not speak to each other.

It's nerve-wracking at home these days.

And it's my day off. So I have to do some of the left over housework-it always happens on my day off. All week I pick up after us, mostly after Jon whose socks and shirts and underwear and pants always seem to find more space on the floor than in the closet.

So on my days off, there is the real housework to do: vacuuming, dusting, washing the clothes I've picked up all week, and cleaning out the closets and corners.

Upstairs in the bedroom, I get a little panicky feeling, lost sort of, and not quite all there. I mean, that's what I feel like. But I shake it loose.

First, the usual picking up before I heavy clean. Jon's clothes are in their usual disarrayed places. I find the pair of grey socks he was looking for this morning, stuffed inside his dress shoes.

Probably where he put them after he wore them last.

Then a pair of his undershorts.

Thin jockeys, cotton, not at all expensive. They seem to be getting a little grey, and it occurs to me that it's about time to buy him some more.

These are getting a little frayed around the edges. All his shorts are that way.

He never notices until the elastic is gone.

Then he raises hell with me.

I stuff the dirty clothes in the laundry bag, and sit on the edge of the bed for a minute-the unmade bed.

There's so much to be done I feel discouraged. I hold the bag between my legs and squeeze my knees against it. It feels soft and lumpy even through the denims I wear for housecleaning.

I giggle, then frown. No time to just sit around, I tell myself. Back to work.

It takes an hour to straighten up the house and another hour to give it a quick cleaning. I don't want to do the whole bit today-Jon expects me to look 'beautiful by five' so that we can all impress people.

We're not really members of the Beautiful People set.

We just try to imitate them in our own little way.

Our own, humble, middle-class, almost respectable way. The first lesson you have to learn in suburbia is to endure the suburban life. It's a hard lesson to learn.

I've still got a couple of hours, so I decide to go down to the bookstore near the little town plaza-one of those old-fashioned plazas made out of new-fashioned concrete and steel that California is so fond of-makes everybody feel Old Worldish and Nostalgic and Countrified.

I loathe such fakery, but the bookstore there is a good one.

* * *

Mrs. Stein, coffee cup in hand, walking back among the bookshelves, and pointing out the paper back editions of Wolfe's work.

Outside, it has started to rain, that grey California drizzle that we get now and then and call weather.

"Would you care for some coffee? No, tea! You would want tea! You look British."

And I do want tea, and we sit in the bare back room with the paintings and wrinkled chairs drinking tea and listening, oh, to the rain, maybe, and I watch the open side door, a heavy Spanish affair surely as old as the Catholic church on the hill, thick as a wall, and Mrs. Stein's voice like a friend in the room.

She laughs and we finish the tea and go back to the books and nic-nacs on the shelves.

"Of course, we deal in records, too, but we're sort of fussy about them. Here-Dylan Thomas reading his own poetry, Carl Sandburg here, you see. That sort of thing. But you wanted Wolfe or Wilde. Odd combination."

"I haven't read either of them. They're a gift."

"Well, that explains it."

I want them. That's all the explanation she needs.

"Here. THE WEB AND THE ROCK. Posthumous. Are you English?"

"No. Texan. Is it a good book? A good one of Wolfe's?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry though, dear, we don't have LOOK HOMEWARD ANGEL. You might like that. Your friend might."

"Well, this one is alright. I'll take this one."

"We also have a new book on the Indians of the Southwest. Came in today. Would you care to look at it?"

"Oh, no thanks. This is all, really."

And as soon as the rain slows down, I escape back out into the street and-what? Safety. Mrs. Stein is nice, and it is nice to get out of the house and away from my thoughts, but it's even nicer to get out of the bookstore and into the rain.

The light sprinkling and the nearly empty streets make me feel almost alone and that's a good feeling.

* * *

And then it's time for the party. At four-thirty Jon calls.

"Honey, you go ahead, I'll meet you there. I've got to work a little late."

"Jon! This whole thing was your idea!"

"I know. I know. But something unexpected came up and I'm going to be a little late. So be a good girl and run on ahead, and I'll catch up in an hour or so."

There's nothing for it.

I grit my teeth, and go out, get in the car, and go to the bloody party.

It's still cloudy in the early evening, but the rain has finally stopped.

And I finally stop in front of Ed and Dorothy's "cute little house." That's what everyone calls it, all my girl friends. Except Rhoda, who calls it "That piece of slimuking suburb." She is a little cold about these things, but everyone laughs at the things she says, and no one takes her seriously.

I ring the doorbell and listen to the chimes. Their ding-dong-ding sounds loud, and I wonder if I'm too early, but as soon as Ed opens the door, I know the party is already going.

He has a drink in one hand, and his smile fades quickly, but then returns.

"Surprise," I tell him, "We decided to come. Jon'll be along in a few minutes."

"Oh, great to see you. Come on in, Laura, come on in. Honey," he says, turning to Dorothy who has come up from somewhere and is now right behind him in the entry hall, "look who's come back out into the world!"

"My god," Dorothy says, then quickly regains her composure. "Come on in, Laura. Jon with you?" She looks over my shoulder to see if Jon is maybe on the walk behind me.

"No, he had to work late. But he'll be along shortly."

I wonder what's bothering them.

I know that our coming is a surprise, but they act like it was next door to a disaster.

"Well, come on in, honey. I think you know everybody."

I do. Except for a little blonde thing with a tall man who is, I suppose her husband, and a rather attractive dark young girl sitting by herself on the small couch surrounded by a troupe of admiring men.

She is laughing and talking, and easily the best looking woman in the room.

She looks like something out of a Steichen photograph from where I stand, all light and shadow and profile.

Rhoda comes over to me. "My god," she says, "what brought you here and where's Jon?"

"Jon'll be coming in a few minutes-and why is everyone so surprised to see me?"

Rhoda laughs nervously. "Honey, they say the wife is the last to know."

"Know what?"

Dorothy comes over just then with a drink for me. "Never mind. Old-Rapid-Rumor-Rhoda talks too much sometimes." She glares at Rhoda, who just smiles back and sips heartily on what is obviously a solid scotch drink.

"Laura, dear," Dorothy says, looking squarely at Rhoda as if in warning, "why don't you come on over and talk with Angela and myself until Jon gets here."

"Yeah, Laura," Rhoda says, looking squarely at Dorothy in defiance, "why don't you go on over."

As Dorothy and I are walking across the room, we fall into a sort of strained relaxation-I know something is going on, but like all women, decide to ignore it-for the time being.

"I don't really know every one here," I say. "I don't know that charming looking couple over there," I point, indicating the blonde and her husband/young man, "and I don't know the little dark-haired siren on the couch."

Dorothy gulps a little, smiles faintly, and says "Well, dear, there's time enough to meet them all-maybe later."

We reach Angela and her husband, George. Angela is the closest thing we have to a militant liberal in our neighborhood.

The rest of us are too busy trying to keep square and earn a living.

Angela, however, has time to go running around to all sorts of meetings and she keeps us more or less posted on developments.

She smiles broadly as she sees me. "Ah, our little woman scorned! Out to see the competition?" Dorothy shoots her a warning look, and whatever else she was going to say, Angela keeps to herself. "I was just telling George," Angela goes on, "that we haven't seen too much of you. Wondered where you'd been keeping yourself."

"Oh, just around the house," I said, which is mostly true. "There hasn't been a lot of time for me to do anything. You know, with little Laura's party coming up this week, I've been busy planning everything and going great guns doing it."

"My god, yes, children are wonderful, but trying to arrange these little parties for them can be as much hassle as arranging a grown-up party."

"Even more," Dorothy contributes. "I mean, with adults, you can count on them to entertain themselves to a point. I mean, they can talk with each other. But with children, my god, you have to have something going on the whole time, so the little dears won't wreck the house or tear each other apart. I remember when Dee had her sixth birthday...."

George grunts something and wanders over to the small stand of perennial party bachelors, refilling his drink on the way.

I am sorry to see him go, since I find women's talk so assinine at times.

I'm not really listening to Dorothy and Angela as they compare the parties their children have been to or have given. My eyes follow George, and so I see Chuck standing with the party-bachelors. My eyes sweep the room, but I don't see Greta, his wife, anywhere.

"So I told the dears," Angela is saying, "that if they didn't behave their little selves I'd knock the shit out of them." She laughs. "It certainly put a stop to the ruckus they were making, I can tell you that! Of course, Birdie got upset-you know how she is. I must say, her nickname suits her. Anyway, I had the place decently quiet-down to a small roar, and I could at least hear myself think and there weren't anymore fistfights-not out in the living room. Of course, it was a time getting the ice cream off the wall afterward. It sort of soured on the wallpaper, and left a little greasy mark."

"Isn't Greta Carlson here," I ask, of no one in particular and everybody in general.

"Oh, no. She had to stay home. Something about her time of month. Been giving her problems," Dorothy tells me.

Angela grins. "You ask me, Greta's going through the old 'second Marriage Menopause'."

"Second marriage?" I ask.

"Well, sort of. She had been living with that adorable young painter fellow-not really a marriage, but ... who are we to cast stones?"

My mouth nearly falls open. "Why, I wouldn't have thought Greta ... I mean...."

"I know, dear. She looks and acts so respectable. But you really don't think that girl could go around without getting a little man stuff, do you? You know she's got the hottest pants in town."

"Well, Chuck ought to take care of that," Dorothy counters.

"Yes, dear Chuck. They make a perfect pair. He's laid about everything available in this town-and probably in two counties," Angela laughs. "But if you ask me, he seems to have quieted Greta down considerably. Has her scared stiff. Afraid of something, I guess. What I call Second Marriage Menopause."

"You just used that phrase," I say jokingly. "You ought to get another one."

"Well, it's a good phrase."

"I don't think it has any meaning, Angela. I think you just made it up and since it sounded good, you think it means something."

"It does have a meaning, dear. Haven't you ever seen women on their second marriage? Always a little nervous and tittery. Jumpy. Irritable. Don't want the past brought up-too often. Just like menopause."

I let my thoughts drift back to Chuck. Angela takes my glass and goes off to the counter to refill our drinks. Dorothy goes over to Ed and another group.

I remembered Chuck's wedding and everything seems to fall into place, now. That slightly uncomfortable feeling I'd felt after the wedding at the reception congratulating them.

* * *

Standing in front of the Church, nervous, smoking, wondering what I'm doing here. I don't know the groom and barely know the bride. But I am here-a guest, and while Jon sits inside talking to buddies, I smoke a final cigarette-smiling now and then at the incoming guests-knowing no-one.

A slight rustle, an uplift in the music and I go inside thinking the wedding's starting. It hasn't. For some inexplicable reason, somewhere in the background a record player scratches out a Chopin Nocturne. Inside anyway, I move up the aisle and sit next to Leigh.

"Enjoy your smoke?"

"Urn."

It's a small church. "Chapel." Nondenom-inational. Enlarged photo of a forest over the altar, with everything but a stag in it, sunlight filtering, leaves turning gold, dust rising. "Illuminated" painting of the Shepherd floating toward the lamb in the brambles (everything from my childhood Sunday School texts to a thousand sincere baptist artists uses the same illustration). Another, also illuminated, painting of Jesus ascending to lieaven. Illumination in both cases a sort of purple light casting a weird phosphorescent glow over the shepherd and Christ. On the long wall, along the pewsides, what looks like a book of the dead, but which is really an illustrated parallel history of the world.

The sound of Lohengrin, and we stand.

Turning around, and the procession starts (the photographer taking a quick shot of the groom, moves forward in slow rhythm. From the stairway in back a rustle of taffeta, satin and lace.

One Bridesmaid .pregnant coming down the stairs. One bridesmaid wobbly following.

The Bride.

In a white satin, delicate pink lace wedding gown.

("She made the gown herself" whispers Leigh.)

("Isn't she ... she marvelous. How pretty?' A voice.)

She steps forward.

Nervous, a little, and pale, a little. Hadn't realized she was so small. The lightning of a flashbulb. The whir of an electric camera.

The words of the ceremony impressive, surprisingly. Old fashioned, but impressive. "It's a contract," I think. With its hereafters and so long as and do yous and I wills.

"Who giveth this woman awayF'

"I, her father."

The ritual...." or forever hold your Peace." It's a cool, spring-like day outside, although it's December. Funny thing about California. "Let us pray."

They are kneeling in front of the altar, on white satin.

The pastor sounds a little hokey, but the words have the right ring to them.

Murmurs, more murmurs, and they are married.

Mercifully it is not far to the door, and we move quickly outside, to smoke again. "Nice wedding, huh?" Jon says. "Oh, very nice. The bride looked very nice."

* * *

Odd to think that she had lived for two years with a Negro artist.

A delicate shade of pink lace over the white. Well, we can all change.

But Chuck looks a little lonesome over there with George and the other men.

And a little uncomfortable. He's one of those men who never looks right unless they have a woman nearby.

"... You seem to be dreaming," Angela is saying.

"Oh ... just thinking."

"Well, if it's about Chuck, you can just forget it. Though maybe he might go for a girl like you. You're about Greta's build and all."

"Yes, but I don't have her breasts."

Rhoda is coming over toward us. Somehow I want to avoid her tonight.

"Darling," she says, her mouth in a slight pout. I know that means she's been drinking heavily again. That's the way her mouth is when she gets a few too many under her belt.

"Well, hello Rhoda," I say, inanely. What can you say to a drunken friend?

Rhoda turns to Angela. "And how's our little Friend of The Viet Cong tonight?"

"You mean me, Rhoda dear," Angela says, her lips curling slightly.

"I don't mean goldilocks over there," Rhoda says. "By the way, Laura Lee, have you met our Golden Girl?"

"You mean the one with the husband?"

"How clever of you to have noticed him" Rhoda says, "yes, that's the one. Rumor has it that they are looking for a wife swap couple."

"Here?"

"Well, in this town. And probably at this party, too."

I laugh. "My god, can't you just see Ed and Dorothy swapping with them? Poor Dorothy and overweight Ed!"

"I want to know what you meant by calling me a friend of the Viet Cong," Angela intrudes.

"Your LA. activity last week," Rhoda answers quickly. "That little march you participated in."

"Well, my god, someone has to be committed."

"Committeds the word, honey, for that type of activity. About ten years in the State mental ward should do it!"

Angela looks slightly irritated.

"There's someone else I don't know," I say, trying to change the subject. "That...."

"If you had sense enough, I'd feel sorry for you, Rhoda," Angela bursts in. "You've never had a serious thought in your life, except for whether or not you ought to buy a bottle of gin or vodka."

"Ohhhhhh, touchie touchie, honey," Rhoda counters.

"I might as well march against war," Angela goes on, not even hearing Rhoda. "I mean, look at the world today."

"No worse than it's ever been, dear. Just noisier at times. Look at World War II. Now there was a real war, a real tragedy. And all because we refused to fight for others. And that's what your friends are doing now. Silly dears."

"Oh, World War Two. World War Two. You always bring that up. That's old. That belongs to our parents. Not us.

"They have told me about their war, but how can I believe them? All I can recall from that (to them) traumatic time is running through the tall grass behind my father as we chased a dog, which was in turn chasing a rabbit, and I wouldn't eat any of it that night, remembering the bulging eyes, the flattened ears as it ran. The rest of their war was a dream dreamed by someone else: oh, interesting the first few times, but no more real than the rest of the stories, the Red Riding Hoods, the Little Black Sambos, the Peter Rabbits. Certainly less real than the Peter Rabbits, who could be shot and frightened. Still I try to believe it, but always in the back of my mind the lurking memory of my father's shouts of triumph, as he hunted and shot meat for the table-for his wife and five children. What good did his war or even their war do? We all left home anyway. It was, Rhoda, inevitable. Inevitable.

"My older brothers and sisters smacking their lips over that rabbit, and did they know, do they recall the horror they inspired in me?"

"Why, dear, I didn't know you felt so deeply over rabbits. Is that why you marched?"

I can see things aren't getting any better. I intrude again. "There's someone else I haven't met, girls, that little dark -haired thing over in the corner. On the couch."

Rhoda grins and Angela smirks. They both heard me.

"You haven't met LaVerne!" They both say the same thing in unison.

"No," I smile. "Why?"

Angela coughs. Rhoda lifts one elegant eyebrow. Rhoda speaks. "Well, dear, like I was telling you when you came in, the wife is always the last to know"

Angela glares at Rhoda but it doesn't stop her.

"LaVerne, dear, is Jon's latest."

"My Jon? His latest? His latest what?"

"What is the word, alright," Angela sniffs. "Whore is an even better word," Rhoda states flatly.

I am shaken.

I'd never thought about it. About Jon having a mistress. I know things are bad between us-but a mistress? I don't quite know what to do. I know one thing, though: I am not going to let anyone-not Rhoda, not Angela, not anyone, know that I am surprised.

"Oh, is that her," I say as calmly as possible. "Well."

"Do you want to meet her?" Angela asks fatuously. "I can introduce you."

"That would be nice," I say, "I'd like to get to know her."

"My god, but you've got cool, Laura," Rhoda whispers to me as we start over for the couch.

Getting there, I hear La Verne talking. She laughs and then looks up at me.

"LaVerne, dear," Angela says, "I'd like for you to meet an old friend of mine, Laura Lee Hicks."

There is a sudden silence in the area. I can see Dorothy starting over for us, then stop as her husband takes her arm, scowling at her. Dorothy is saying something, but her husband shushes her.

"How do you do," I say, extending my hand. "So glad to meet you."

"Pleased," says LaVerne, blushing slightly.

It's funny how in just a second of two, one can take in so much. I don't suppose I look-stare is a better word-at LaVerne for longer than two seconds, but in that silent, tension filled space of time. I see everything about her.

She is a stocky woman, almost masculine in her build, yet with an indefinable femininity about her. If her hair had been cut shorter and if she didn't have breasts, she would make a very handsome man-feminine, but very handsome.

She has a fine face, oval shaped but not extremely so. Her silver-tipped hair is black and full, and looks like it is coarsely textured. Her eyes are light and yet piercing, and there is a sadness about them, as though she might have seen a great deal of life-a great deal that she'd rather not have seen.

She must weigh about a hundred and thirty-five or so pounds, but she doesn't look heavy-just fullsome. That's the only word to describe her-fulkome. I heard the phrase before but never knew exactly what it meant until I saw La Verne.

She stands up as we are introduced, and I see her square-built body, and all resemblance to a Steichen photograph is put out of mind. She is a lioness, proud, well fed, and very elegant.

My heart sinks. She is exactly the sort of woman that men are attracted to: beautiful and sensual. As we touch fingers in a sort of feminine handshake, as we smile coolly at each other, even then, her immense sensuality comes through to me. J know why Jon would enjoy her. She is the essence of sexuality. And from what I've seen, she has her wits about her-able to single-handedly entertain several men.

And then my survey is over. I wonder as Angela and I walk over to Dorothy what LaVerne was thinking of me, what she had seen.

Mentally I compare myself to her. I feel a fool, feel like such a drab character in comparison to LaVerne. She is single, sensual and certainly well dressed, every stitch perfect, and draped over her body to reveal its every outline.

And me?

The little maxi outfit I had so carelessly thrown on seems doubly trashy-it was alright for an informal, unexpected meeting-but not the sort of thing I would have worn to meet my husband's mistress.

I know my hair hangs down loosely, and I envy LaVerne her own well-groomed hair. My nails are polished, but they don't have that natural sheen that hers exhibit. I wonder if she used nail polish-and know she didn't. Her bare fingernails are beautiful in themselves. She has the art of not making up. A touch here and there suffices to enhance all her natural attributes.

And damn it, she has plenty of natural good looks.

"Are you alright, Laura Lee," Dorothy is saying, peering at my face as though I had gone into hiding somewhere behind my nose.

"Yes, of course, I'm alright. Why shouldn't I be?" .

"Well, I just thought ... I mean, well...."

She is embarrassed. "Oh, that's alright. I knew about her. God knows, she's welcome to Jon if she thinks she can get him." I laugh, sounding lighter and happier than I really feel. "She isn't the first, after all!"

I don't know if she is the first or not, but I have a hunch, a spark of women's intuition if you will, that she is only the latest. Dorothy's pitying eyes confirm my heart-breaking suspicions.

"Well, dear, I'm sorry! I would never have invited her if I'd thought you were actually going to come. You haven't been to one of our parties in so long and I just thought...."

"Oh, yes, I suppose I should have given you some warning that I would be here. But don't worry. I'm rather glad! I've been wondering what she was like. Not so much, now that I see her."

"How brave of you dear," Dorothy says, and right at that moment I want to hit her. Instead I turn toward the group of gruntled men-without-wives.

"Excuse me, Dot," I say carelessly, "I think I'll just go over and see Chuck. Haven't seen him since the wedding."

It is true. I haven't. But more than seeing Chuck I want to stand there, to be with men. An ego boost, I guess. Just to stand with several men and feel that in some small way I am competing with La Verne.

Rhoda brings me another drink in a new glass. "Here, honey, thought you might need this."

"Thanks," I say without any tone to my voice.

"Hi, Laura Lee," Chuck says as I walk up to the group. "What's goin' on."

"Not much, Chuck. Just wondered how you and Greta were getting along. I haven't seen the two of you in ages."

"Oh, we're doin' alright, I guess. As well as most married people, anyway!" I feel a stab in my chest as he says that.

The men around him chuckle, and seem a little embarrassed. I know it is a mistake, now, to have come over. They must have been having a particularly masculine conversation, and the presence of a woman-who has just discovered her husband's infidelity-puts an obvious damper on their talk. The men drift slowly away, some to their wives, others to form a new group of single men. Chuck and I are finally left standing together alone. I don't mind. Right now, the presence of a super stud is just what I need. I recall Angela's-or was it Rhoda's?-remark earlier in the evening, about how Chuck is a womaniser.

And I need womanising.

Right now I need womanising more than anything else.

"Have you seen the view from Dot's terrace," I ask casually.

"Can't say so," Chuck replies, grinning. "Why don't you take me out there and show it to me?"

"Great," I say, gulping down the last of my drink. Chuck puts his arm around my shoulder and half guides me towards the sliding glass door that leads to the terrace. As we pass the counter where the drinks are being mixed, I pick up a double shot of whiskey, and down it, then get another to take with me. Chuck lifts his eyebrows a little, but doesn't say anything. I smile at him. "Good for what ails ya," I say flippantly.

He pulls the door open with his free hand then guides me by my shoulders outside. "And you got something ailing you?"

"Not me," I say. "Not little Laura Lee from lexas.

"Good," Chuck laughs. "I like a girl who knows her own mind and can handle her booze."

"Sweetheart," I say, "booze ain't the only thing I can handle."

He grins. "Yeah, from what I've heard, you can handle just about anything."

I grin right back. "Let's have a toast," I say, "A toast to getting rid of everything that ails us, and doing it happily."

His eyebrows lift slightly again. He has nice eyebrows, and the kind of eyes I like-sort of sexy, and very, very expressive if you know what I mean.

"Charlie my Chuck," I say, "I have a curious feeling that it was fate what brought us two together."

"Fate?"

"Kismet. Fate. The old Oriental pibosher-ooni."

"Oh," he says quietly, sipping at the tumbler in his hand. "Oh."

"So what do you think of this old terrace. Dot has a nice husband, and he sure provides well for her." I lean slightly against Chuck, and look out at the small lawn, and beyond it the lights of the suburb slooping down the hill beyond Dot's. There is another party going on (like this one, I wonder, with some poor girl meeting her husband's mistress?) in the house about six down from Dorothy's. A few people are out in the yard, and their laughter faintly mixes in with the laughter of the people in the room behind us.

"Yep, Ed has done pretty well by his little woman," Chuck says.

"Little woman," I muse, looking into my glass. "I haven't heard that phrase in a coon's age. Comes right out of Texas."

"So I understand," Chuck says, pulling me a little closer to him. "And I guess you're from Texas.

"I sure am, honey," I say. "Straight out of the boonies, baby. Raised in a shack by shanty Irish."

"Irish?"

"Sort of. Guess you'd call them American-Irish. If they're not really Irish they have some Irish blood-and in America, that makes everybody Irish on St. Pat's day."

"Don't guess I'm following you too close," Chuck says.

"No, but you're holding me a little too close," I reply, straightening up and taking my head from his shoulder. The movement makes me feel a little dizzy.

"Here," Chuck gestures, "why don't we sit down for awhile."

"Yeah. Yeah. Rest the old bod for a spell." I plunk myself down on one of the white steel-webbed chairs, and Chuck pulls another up for himself. He sits on it backwards, his legs spraddled, his arms resting on the back of the chair and his chin on his arms.

"So tell me about it," he says, sort of muffled like.

"About it? About what? Nothing to talk about. Get me another drink, okay?"

"You sure?"

"P.O. Positive," I wink at him. He grins and goes inside, coming out a few seconds later with a full glass of whiskey.

"Oh, baby," I say, "I feel it tonight."

"Yeah, I can tell." He resumes his position on the chair. I lean over and touch him with one finger on his cute nose.

"You got nice eyes, Chuck," I say. "I like that in a man. Nice eyes."

"The better to see you with, my dear," he murmurs.

"And you got a nice deep voice. I like that, too. Jon has a medium voice-sometimes a higher voice than I like. But you have got a nice voice." I take a healthy slug from the suddenly tall-looking glass in my suddenly heavij-ieeling hand. "A nice, heavy, deep voice." I lean back in my chair, letting the cool night air brush over my face. I feel Chuck's hand wipe the hair away from my eyes. I reach up and hold his wrist. "Um," I whisper, "hairy arms. I like that too. You seem to be all man, Charlie me boy."

"Man enough, I guess," he replies.

He doesn't remove his hand.

"Man enough, you guess. Now that I don't like. That is a little bit-just a weensie bit, if you know what I mean-impositive. Unpositive. Not very masculine."

"You could always try it out," he tells me, a huskiness to his voice. "You could probably do a lot of things for me."

"Ummmm."

"Want to try?"

"Ummmmmm."

I feel his face approach mine. Even with my eyes closed, I can tell when he comes close to me. There is the smell of his cologne or shaving lotion, I don't know which, and the slight tickling of my nose as his breath blows against it softly. I part my lips slightly, starting to say something, but he stops me with a light kiss. I know now.

I put my arms around his neck and pull him closer, more tightly to me, crushing his rough lips against my own soft ones. The movement nearly topples him and his chair, but he steadies himself with his feet and holds on. I can tell he used his feet. The heels clicked against the stone of the terrace.

Kissing him is wonderful. It seems to clear my head a little bit, and as his tongue snakes gently between my lips and teeth, I open my mouth wider to accept him.

We hold for several seconds.

"Let's ... let's sit on the settee," he says when we finally break the kiss.

"Yeah!" I almost shout in a sudden rush of pleasure. "Let's!"

It doesn't take us long at all. Soon we are side by side, and though the steel webbing of Dot and Ed's lawn couch is cold, we neither one notice it.

Again we kiss, this time more slowly, more passionately, and I feel Chuck's heavy hand on my thigh, pulling my skirt upward.

The touch of the fabric moving up my leg tickles a little, but I don't giggle or do anything to interrupt the wonderful feeling of his lips on mine, the soft caress of his hand on my thigh as his fingers pulled the skirt upward.

Then my leg is bare. The cool night wind off the not too distant ocean sends goose bumps up my leg, and his rough fingers on my skin don't help. He places the flat of his hand against the inside of my upper thigh, and circles it around and around, rubbing my leg.

I want him to make love to me.

Somehow more than anything else I want this man to take me into his bed and make rough, violent, wonderful love to me. I feel-I feel like a whole woman. I cup my hand on his face, feeling the slight texture of whisker and sunburned skin, my thumb on the little hollow in his cheek that had formed while we kissed. My fingers stretch along the line of his jaw, from his ear downward to the little knob of the jointure.

This is a longer kiss. I don't remove his hand, nor even move mine, but am content to let him make all the motions, from the increasingly higher circling of his hand on my leg to the soft squeezings of his other hand on my breast.

The fabric bunches up, and my bra is in the way, but he doesn't seem to mind.

His fingers trace the outline of my bra, smooths the fabric of my dress, then bunches it all up again, in a constant 'squeeze, release, smooth it out' pattern. His nails aren't long, but every once in awhile they dig into my flesh, sending delicious jolts of pleasure through my body.

I feel on fire, feel desire flaring between my legs, and I part them as much as my dress will allow. Having the skirt of my dress up around my mid-thigh helps.

His hand continues to rove upward.

"Oh Chuck," I murmur between our lips, "Oh, Chuck."

It is all I can say.

It is all I have to say.

His fingers are at the door.

I can feel him lift the elastic of my panties as one finger moves inside, moves inside to weave its way through the tangle of hair.

I know I must be getting moist there.

Nothing in his movements betray me. My breasts heave, my heart flutters, a quick shiver of delight traces through my spine, and I feel the flesh between my legs flutter slightly as his finger bores inward, coming closer and closer.

My leg brushes against his leg, and I push toward his body as much as I can, trying to be as close and near him as possible.

I let my own hand drift slowly to the back of his neck, and turn full face toward him, twisting in the seat.

He removes his finger slowly then, and then suddenly puts the flat of his palm directly over the V of my crotch. He squeezes me there gently before using his fingers to pull the elastic top of my panties downward. I feel his fingers as they pass the hair there, and then I feel his palm again, this time on the bare skin and hair. His fingers are poised just above the lips, and then they are pushing slightly inward, not all the way, just enough to tease and tantalize me.

"Not ... not here," I manage to gasp, coming out of my trance reluctantly. "Oh, Chuck...."

He hushes me by forcing my face against his shoulder. He doesn't move his hands.

That's when Jon joins the party.

"I'll be goddamned," we hear him say. I sit bolt upright, automatically reaching for my skirt, trying to straighten it.

Chuck's hand, still caught between my hot flesh and my panties is in my way. I manage to squeeze my legs back together, and Chuck gets his hand out, and then I manage to look more lady-like.

"Jon...." I start to say. I don't know what I was going to say, I just start to talk.

"Never mind, whore," he sneers. "And Chuck, don't you think it's time you went home and got to bed. With your own wife."

"I think I need a drink," Chuck says. "Uh ... Laura Lee?"

"No," I whisper, ashamed of myself and feeling guilty.

Like a high school student caught with her panties down by the teacher.

Or like an unfaithful wife? No, I think not.

An unfaithful wife has dignity. But I have no dignity. I've been acting like some silly girl in high school, sneaking out to the bushes for a quick feel, for a quick kiss by the handsome football star, and an even quicker grope.

No dignity there. Just adolescent emotions.

Jon glares at me while Chuck straightens his tie and walks back through the doors to the party.

"Well," he finally says, in a demanding tone. "Well what?" I am defiant. I remember La-Verne.

"What kind of behavior is this?"

"How about 'Betrayed Wife Meets Nice Guy'," I quipped. "It fits."

"More like slut gets her rocks off," Jon says with a disgusted tone in his voice. He then walks back into the house in Chuck's trail.

I am left alone then.

Alone and feeling ridiculous.

Jon has been right. That's exactly what I've been. Slut, getting her rocks off.

A sick slut.

The whiskey begins to take on the side effects that come when you've had too much to drink and then suddenly quit drinking.

I need a drink bad.

But I am scared to go back into the house.

It occurs to me that if Jon came out and saw us, then anyone might have done so.

For all I know, Chuck and I have been putting on a private show! A show for everybody at Dot and Ed's! All of Jon's and my friends!

I blush at the thought that what Chuck and I had been doing might have been witnessed.

If Rhoda has seen...! Oh god, I think to myself. It'll be all over town by morning. I can just hear her vicious, rumor-spreading voice on the phone. "And dear," she will say, "There was virtuous little Laura Lee getting her cunt copped by Chuck."

Oh Lord, I pray. If you won't have let Rhoda see this, I'll never again do anything like it! Never!

I cover my face with my hands then and do what any normal, sane, slightly intoxicated woman would do in the circumstances.

I cry.

I try to be quiet about it, but there are plenty of gulpings, and sobs and muffled moans.

And then, like always, it is over. I sniff a few times, fumble for my purse, then realize it is inside.

I can't even blow my nose!

I will have to go inside, make-up smeared with my crying and face them all.

Even if I go in and cross the room and go directly to Dot's bathroom for Kleenex and water, I'll have to face everybody with my face smeared.

If they don't know something has gone on, they will.

All of my pride, shot to hell. I sniffed again.

I can just see LaVerne looking smug and cool and neat and un-made-up, watching me cross the room.

I gulp again.

But I don't see any other solution.

That's when Rhoda comes out.

"Hi honey," she says breezily. "Saw Jon and Chuck come in and figured you were still out here by yourself. How goes our girl scorned?"

I wipe at my eyes. "Oh, I'm okay," I lie. "Just a little cold. And I wanted to be alone for a-while."

"I'll bet you did," Rhoda insinuates, "Here's a hankie. Clean up those cold tears."

I take the hankie, and after adjusting my face as best I can without a mirror, I smile up at Rhoda. "Thanks awfully. It was just one of my silly spells. I must be getting close to my period."

"Period is right, honey. The end of the sentence. The end of a marriage."

"Oh, Rhoda, I snapped. "Don't be flippant. What's going to end our marriage?"

"Jon is or you are. But the thing is going to end. I can tell. Old Rhoda knows. Never been wrong yet. Never miss. I can tell when a marriage is about to break up just by the way the wife sniffs. And you've been doing a lot of sniffing and snuffling lately. "At least tonight."

"Well, this is one time you've missed," I say angrily, standing up. "I'm going in. It's cold and I've got to go wash my hands."

"Don't forget to walk around the side of the room, honey. It's more shadowed than the center of the floor. And that way La Verne can't see your face."

I cuss at Rhoda under my breath as I wind my way, smiling and speaking occasionally to the people on the fringe of the room.

I get to the bathroom and I don't think La-Verne saw me at all.

I am patching up my make-up when Dot comes into the bathroom. I am using her Master Bath-the one that's open at parties for the ladies because it has a nice big mirror with bright lights over the double sink. The men have to be content with the half-bath in the hall.

"You okay, Laura Lee," she asks solicitously.

"Why, certainly, Dot. I'm fine."

"Well, I thought ... Rhoda said...."

Here it comes I think. Old Rhoda's story of what happened. Well, might as well find out exactly what she saw and what she is saying.

"Oh?" I query. "What did Rhoda say?"

"Only that ... that you had been crying. She said she guessed LaVerne had upset you more than we had guessed. Honey," Dot rushes on, "Please, let me send LaVerne home. I can just ask her to go." She looks at me with a worried look in her eyes.

I am relieved that Rhoda isn't saying anything more than what others can guess by themselves. If she had seen me with Chuck, that would dominate her talk for a week-and Dot would certainly repeat it to me. No, apparently Rhoda has seen nothing more than my tears. Okay. That can be faced.

"Dot, you don't have to send another of your guests home just because there's a little infra-marital problem." My tongue has a hard time getting over that big word. "I'll be alright, but I hope you don't mind if I leave a little early. It has been a big day, and I am tired. And I'll admit that I didn't exactly expect to see Jon's latest here tonight." I give Dot my biggest bravest smile, a sort of woman-to-woman apology. It tells her all she needs to know, apparently.

She smiles back and pats me on the shoulder. "That's okay, Laura. But next time, I won't invite that whore. I hadn't wanted to anyway," she goes on, somewhat crossly, "only Ed told me to do it. Said he felt sorry for her, seeing as how she spent so many of her evenings alone."

With that she whips out of the bathroom to go back to her other guests."

So La Verne spends her evenings alone. That means that Jon is seeing her in the daytime.

Well, it also means that when Jon went to see his parents tomorrow, I could go visit her instead.

And maybe find out a few things about her. And secretly, find out a few things about myself.

I am smiling smugly by the time I walk back out to the party. Smugly and more bravely than I feel.

I know that she and Jon probably counted on seeing each other tomorrow. It isn't one of Jon's working days, but he has already made , excuses. Only Jon isn't aware that his father called this morning. Called and asked if Jon could come up and help load a few calves for the auction.

And I know Jon will go.

He might not be faithful to me, but a call from his family-that he always heard and heeded. If they wanted him, he'd go.

It only remains for me to tell him about his father's call.

* * *

We excused ourselves genteelly from the group, and walk out into the cold night alone together. Jon sees me to my little car, and as he turns to go to his own car, I say "Oh, Jon, I almost forgot. Your father called this morning. He'd like for you to go to the farm tomorrow and help him load some calves for the sale."

"Thanks," Jon says coldly. As I squat to get into my car, I smirk. Jon will be at the farm tomorrow-and little LaVerne will be all alone, all alone except for the Hicks visitor-the one member of the family she probably wouldn't expect to see. Me.

I am starting the car when I hear the noise on the passenger side of the car.

I turn to see what makes the noise, and see Chuck's face pressed almost against the glass.

I lean over and roll the window down. "Yes, Chuck?"

He smiles. "You okay?"

"Why yes."

"Let's meet tomorrow night," he says firmly. "At the bar."

"The bar," I ask coyly.

"You know. The piano bar near your place. Can't think of the name, but you know it."

"Oh, yes," I say.

"Be there." Chuck scowls and then smiles beautifully. "Greta's going to be out of town tomorrow."

"So's Jon," I say. Chuck looks surprised and I start the car and back out of the space. My whole body tingles as I drive home.

CHAPTER THREE CHUCK TEACHES ME TO BE SINGLE

I am right of course. Jon can't resist making the trip to see his father and help on the family farm. This leaves me with the whole day to myself and nothing to do.

Nothing, that is, except to go over and find LaVerne and confront her.

Jon took the bus north, and I am to drive up and get him tomorrow evening.

It isn't enough that I have little Laura's party to prepare, but I have to run all over the country following my husband.

A husband I don't even know if I want any more.

Well, kid, I tell myself. Them's the breaks. I let little Laura go over to her "best friend's" house. That takes care of her for the day, since she and her friend are going to the movies in the afternoon-grafts Lettie's mother.

A little gift which Lettie's mama will never know how much I appreciated.

So I am alone in the house.

Suddenly the idea of a confrontation with this other woman doesn't appeal to me so much. I mean, what can I say to her?

"Honey, he's my husband, why don't you cut out?"

She already knows Jon is married and it obviously makes no difference to her. She had the grace to blush slightly when we met, but a blush is hardly 'a giving up."

No, she knows Jon is married, and she obviously knows something about myself.

So just telling her Jon's my husband isn't going to do any good. I need a persuader, some reason why she should give Jon up.

Or maybe I am the one who ought to give up.

Give Jon his freedom. Only I can't really believe that Jon wants his freedom, and I have a perverse streak in myself that says I don't want freedom either. I want my life to stay as it is!

But of course, I don't really want that either.

Nobody really wants their life to be exactly what it is. You can't be human and be completely satisfied with the way you live. We all want something more than what we've got.

If it's only more money, we share one desire with J. Paul Getty and Howard Hughes.

We all spend our time wanting more-or less-of what we have.

More money. A better marriage. Fewer kids if we have too many or more kids if we don't have any. Whatever, we all want something.

And I don't really want to stay as I am, don't want my life to return to the way it was before last night. No. Because long before last night things started to go-sort of sour. Jon and I. What did we have? What DO we have, I correct myself.

Our quiet little piece of suburbia. Jon has a decent job, I do my own work pretty well, even though it doesn't pay much.

But we hardly ever talk. Jon's tired when he comes home, I'm tired when I get home.

Little Laura takes up a lot of our time, so that when our days off do coincide, we spend them with Laura, so we can't exactly be alone then. And when little Laura is in school, we have too many things around the house to do-There isn't a single way we can just be alone together. My mother always used to say that having a few doors around the house to slam shut, a few rooms to be private in, had saved her own marriage.

I didn't know what she meant, until Jon and I started having our vicious little fights in bed. It is the only time we have alone together, and we lie there and whisper vile things at each other. Like hate.

And "why the hell did you do that?"

And "I think that was a stupid thing to say."

Maybe if we had, like Mom said, a room to go to where we can shout and holler, we could get the fight out of our systems and then make up and then everything would be okay. Because we didn't fight like this until after Laura was born.

And don't get me wrong! I love my daughter! It just makes it so damned hard to fight with my husband, makes it such a strain for the both of us.

We don't have any doors to slam.

So this morning I am sitting in the kitchen area, the dishes done. I have already called in and said I wasn't going to be at work today. Told the boss I wasn't feeling well, and I can just see the bastard smirking, saying to himself, "It just shows that women are physically inferior to men. She's having her period. If she was a man, she wouldn't have troubles like that."

Not that he said anything like that to me-just told me it was alright and then sighed a bit into the phone.

And I know the bastard well enough to know what he was thinking.

It shows in everything he does.

But I don't let it bother me. When I called in, I had every intention of confronting Jon's little whore. Jon's other woman.

I smile grimly to myself. Another cliche proved true, I think.

I pour myself another cup of coffee. I turn on the radio. "Possibility of rain today," says the announcer.

"Egypt has just announced that...."

I quit listening to it. I mean, I'm really not interested today in whether or not the world is going to blow itself to bits. As a matter-of-fact, I sometimes wish they would.

The thought makes me smile.

Then comes the knock on the door.

It's Rhoda.

I grimace to myself as I open the door, but not so as Rhoda can tell.

"Hiya, hon," she says. "Just thought I'd drop by and get rid of some of my hangover-and see if you had any hangover from last night."

"Oh no," I say dumbly, "I never get hangovers."

"I don't mean from the liquor, hon, I mean the hangover from LaVerne-and from Chuck and Jon."

"Chuck and Jon?" I ask innocently.

"Yes, Chuck and Jon. I saw how you and Chuck went out on Dot's terrace last night all by your lonesomes. Then I saw Jon go out, and it couldn't have been two minutes later that Chuck came in, looking guilty as hell and doing everything but zipping up. I mean, the whole story flashed in front of my eyes if you know what I mean. And you do. Know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," I say darkly. "Nothing happened out there."

"Nothing? Two little lonelies out on a dark terrace with nothing between 'em but the cold cold wind? Don't you tell little Rhoda that!"

"Rhoda, really, I appreciate your interest...."-actually, I'm getting to dislike her more and more with every word, this gossiping, prying woman. Christ, I hope I never get to be like her!-"but really, nothing happened. Chuck and I went outside and had a drink or two, and when Jon came out, Chuck left us alone-he's polite," I say the last two words pointedly. "He thought maybe Jon and I might want to be alone for awhile."

Rhoda smiles. "I know," she says, "that's why Jon came in right after Chuck and why you stayed on the terrace to cry."

Suddenly I get really mad, really upset. "Rhoda, damn you, if you want to know the truth, Chuck was feeling me up, had his hands inside my panties, goosed me, was starting to finger-fuck me! And Jon caught us. And that's the truth! And I don't care if you tell everybody including my grandmother! I'm not a damned bit ashamed of it! Now get out of here!"

Rhoda's response startled me. She quits smiling. She sags a little.

"Honey," she says quietly. "I know what went on. I came out to talk to you, and saw what was happening. But it's not for anyone else to know. I thought you were in trouble and I thought maybe it would help if you could talk about it. I didn't want to get too serious with you-I figured you had enough to be serious about. So I thought maybe a few jokes might help relieve some of your tensions."

I can't take it. I'd expected her to get up in a happy huff and run off and tell the girls. Her sincere tone the way she sat in her chair, and the obvious sympathy which showed in her eyes-it is all too much for me. I hide my face in my hands and start bawling.

Her soft hand on my shoulder doesn't comfort me at all. She leaves it there, while I cry and shake my head, and tremble.

"Poor kid," she says, over and over. "Poor, dumb Texan."

Finally I am able to slow down to occassional sniffles. It's as bad as the night before had been. And again I can't find a hankie anywhere near me, except for the one which Rhoda offers.

She has scooted her chair over right next to me, and her arm around my shoulders makes me feel like a very little girl again.

"Ohh, Rhoda," I started to say, and then bust loose again.

"Hush, hon, don't say anything," she murmurs.

We sit like that for about ten minutes.

I finally stop crying, and Rhoda busies herself pouring me a fresh cup of coffee.

"If the waterfalls have stopped," Rhoda says, "I'd like to invite you out tonight. I understand Jon is going to be out of town, and I just thought you might like to go out with me."

"Oh," I reply, "out where?"

"Just a little bar I know. Sort of a ... swinging place."

"Where?"

"Never mind," Rhoda brings me my coffee. "Why don't you just come along and be surprised. I think you might enjoy it," she adds.

She looks at me curiously. I stare back at her for a second, asking myself why shouldn't I go out and have a little single girl fun for once.

I've been out before, but only with the idea that I had a husband and daughter at home-I have never gone out just to go out and enjoy myself.

Have never in my life been alone and single except for those few brief months when I first got to California.

So why shouldn't I go out now? Go out and pretend for a little while to be single again?

I'm free white and well over twenty-one.

A little over twenty-one, anyway.

But a little is as good as a lot, when it comes to enjoying yourself in a bar.

"Okay," I say to Rhoda. "You got yourself a partner for the evening."

Rhoda grins at me. "That's the kid. It'll help you snap out of the blues. It's really a swinging place. I don't go there often, but when I do-well, 'Whoopee,' as they say."

She gets up, moves to the door. "Wear something sexy, kid. And kid...."

"Yeah?"

"Forget for one night that you're a married woman. Right now, you're what they call a Grass Widow." She grins again and is suddenly gone, and I am left with myself again-but in a hell of a good mood.

Nothing like the idea that I'm able to go out and enjoy things to cheer me up.

Thinking about it, it's better than buying a new hat for restoring my faith in my femininity.

I completely forget about Chuck wanting to see me.

I don't even call him.

It's going to be just me and Rhoda tonight-and maybe it will de me some good.

I plan to relax and enjoy it, anyway. Good or bad, I plan to have a ball.

And maybe even ball somebody.

I'm not proud.

* * *

I've got the whole day to waste, now. A whole day to do nothing in. To sit around if I want. Or go for a drive. Or watch television.

Anything.

I call Lettie's mother. I tell her I have to go out tonight, and ask if she can take care of Laura while I'm gone. She says "Yes, of course, dear, enjoy yourself."

Silly woman.

I sit down in the living room, then, to plan my day.

On the coffee table in front of me: two dozen cigarettes, and the whole morning to whistle at. Too young to lie around reading all day, too young to sit in dim rooms with dusty books, better to go outside, in the light, in the air, breathing freely, wild-and alive.

And there is time. The day is glorious in itself, rich in its time, dissipating its hours in sunlight and extravagant wisps of wind which move through the open window, stirring a string of hair on my forehead, curling it slightly in the sweet light.

Outside I hear a dog prowling around the patio of the building, nosing the cement, skinny and hair dirty from a hundred fights in the alleys and streets, and above this sleepy California scene, an airplane drones in the wavering day.

All the world's out there to be seen, really".

Driving quickly to the beach, where no one knows me, where I can sit and stare and play at moods, and think of the wheeling seagulls, the trash that blows along the sand, the crinkles in the dust, the deserted streets of Venice, with most of her old buildings torn down for nothing new there yet, and the beatniks, so long outmoded now, gone, and in their place soon-to-be-oh-so-chic-oh-so-cute stores, and apartments, and god help us the fashionable, phallic, high-rise buildings that are beginning to rise from the dirt.

Tinsel in the mucky day.

A newspaper vendor checking out his newspaper box, dragging out the change and putting it in his little bankers bag to carry off his little profit, all the Sunday papers now gone.

A few straggling souls like myself at the beach from habit or mood or passing fancy or some other unreasonable reason. The cold seeps into the atmosphere, dampening any possible real emotion, any happiness or unhappiness, any emotion, making of thought a grey thing, boring, boring, maddeningly boring.

My city.

And I do not live here anymore, only visiting, and it is bad to visit the city on a day like this, with all the world underground, and birds ignoring the popcorn I toss dejectedly toward them.

It is too early for the bars.

Drab and aimless, the whole damned day.

I sit on a bench by the sea and read a magazine. Nothing to it.

I really want to scream, or sing, or drag myself drunk through the afternoon. Something, anything.

But I only drive home, fix some tea, and then sleep. This evening should be better.

Making tea. Not in the good old Oriental tradition, but in my own apartment-bred, hectic, living method, with a pot of water on a high flame, and the tea bags boiled alive in it, like fat and blackened lobsters.

Tea made as quickly as possible, and then cooled with cold tap water so that it can be drunk more quickly, so that I won't have to blow on each sip as I bring it in the spoon to my mouth.

Then I settle down.

I listen to Chopin while I write a few letters-mostly to people I don't really care about, a few old friends that I write to out of politeness and because-let's admit it-I can't think of any reason to call off the old friendship-but would be relieved if it died all by itself, if the letters, as they sometimes do, just got fewer and fewer until somehow we had quit writing. These are the letters that I write when I have nothing better to do.

We keep in touch, these friends and I.

That's about all we do.

And I don't know why we do that.

After my drive and after my cup of tea, I look around at the place again. It seems very empty. It also seems very dirty.

A sudden domestic urge takes over-I start to straighten the place up.

I don't often get these urges. But today, for some reason, I get one.

Because I cleaned most of it yesterday, there isn't much in the way of straightening up to do. So I finish quickly, and then start in on the kitchen things.

Cooking has always been a hobby of mine. I've never enjoyed having to cook-but there are some dishes I like to make. And I prepare them pretty damned well, if you want to know the truth.

So today I light the oven and put in six potatoes, skins and all. Setting the oven at 350 degrees, I know I can leave the potatoes to bake while I do other things.

The nice thing about baked potatoes-or baked anything-they cook themselves. That's one of the reasons I like them so much.

I'm fixing these so early, because I and Jon and Laura like homemade hashbrowns. What I usually do is bake a few potatoes, then when they are done, I wait for them to cool-and then skin them, cut them up, and put them in a cellophane wrapping, all ready to be fried up with onions whenever we want them-and they can be fixed days in advance.

While the potatoes are baking, I start cutting up the left-over roast, slicing it thin for sandwiches. There's enough for six sandwiches, even if we double up and use two thin slices per sandwich. That makes for a nice mouthful. For Jon's sandwiches, I make the slices a little thicker. These are all wrapped in cellophane.

Time spent-about fifteen minutes.

And the potatoes cook for two hours. So I have almost all that time left to do other things.

That wasn't the idea. I was supposed to be using up time. Wasting it. Making it go faster for the night ahead.

All of my time-saving methods seem sort of silly now, because they save too much time.

I'm still left with a lot of day at the end of my patience.

I don't even have a good book that I want to read-and I sure don't want to go down to Old Town and sit and talk with Mrs. Stein. I mean, I just don't have anything in common with that woman and she always insists on talking to me.

Like that last time.

Yesterday.

Every time I think I've forgotten yesterday, it comes up to slap me in the face.

I try to think of things to do.

I shower and wash my hair. That's always good for an hour, if I stretch it. It's one of my few luxuries. Mostly I like to go out and have it done, but today I do it myself.

I strip down in the bedroom and walk naked into the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror.

Not bad, I think, running one bare hand over my thigh. Not bad at all, Laura Lee.

My breasts are small and firm. My hips are nice and have a good flare to them.

I'm not so bad off, even when compared with LaVerne.

With that happy/depressing thought, I turn on the water in the shower. While I wait for the hot water to come from wherever it comes from, I squat naked on the toilet.

I take a leak.

While waiting for my shower to get warm.

Efficient little bitch that I am. I grin to myself as I listen to my body-water trickle, like a thin echo of the shower.

Efficient, efficient, efficient.

Then I am through, and I don't dab myself dry this time, because I plan to stand in the shower and let it clean me.

And it does.

I feel the prickly water slashing against my body, and I tilt my chin upward to catch the water under it-to let the water sluice down the valley between my breasts. It feels warm and wonderful as it follows the crease. The hot prickles of it on my flesh combined with this running water effect make my nipples point out. There is an extremely erotic feeling in this.

I think to myself, it must be like this when a man reaches his climax between a woman's breasts.

Rinsed off, I move out of the shower spray for a second, then take up the soap and rub it over my body. It's 'Dove,' and feels nice and feminine against my skin.

Jon always gets mad when I leave the 'Dove' in the shower, because he always forgets to check first, and he can't stand the silky-soft feel of it-he likes harder soaps-but I love 'Dove.' I hum this little rhyme to myself over and over: "I love 'Dove, 'Dove' I love, I don't know why, but I love 'Dove'," and then giggle.

I'm beginning to feel good.

It always happens when I shower.

I soap my body thoroughly. I start at my neck and work down so that the soap will run downward over the unwashed spots: efficiency again. I clean my neck and then clean my breasts, lingering here, making sure that every inch of them is scrubbed clean and then massaged with the silken bar of soap. I perk the nipples, and use my fingers to make certain they are very, very clean.

Then under my breasts. Lifting each one, rubbing the soap under it, following the bottom-of-the-bowl, or rather, Jtp-of-the-bowl effect where the breast joins the rest of my body.

I rinse off my upper torso, turning around and around and letting the water wash the soft soap down my body. Then I begin on my stomach, and here I move quickly.

Fast, circular movements over the mound of my belly.

I reach behind me and wash the small of my back. This too, I do vigorously. Then again, letting the warm water sluice over my entire body, rinsing the soap off.

And then the secret spot.

My womanhood.

First I soap it quickly, rubbing the soft, bushy hair roughly, fluffing it up, making certain that it's all gotten some soap on it. Then behind me, to clean the cheeks and crease. I scrub the brown hole as hard as I can.

Then rinse.

Then the fun part.

It's not really masturbation. Just washing it. And I can wash it as fast or slow as I want. And I like it slow.

So I soap the palm of my hand, then begin rubbing the hard mound covered with its bush and silky skin. I use my fingers to sort of comb my hair. I use the same fingers, soaped again, to wash the heavy, pouting lips.

I insert one finger and gently scrub the inside with only warm water, using two fingers to spread it open, to let the water in just past the entrance.

It feels nice.

It feels good. I linger awhile on this. Then I use my thumb and index finger to wash the lips fully. I put my fingers in a pinch position, and run them up and down the lips, thumb on the outside, index finger inside, lip between.

I am squeaky clean by the time I am done.

Then a quick rinse, I wash my legs and feet quickly, and then step out of the shower.

Twenty-five minutes. Plenty of time left to dry off and wash my hair.

Towelling myself is almost as much fun as washing myself. I like the feel of the towel, its rough terry cloth texture feels good against my skin, and I towel myself vigorously, then slowly, fluffing my skin dry.

Then some talcum powder to make me smell sweet all over.

Then my hair.

Still naked, a towel around my neck to catch the water and keep it from running in trickles down my fresh and clean body.

I bend over the sink, standing, my rump poking out behind me. It used to be that Jon enjoyed sneaking up behind me at a moment like this, cupping his hands around my rump, making me giggle and shake my tail for him. Sometimes-

I recall the time he got down on his knees and softly nibbled at the plump cheeks, until I couldn't stand it any longer and I had to stand up and turn around to make him stop. Only he hadn't stopped.

He had gone on with his tonguing and soft nipping of my flesh, and it was only a few minutes later that we were on the bed making love.

Him with his head between my legs, me just lying there moaning and letting him have his way.

I shake my head.

This is no way to forget Jon.

I clean my hair and towel it dry, then get out my hair-dryer and sit at the foot of the bed reading while my hair dries.

And then I am done. My potatoes are done. My hair is done. Time is spent.

I am free.

* * *

In the kitchen, dressed in an old robe. I bend over the cabinet, the potatoes in front of me, a knife in my hand.

I peel them, then slice them into thin slices. I wrap the slices in the cellophane.

I put them all in the freezer, ready now to be thawed out whenever needed.

Just like me. Waiting to be thawed out.

Only I plan to thaw out tonight.

With Rhoda.

I wonder what kind of place she is taking me to.

I don't have long to wait.

It's almost time for Rhoda to come get me.

I go upstairs and dress. A nice mini-skirt, a pretty paisley-print blouse. My leather purse and the leather boots that Jon bought because he liked me in leather sometimes (not for sex, he just jokes about that aspect of it, but because the boots set my legs off so well).

A few fluffs to my hair, which I let hang naturally.

A touch of make-up-just a touch.

Then I go downstairs and sit on the couch and wait for good old Rhoda to come by and take me out-out of this unhappy, depressing world.

It's already working. I'm beginning to feel very young and teenager-ish again. It's a nice feeling. One I'd like to have more often.

* * *

"Have you ever been there?" Rhoda starts down the dark, dimly lit street, her car warm inside, the night outside, away from us, cold.

It might rain again soon.

"No, I don't think so."

"Well, it's a kick just going there! I mean, it's really cool. It's ... it's for single people." Rhoda looks at me. "For a special clientele."

"Special?"

"Well, you'll see. You know."

"One of those swinging single places?"

"You bet, kid," Rhoda says, turning to face me and grinning. "Really swinging."

The drive is fast. Rhoda drives like she talks. Fast, furious, and without regard for anybody else who might want to say something-or go somewhere.

Down several dark streets, until I begin to get confused as to exactly where we might be. Then down a long dark alley-way.

The very buildings seem to be crumbled, and no one, not even the rain which has started by now, could possibly feel safe here, then finally we are out of the car and moving into a dark building.

Rhoda pushes a buzzer at the door, a peep hole is opened, and then we are admitted by a very masculine looking fat woman, who smiles when she sees Rhoda. "Hiya, babe," she says. "Friend of yours?" She jabs a stubby finger in my direction.

"Yeah," Rhoda answers. "Fix her up with a temporary card, will ya, Faith?"

"Faith" writes a few words on a card and hands it to me.

I look down at it. In the space for the name, it says Billie Jo. I look at Faith. "My name isn't Billie Jo," I start to tell her.

She grins. "That's alright, kid, my name ain't really Faith, either. But that's just between us girls."

"Not Faith? What is your name then?"

"Hope," the old girl laughs. Then she almost scowls. "Go on in now and enjoy yourself. And don't ask so many questions."

Rhoda pulls me toward the curtained doorway.

And we are finally in the secret bar. The Holy of Holies, I think, looking around me.

A long, bemirrored bar counter. Fire gleaming in the diamond shadows. Talk and laughter, and songs from the juke box.

Drinks being poured.

Booths hiding out in the shadows like bandits' hiding places.

The firelight comes from an open fire sitting on a triangular brick affair. It's a gas flame, but it looks good, especially after the cold rain outside. Rhoda goes to a booth near the fire and pushes the shoulder of a man sitting there.

It's Chuck.

"Rhoda, old girl, plop the butt down and dry off," he says, almost shouting.

"Look what I done drug in," Rhoda says, laughing as she sits down. "Laura Lee, come on over and join the party. Meet my foul, fair-weather friends."

Chuck seems to be surprised to see me, but he recovers himself.

"I was going to call you a little later," he says as I sit across from him at the edge of the booth, near the fire and with my back to it.

"That's okay," I say, not believing him, and suddenly not caring. "I should have called you."

He grins. "That would have been something. Especially if Greta had answered your call."

"Oh, that's right. I'd forgotten. You are married." I made it sound funny.

Chuck laughed. "Yeah, but you wouldn't know it. Not the way Greta carries on."

"Greta? How about yourself, stud," I laugh back.

He lights my cigarette. "Honestly, now, do you want to go somewhere?"

"I am somewhere," I tell him. "I'm right here, and to be really honest with you, Chuck, I think I'd like to stick around for a little bit and see how all you swinging singles live."

"So be it, whatever the little lady wants. That's my motto. Give 'em what they like." He lights his own cigarette. "But if you decide later to give me the old try, just give me a call."

And then we fall into conversation all around the table.

I don't see too much.

I don't even listen much to the conversation.

I am passing time again. But now there's a lightness to it. I glance around the bar. There are a few young men in whom I might get interested if they gave me a chance.

And there are plenty of single girls around the place. Lots of those.

Girls outnumber the boys here about five to one it looks like to me.

Well, old girl, I tell myself, you'll just have to fight harder.

But maybe not.

After all, it looks like everybody here knows everybody else. A real quiet, friendly neighborhood group.

And I'm the new girl in town.

I already notice that the men are turning to look at me a lot more often than they look at the other girls.

After all, I tell myself, I am the newest girl the place has tonight.

So live it up, kid.

One fellow comes over and asks if I want to dance.

I smile nicely and say thanks and we go to the dance floor.

It's juke box music, and fast. I haven't danced fast in a long time, but I haven't forgotten how.

I let the music slide through my body, let my every muscle respond to the beat.

My hair is flying out, my mini skirt is sliding up above my pantie line, and I don't care. I let myself go loose.

Every fibre of my body is trembling now.

As the music goes into a sustained beat, I stand still, and as the drums take over, I go into a shimmy, and it stops everybody.

If there's one thing I know how to do, it's shimmy.

My arms are held out on each side, my head is thrown back, my legs are slightly parted.

My breasts are thrust forward, my hips straight-lined.

And every inch of my body-every precious, lovely inch of my body, is shaking.

I hear the clapping as the other dancers stop and begin to slap out the rhythm on their hands.

It goes quickly.

My partner is breathless as he takes me back to the booth where I had left Rhoda and Chuck.

I see that they are gone, and that I'm alone with a young couple whom I met, but whose names I've already forgotten. It doesn't matter.

They are heavily occupied with each other.

I plop down in the booth, and my partner asks if he can join me-or do I want to join him?

"Sit down, honey," I tell him, "and rest your weary bones. We'll do this dance bit again soon."

"Not me," he says. "It took a lot out of me." He is breathless.

"What's the matter, honey bunch? Getting old?" He looks like he might be all of twenty-two or three.

"Nope, just smoke and booze and all the young man vices that I indulge in."

"Vices? Sounds very interesting."

"Depends on who I vice with."

"Well, tonight I'm your vice," I tell him, hooking my arm through his.

"Get me a drink."

He calls a waiter over and orders for me. I take a whiskey.

I always take a whiskey.

It makes me feel even better as it slides down my dry throat. When it hits my stomach it hits soft and smooth.

Then it busies itself turning into cheer-turning me into one lump of happiness.

I feel like a Bluebird, and I don't mean a girl scout. I mean the kind that sings and flies.

Which is what I feel like doing.

And not by myself, either.

Rhoda comes over after I've had about my third drink.

I'm feeling giggly, and ready for anything.

My friend introduces himself to Rhoda. I can't quite make out his name, but I don't care what he's called. I've decided to call him Stud.

"I think we ought to go somewhere else," Rhoda says.

"Where," I slur.

"Oh, a little place Chuck and I know. Listen, honey, this may be the last night out you'll have in a long time. So we are going to make it a memorable night out for you."

"This seems like a pretty groovy place to me. All loose," I say, objecting but not too strenuously.

"Come on, honey, there's lots more places we can go."

Rhoda pulls on my arm.

"Come on, Stud, les go," I say, tugging at his arm.

We laugh our way out into the rain.

Chuck is leading and we pile into his car. "I'll get mine later," Rhoda says. "If I don't, you can drive me home, Charlie."

"Sure. Love to drive it in."

Rhoda laughs. "I said drive me home."

"Thas what I meant, baby, drive it home," Chuck grins, punching at the air about hip level with one fist.

"Where we goin'," I finally ask, as we head out of the dark alley.

"A little fag place," Chuck tells me. "See what we can stir up there."

It hardly seems like reality anymore. It's all dream-like and funny. CAPACITY OF THIS BAR 102 Little cliques of men sit silent, or cliattering, around the elbow polished bar, looking up in chorus as a young man enters, or as any man enters, their cue being the brighter light from the street outside the dim lit bar. Alone or in groups they all seem to look alike, as members of a chorus look alike; thought the costumes differ, the steps are the same.

WOMEN: NO SLACKS OR SHORTS AFTER 8:00

There is a conspicuous lack of women in the bar, though now and then a stout or a rough looking girl manages to wander in, and wander out again, as soon as they realize this is (that kind of place).

OFF LIMITS TO ALL MILITARY PERSONNEL

The pants are generally tight, the shirts tapered, the shoes polished. Rings glitter here and there, alwatjs diamond-like. The hair is combed, and the popular haircut is the Razor Cut, the "shaped" hair.

This is (that kind of place. Giggle.)

And at each dimly spotlighted table or booth, the talk.

MARY SUE!!! WHERE OH WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! Honey, I haven't seen you in a month of marines!

So I said to him, I said, look girl, you know I was looking when I spotted you, and I can look when I leave you.

I didn't think he'd really leave. But I got home tonight and he had taken his razor. I guess it's for real this time.

He's been running around with that cute little kid from Long Beach.

So I went to this party, and let me tell you, what didn't go on came off! I mean!!!!

Honey, play S-9.

We know how you are!

There was this sailor, see, cruising on the corner, looking for a ride home, so we drove by a couple of times, and Charlotte....

You know Charlotte? Charles, that kid I was with last week ... well, she leans out the window see, and says, Swabbie, how would you like to go home with a fly boy! I could have just died!

Michael? Oh he's home asleep in front of the T.V. I just thought I'd drop in for a drink. Yeah, we plan to go to New Mexico, if we can get our vacations together.

"Tomorrow may never come," a sad young masculine voice sings from the juke box.

Bring me another draught beer, Jay. I got the jellies!

They picked up George in the men's room at the bus station. Honey, when he called me up and told me. I could have cried! You know how elegant he was. Well, I guess it was only piss elegance at that! I was sure glad I found out before we got married. I'd have just died if I'd had to bail my wife out of jail. Honestly! The lights are dim, the lights are kind, the room is dark, the men all young, the fire burns, and pass me another beer we are here at that kind of (place).

Two young men enter, the lizard eyes flicker to them, and then away. They are regulars. They are "married."

They are taboo and the envy of forty-two fading queens.

They sit at a small, unlit table near the fireplace, and sip at their beers and hold hands. Their lowered voices dissect the crowd one by one, just as, at home and loudly, they will dissect each other until they storm to bed, where, after a small silence, they will touch and rage in a sexual and scribbled embrace.

"Down among the sheltering palms ... Oh Honey wait for me...."

An old man swishes out of the men's room and looks hopefully around for a friend, then moves to sit alone among other festering lilies, judging and being judged by the tiny world around them.

Honey, what I say is, there is nothing new in this world.

They say Rock Hudson is gay! I could go for that guy!

(they say everybody is gay. They could all go.)

Here is a conglomeration of reptiles: turtles and lizards sunning themsleves in the flattering lights, sipping at heavy mugs of beer.

This is a company of grotesques and zanies. And they are all bored. And they are all old. And they are all half-blinded by the drinks and the lights.

Tomorrow may never come.

They suck on their cigarettes and blink and watch the door.

This is (that kind) of place.

Flip you for the juke box? I'd flip you for anything.

Aha ha ha ha.

He sings like a bird. Cheap. The confraternity. Ou sont not one of them looks like they work for a living.

Ou sont la neige

They sit here, one imagines, eternally, tight panted, watchful, young as they think they are. Ou sont la neige danton.

Tomorrow may never come.

Did you ever?!!

A man of about forty leans against a corner watching the young toughs, who earn their living in the bar or in a car or in a posh apartment, playing pool. His head is slightly bowed, always towards his beer mug, though his eyes watch the boys as they strut and bend around the pool table, in a magnificence of soon-to-sag but oh-so-presently-firm muscles.

Believe me if all those endearing young charms.

One young tough enters the men's room: all eyes on deck. Sam, a grizzled and ancient turtle, follows him in. "Christ," he is heard to murmur.

And others think "God" and thank Him. I mean, I will never be that old! Did you hear about Sam at the tea room of the bar down the street? You know the one. Can I drive you home? Need a light, honey?

(I sit here but I am different. I am above. I am beyond. I am not one of the confraternity. I sip my beer. I watch the young men walk in. I think Jon where are you? The door opens and I look.

He is cute. Very butch. Send him a beer beer-tender. Surely, I am different?)

The reptiles sit and sun themselves, blinking in the heavy light, light so heavy it is very dark. It is warm. Slowly and in chorus now.

Tomorrow may never come.

And then I catch myself. Catch myself listening to the conversations going on around me.

Conversation without point, but sometimes with interest.

"Charlie is killing her. Piece by piece, he's driving that woman to drink...." and the con-versants drift off into the bleazy night.

Or

"The damned fool ran right into her the other night, nearly bowled them both over, seeing each other after what had happened. I mean, you know, its been ten years, but I don't think they'll either one ever forget it. I know I won't."

"Let me see your I.D. Card."

"I'm over twenty-one."

"I know you are dear, but I want to see your I.D."

The waiter picking up an order at the little window. The band going on break (one drummer, two guitars, and a lead singer), a stop for the pot, a pause for the cause.

"Martha came over the other night. Looked like Dracula's kid sister."

"And I don't really know what happened to him, but he was a nice kid, and he was fair with me. I mean, left the money right there and all."

So the evening goes, my few hours remaining before my husband and my office takes over my soul. I don't know which is better, the office or the bars. But the office is something, and I plod through it williingly usually, or unwillingly now and then, and though Bars do not a prison make, they pass the time.

Then I notice Rhoda and Chuck again. They have been out of my mind. I was fascinated with these faggots.

But not now.

Rhoda and Chuck are there. But not the guy I came with. The one I plan to reach a come with.

"Where's Super Stud," I ask.

"Men's room." Chuck is smoking a cigar and blowing smoke over at a lonesome looking little fag sitting at the table next to us.

The fag says nothing, but every once in awhile he waves his hand in front of his face to clear the smoke.

I giggle at what Chuck is doing and he grins back at me.

The fag says nothing.

Then I look up and Super Stud is coming back toward us. Just before he gets to our table, one old man makes a pass at him with his stubby, fat, diamond covered hand.

Super Stud slaps the hand away.

Then slugs the old man on the back of the neck. The old man has friends at his table. The friends are a little younger, but not much. They shout something and all stand up. I giggle, it looks so theatrical.

Chuck shoves himself into a standing position, knocking his chair over as he stands. He goes over to Super Stud quickly, to help him out.

The bartender starts around the bar. And the fight is on.

Chuck grabs the old man and pulls him bodily from his seat. I can hear him say something about "filthy faggots, ought to leave a normal man alone," and then hit him three times across the face. The old fag's nose is bleeding now, and he keeps shaking his head, his hand lifted up feebly to protect himself. The gesture is so futile, I laugh and Rhoda joins me.

When the bartender gets to the scene with his little billy club, Rhoda and I stand and go over to our men.

We pull them away from the old fag and Rhoda tells the bartender we'll take it from here.

We are laughing as we try to convince Chuck and Super Stud to come with us.

Rhoda finally hits on the one thing to make them come along and behave.

"Honey," she says to them both, "You men can stay here with the perverts if you want, but Laura Lee and I are going to go home. If you want a woman, you ought to give us a try."

Chuck wipes his nose and grins, then he and Super Stud come along behind us, meekly in tow.

We are in the car.

"Sure showed them pricks a thing or two," Chuck says. "They won't bother a normal guy any more, I'll bet."

"I'll bet they'll learn not to put their filthy hands on the first man to walk by."

"Bunch of pricks," Chuck says, nodding. "Just a bunch of pricks."

"Speaking of which," Rhoda says, "That's something we might look into." She pats Chuck on his knee, and I lean over to Super Stud.

"Kiss, baby," I say, slurring the word kiss.

He gives me one.

It doesn't take us long to go to Super Stud's place. He's a bachelor, the only really single person in the group.

* * *

Super Stud and I are sitting alone in the living room of his apartment.

He has his arms around me and my blouse down.

His breath is hot against my breasts. I have my head thrown back, exposing all of me to him, ready for his taking. He's ready too.

One hand moves down to my crotch. He lets it rest and rub there. And then he stands. He drops his pants.

In the bedroom, I can hear Chuck and Rhoda at it. The bed is squeaking and I can hear Chuck grunting and Rhoda saying things.

Can't make out the words, but I don't have to.

I know the words by heart.

Super Stud drops his pants, then takes off his shorts and shirt.

I take off my miniskirt. My panties are already on the floor.

Where I go.

I lay on his carpet, and he mounts me. I feel it sliding in. I groan a little. It seems like a long time. He finishes quickly, leaving my body high. He stands.

He puts his foot against my crotch, He holds it there for awhile.

"More," I say breathlessly. "Do me some more, honey. Give me some more."

He shakes his head.

"Finger it," he says. "I'll get hard again in a minute. But I want you to finger yourself. It helps me."

God knows I want to help him. More than that, I want to help myself.

My fingers move down to my crotch. My free hand rubs my breasts. I can feel his toes on my hole. I slide my fingers past the foot, into the hole.

It feels wet, and I wonder briefly if what I feel is his scum or if it's just my own fluid.

Then I don't care anymore, as I lie writhing on the floor, my fingers moving swiftly, my body humping against his foot.

I have my eyes closed, and I cannot see what effect my fingering is having on him.

But I find out.

He takes his foot away and mounts me again.

This time it goes more slowly than it did the first time. He brings me to the verge of orgasm, then quits again.

I am panting and almost crying in my frustration.

He sits with his back against the couch. He has his legs spread.

He tells me to suck him off.

"It'll get hard again that way, bitch," he tells me.

I don't care what he calls me as long as he helps me.

I start sucking.

He shoves it roughly into my throat, and I am gasping for breath and masturbating.

I am moving faster and faster, then I feel him getting hard again in my mouth. Not all the way hard, but semi-hard. This turns me on.

I lick him all over his crotch, his hairs, his sac, his shaft.

The hard, pink knob.

He pushes on my body indicating I should turn around. I do. He pulls my crotch closer to his face.

We are sixty-nining.

He stops for a minute and reaches up to the end table, to pull a drawer out of it. He fumbles inside the drawer for a little while, and then he hands me something.

I stop.

"What...??"

"Amyl Nitrate," he tells me. "Sniff it."

It has a peculiar odor. "Here let me show you," he says impatiently." He holds one side of my nose closed, and shoves the inhalant-tube against my other nostril. "Now breathe in deeply," he says.

I do, and a hot flash spreads throughout my body. I feel light. I feel loose. I feel wild.

Then I am warm, and the frustration is gone, and I feel glorious, great, free. We sixty-nine more now.

He is doing me harder, and I need it harder, rougher. My body seems to be floating. My heart is pounding. My blood is racing through my body.

Again and again he administers the Amyl Nitrate to me.

It takes forever to reach an orgasm, but when I do, it's terrific. It feels like the best I've ever had.

* * *

"I've never taken drugs before," I tell him later, as we are smoking and sitting cross legged on the floor.

"It's not really a drug," he tells me. "It's for heart patients. A stimulant. It just speeds up the heart. Not habit forming or anything. But you can't just buy it anymore. Have to get it prescribed. I got a friend gets me all I want at five bucks a box."

"Gee, isn't that awfully expensive?"

"Hell no. A whole box will last me almost two weeks. Or as long as I need it."

I shake my head. "It's wild," I tell him. It really is.

He laughs and pulls me to him for more sex.

* * *

I wake up the next morning. Rhoda is lying beside me, one arm thrust over my breast. As I stir, she wakes up.

"Hi," she says.

We are at my place.

I can't recall how we got here, but I guess it's alright.

I must have had more to drink than I thought.

Then I look down. At the foot of the bed is Super Stud. He lies crosswise, parallel with the head-and foot-boards.

He is on his back.

He has an erection.

Rhoda's gaze follows mine.

She smiles. "You really ought to help the guy," she tells me.

I smile and getting on all fours crawl down to the foot of the bed. I open my mouth and run my lips along the edge of his erection.

"His name's Bill," Rhoda says.

I don't answer. My mouth is full.

CHAPTER FOUR ON THE FARM

Somehow I make it through the day at the office. Really, this work thing is just no good for me. I find myself hating that office more and more, enduring it instead of enjoying it. But if I am ever to be independent, I have to keep at it-and the way things look now between Jon and myself, I'm going to need this job all the more in the days to come.

After last night, I have just about decided to make the final break, to leave Jon for good. Get a little apartment for little Laura and myself, and just set up housekeeping as a bachelor girl.

I've done it before.

I can do it again.

It just seems like such a drastic step to be taking.

Well, I know I'll be seeing Jon tonight, so I decide to forget the trouble, make it through the day at work, and then enjoy the drive up to the farm.

And somehow the day goes by. I still have the hangover taste of liquor in my mouth, slightly fuzzy and sour now, and the hangover taste of that stranger who shared my bed with Rhoda and me last night. That also tastes a little sour. I was in such a hurry this morning that after having sex with Super Stud, I dressed and came to work without brushing my teeth. Around noon sometime I finally get rid of most of the taste-not all of it, but enough, so that my coffee doesn't taste too bad at lunchtime.

The afternoon goes by fairly quickly, because I am over the effects of the hangover and able to concentrate more on my work.

Nobody seems to notice anything different about me today.

That's just as well.

Then it's evening, and I fix dinner for Laura and myself, then drive Laura over to her friend's house where she will spend the night again. Thank god for the suburban customs of trading kids when the need arises!

* * *

The drive to the farm is nice. Going northward from the City.

The highway has some landmarks which I use as measurements of distance. Like when I make that right hand turn at the edge of the city to enter the main highway north.

To me that's step one and sort of the launching pad.

From that highway, the countryside might almost be anywhere in the United States. I mean, it all looks so country-ish. There are a few farms alongside the road, a few late-starting developments.

The farms begin to look out of place because of the housing tracts dotted here and there between the open fields.

It's as though the housing tracts are part of some cancerous growth, little dots spread from the big smear of the city, and just waiting for the city to catch up with them and obliterate the last-hold-out farms. It's sad, somehow, and because it's inevitable, it seems bleak.

One of those things that a few years ago might have worried me, but which now don't do more than evoke a sigh of partial regret.

Regret because there lurks in the back of my mind that people ought to be able to do something about this growth, stop it, preserve the countryside or something-but only partial regret because I know damned well that there isn't a thing can be done about it.

It'll go on, and there's bigger things to worry about.

Anyway, after making that right hand turn to get on the highway, there are some thirty miles of road before I reach what I call the halfway point-a small cafe and bar that squats like a memorial on the side of the road. The sign says "Mabel's Cafe and Bar" and at night, it comes on in a bright red-but doesn't blink-sort of a hold-out against neon lights.

Citified by being lit, but still country because it doesn't blink.

And thirty more miles of farmland. This time, there are no housing tracts, just the open farmland and orchards.

And then the lane.

They have started paving the lane, and that makes me sad too.

They've talked about it for years, and now they are doing it, they are putting a highway through that small stretch of country road, and they are calling it progress which it undoubtedly is: it has certainly meant financial gain for a lot of landowners along the route. Personally, for me, it is a case of sic semper tempus.

Not that it is a real heartbreak, or even a small one, it is just a fugitive sadness, like seeing your daughter married, and in that sense, I am not losing a road, I am gaining a highway.

No longer will that stretch of country road get graveled each election year, no longer will the yearly rains wash it out, stranding the farmers for a day or days at a time, no longer will I be able to stand at my in-law's farm and look at the distant highway merging with the sky and railroad tracks: the highway will be at the door.

But that little country road is personal. Tree lined, winding, rolling around in the hills and along the farms and groves of old California, it was personal.

There is a tree offside the road, a stark, white, towering tree, hit by lightning years before I saw it, refusing to fall, leaning on its neighbors, and this was my tree, it gave me pleasure.

There's a wooden and dirt bridge over a small creek, and beside it a sign that says "No Dumping," which stands and looks worried as it guards a pile of refuse that's renewed and enlarged every weekend, because nobody obeys that sign, and besides it's nice to flaunt authority, even in that small way.

Jon's uncle had a farm just to the right of this road, and we used to go there occasionally, making a sharp, right angle turn. At a slow pace, that was a safe turn, but it was fun at thirty miles an hour, and a thrill at forty per. The barbed wire fence and the ditch that lined the necessary angle added an element of danger and surprise to it that it is unequalled in the county (except for roads belonging to other people), and to try and get a hay rick around the corner as Jon and his Dad used to have to do each year, brought pride to the navigating farmer who managed it successfully.

And there's that basin, that point in the road where the causeway has settled by natural forces into a dip, and when it rains you have to wade your car through it, and you curse the rain and the county and the governor and wonder what in hell you pay taxes for, and hope that it dries up some before you come back, and if you pass through it when it's dry, you curse it for the damage the rock-hard ridges are undoubtedly doing to your tires.

In good weather, you speed up a bit as you come to the dip, and you get a wonderful sinking feeling in your stomach, and a lot of laughter, and when you're young that counts for a lot, especially when you're driving through it, over it, with a date. It's something to share.

It seems so summery in tone, so Eastern and New Englandish, that it delights the eye and heart-and the ear.

In all seasons, among the line of pencil-staff tree trunks, the tangle of brush, you can usually spot a redbird flash and maybe hear it sing, or hear it rustling in the trees, and if not the sound of a bird, or crickets or rodents or rabbits, there is always the stirring of the marvelous wind, making the trees themselves talk. And in the fall and winter, it brings to the jaded California countryside, the old New England look-the color, the scurrying, the peaceful dying of the leaves, and a sharp sense of frost that sends the rabbits running.

And at night, in that dark stillness, the road gives solitude, grants privacy to lovers and lonelies.

The trees are dark then, and you can't really distinguish one from another, unless you are looking carefully, or as the car lights pick them out one by one and they stand stark, dark and solid, as comforting as they arc lonely.

It is a bouncing, rutted, haunted and happy road, and just before you reach the family farm, you rise with a hill, dip down into a small, obscuring grove, and spring out-if you're brave-into that last stretch, that last half mile of road before you get to the farm. The road itself extends about a mile further on, but for me it starts and stops at the farmhouse.

Having survived the hill, the grove that obscures the criss cross road, I am in the final stretch, and on my right is a field that climbs upward.

In the spring, there is the green bursting of voung wheat, and in the late summer the golden crest of maturing stalks. Now in this cold season, there is the stubble, the grey, ungrowing scratchiness of life-that-was, and these scenes speed by in a flicker as I reach the smaller plot, the place where Jon rode Old Coalie, where sometimes hogs were kept, and sometimes cows are watered; a small, useless but much utilized, pasturage of sorts, and then it's gone.

Gone in a flash and there is the drive, and I pull in to the farmhouse surrounded by the most wonderful, intelligent trees in the State. I pull in and there is the garage, the chicken houses, the outbuildings.

And in the distance is the sound of a train wailing as it passes by.

I sit for awhile in the car.

I know the new highway is progressive. I have no quarrel with that, with the philosophy of progress.

There'll be no more waiting behind bumbling farm equipment, the trucks and combines tractors and trailers. I can simply pull around them in another paved, swift lane. I know the new highway will help these rural people.

I'm just going to miss the old road.

It was personal.

* * *

Jon is standing at the door of the farmhouse. His father is in the yard, working on an old car. Jon's parents always seem to have at least one old car to be worked on. I don't think they've owned a new car since the 1949 Chrysler, which now sits abandoned by the new granary.

Jon's parents are poor. As poor as my own.

Maybe poorer.

To hear Jon talk they have never had anything, and whether it's their own fault or not, I can't tell, can't judge.

Gay, his mother, looks a lot like Jon. A feminine version of his own soft face. His father, John Sr. (that's why Jon spells his name the way he does-they used to have accounts at the same bank, and it saves confusion if the names are spelled differently), is a short man by Jon's height. He has a sort of defeated stoop to him, his shoulders turning inward a little bit, his hair thin, his eyes a grey-green. He's a nice guy, has done a little bit of everything, except earn a good living.

Jon tells me that in 1948 through about 1952, John Sr. earned a thousand dollars a month. "Then he blew it. Bought a filling station in a podunk town, and nearly went bankrupt." Jon had laughed. "I don't guess I was much help to the old boy. I was just a kid then, and kept sneaking candy bars whenever I could, and one time my little sis and I played around with the hydraulic lift and managed to break it. Scared the shit out of us and cost Dad a fortune to fix."

Except for that filling station, John Sr. never owned a business of his own.

It sounded fun when Jon told me about his life as a boy.

Like when he lived with his Dad in the desert for a time, camping out, sleeping in sleeping bags on the sand. John Sr. was a prospector then, hoping to strike a uranium mine. It had been just after Charlie Stein made his big discovery in the Moab, Utah basin, and John Sr. went prospecting further south, around a place called Blanding, Utah.

They'd hiked around the hills and mesas not far from Monument Valley, camped by the San Juan River in the canyon formed by the water, had made a base camp at a large cropping of land called Naqui Dome.

They'd pretty well driven and hiked over all that territory, and for Jon it had been one of the high points of his life at home.

He hadn't stayed home long.

He'd left home at fifteen. "Left the town, that is. When I was about twelve, I'd gone to work in my family's laundry. Slept in the back room."

Then fully away from home at fifteen.

That had been one of the things I loved about Jon. How he had ever managed to escape that poverty stricken life, go travelling over most of the world, lived always as he wanted to live and never without some (enough) money was beyond me, but I admired him for it, and every time I visited his family, I was amazed at Jon's success.

But that sort of thing may lead to love and sometimes to understanding.

It doesn't lead to forgiveness.

Nor can it extend love beyond its permanent and proper boundaries.

I mean, love has to have something more than understanding and sympathy to go on. It has to have, oh I don't know, mutual respect. I guess it comes down to that almost cryptic statement of Oscar Wilde's. "The feelings of natural affection, like all other feelings, require to be fed...."

And my love for Jon had been left to starve.

But now, in the evening, as I drive up to the farmhouse and see Jon standing in the doorway, there comes over me a wave of the old love for him: almost nostalgic, because I haven't really felt this deep affection for him in some time.

He is standing in the doorway and as I get out of the car he comes forward and behind him comes Gay, his mother. She is smiling and waves at me, then looks down at her feet as she steps off the porch.

She's such a small woman, and easily likeable, except when she gets on her high horse. "Starts to ricochet," Jon calls it.

I guess it's easy for her to get angry. The kind of life she has led, has had to lead, isn't exactly conducive to a calm manner.

It would be enough to frustrate a saint.

And it would certainly take a saint not to get completely fed up with it.

I'd have left John Sr. years ago if I had been Gay.

But she didn't.

Stuck with him, and what's more, moved with him everywhere he worked. When he was a geologist, a water boy for an oil well, a prospector, a sheepherder, a farmer: through all of that, Gay had stuck by him, dragging their seven kids with them everywhere they went.

They hadn't had anything else, but they'd had the family.

Something most people don't get these days.

I wave back and hug Gay, who is talking a mile a minute. "Come on in, Laura," she says, "come on in. I just put the chicken on to fry, and there's the coffee ready."

"Always the coffee," I grin and she smiles back, laughs a little, tripping laugh. "Yes, lord yes, there's always coffee. Come on in. Getting pretty snappy out. Looks like a cold night ahead."

We go in to that small farmhouse. It's only got two rooms: one for living, cooking, eating, and one for sleeping. The bathroom is an old outhouse out by the large chicken coop.

Jon dug the hole for it when it was moved.

There's a lot of things around here that remind me of Jon and his unusual childhood.

And a lot of things that remind mJe of my own West Texas upbringing.

There's even a lot of sand. The farm is north and east of Los Angeles, which puts it in the desert's edge.

LA. is all pretty much desert country-just well irrigated, so the desert doesn't show.

We sit down on the lumpy but still comfortable couch and Gay pours coffee for me.

I ask if she needs any help, but "No," she replies, "there's not much to do right now. Just finish frying the chicken. In a few minutes you can help mash the potatoes, though."

I grin.

That's about all Gay ever lets me do.

Not that she's a fussy cook-she's just a fussy hostess with a few pre-conceived notions of how to treat her guests. Since I'm "family" she lets me help her-some. If I were just a friend, I wouldn't be allowed to help at all, unless I virtually forced my help on her.

That comes from her own Oklahoma upbringing.

The only time friends helped with the dinner or any part of cooking or housekeeping was during the harvest or planting season, when friends and neighbors would come by to do just that-help.

Otherwise, she does all the work.

Gay talks to me over the edge of the little counter that divides the cooking area from the rest of the room. "Jon tells me that you guys aren't enjoying the city so much," she says, as though she were asking a question. I know it's an invitation to talk "about our problems." I don't want to talk with Gay about them, though.

"Oh, it's not so bad. Of course, I still get homesick for Texas now and then, but I manage to get busy and forget all that. I mean, I'm a big girl now, and have my husband and daughter to think about.

"It doesn't bother me so much."

"I know how you feel," Gay sympathizes. "No matter how long I've lived away, I still get homesick now and then for the old family, for the old farm." She laughs. "I don't know why I ought to get homesick for the old farm-I've always hated farming. Even when I was a little girl. Funny, how I always seem to wind up living and working on one. I thought I was through with it when I married John Senior. How was I to know that thirty years after I married him he'd inherit his father's farm, and go back to his boyhood occupation!?"

I laugh with her. I get along well with Gay, though she is a little possessive about Jon at times.

"Oh, I work around it," I tell her, "like I guess you do. And I haven't been particularly homesick in the last few months. Especially not now with Laura's birthday coming up."

"That's right," Gay exclaims. "She's going to be-how old? Ten! My gracious, but it seems like just yesterday that she was visiting us and only three years old."

"Yeah. Well, time goes by pretty quickly. Kids seem to grow up so fast. It's hard for me to think of Laura being more than a baby."

"It's a shame she doesn't have any brothers or sisters," Gay says, shaking her head. This is an old "argument" between us. Gay was from a large family, and she herself bore seven children.

She tells me I'm part of this "new generation" that she doesn't understand. Family planning is not her idea of marriage. "It smacks of business too much," she always says.

I ignore her statement tonight.

I'm not in the mood for even a friendly argument.

"I hope you don't mind," I say to her as I light a cigarette, "But I did have something to eat just before I drove up. Not much, but it hasn't left me with much of an appetite. I'll probably just snack."

Gay purses her lips as she turns the chicken. "That's okay," she says, "I know, you just don't like my cooking."

"Now Gay," I apologize ritualistically, "you know I like your cooking. I just wasn't sure if I'd get here in time for dinner or not, so I had a bite to eat before I left."

"The potatoes are ready for mashing," she states, changing the subject cheerfully enough. I get up and put my cigarette out.

Unlike Gay, I can't smoke while I cook. She, however, manages to keep both cigarette and ashes out of the food and can smoke up a storm while cooking.

Which she's doing now.

I notice her smoking "roll your owns." Bugler is her brand. That means things aren't going so well financially.

I make a mental note to send her a package of Chesterfields when Jon and I get back to Los Angeles. She always smokes the non-filtered brands.

Just like she drinks her coffee black without sugar.

Honest about her vices.

She turns her head and coughs at the floor.

Three good hacks and then back to turning the chicken.

I take the pot of boiled potatoes and move to the side of the divider, where the potato masher hangs on a nail.

Gay moves the milk and butter to me, using the back of her hand to push them across the counter. The other hand holds the fork with which she is attending the frying meat.

I give all my attention to mashing the potatoes. It takes a lot of wrist action, butter, milk and beating to get them as soft and fluffy as Gay likes them.

Since she's had arthritis, she has had to let others do the mashing for her.

We are quiet, and it's nice working like this, just two women in a kitchen doing womanly things. It has always made me feel married even in the days when Jon and I were "living in sin" to be doing the cooking.

Finally, the potatoes are as creamy as Gay likes them and I dish them into the large crockery bowl that Gay uses. It belonged to Jon's grandmother and her mother before her. They are big on family things in this household.

Maybe because they haven't had much else.

Gay dishes up the chicken and other vegetables. "You can call the menfolks now, Laura," she tells me, and I step out on the front stoop to call them.

The screen door I hold open with one hand. I cup my other hand around the corner of my mouth and yell at the men to "Come on in, dinner's ready."

John Senior looks up from the car where he is working, grins and waves. Jon is leaning over the far fender and he looks up, too.

They make a fine pair.

Jon's father, old at fifty, Jon looking like a teenager at almost thirty. Yet both with the same fine hair, high forehead, straight noses.

Jon has his mother's mouth and cheek bones, her eyes, but the forehead, nose and hair keeps him from being overly effeminate.

It's his father in him.

He also has his father's spend-thrift habits and drinking vice and sour disposition when an argument goes against him. They can both clam up and not talk for hours when things are going wrong for them.

And never admit that they're wrong. Ever.

It's irritating, and one more of those things I have to put up with-more so now than ever before.

But Gay has never accused John Senior of infidelity. God knows she's accused him of every other vice.

So Jon gets that from his own perverse nature.

It's his own doing.

But right now, watching him quietly talking to his father as they wash their hands in gasoline, then soap and water from the brackish well, seeing him like a little boy, I forgive him.

Forgive him for the moment.

It's a moment to moment thing, this game of marriage.

For us.

We just manage to get through the nights together. Hardly talking. Just living with each other, mostly.

* * *

We go for a walk. Out behind the house and along the cowpath that leads to the large North Pond. It's a good path, another lane, but with no trees lining it, only barbed wire fences to outline its boundaries, and it's short, about half a mile in length.

The stars are out, and here on the desert's edge, way from the glare of the city, we can see all the stars.

Jon is smoking, but I'm not, just holding his arm and walking along beside him.

I feel very emotional.

I want to bring up La Verne, but I hate to spoil this good feeling, this moment of clarity and good will existing between us.

We reach the pond, and sit on the dam bank, where two old trees gnarl their way against the skyline.

In the far distance, the glow of the city, but here, close at hand, only the moonlight and starlight.

Jon plunks a few small clods of dirt into the pond.

He is still smoking his cigarette, but presently he finishes it, and it follows the clods, sparking its way through the night into the dark water.

"Jon," I say quietly.

"Uhm."

"I know about La Verne." I let it rush out.

I don't want to say it so I say it quickly, get it over with rapidly.

Jon's quiet for a second or two.

He is sitting with his knees drawn up and he stares for a second at them.

"LaVerne?"

"Don't lie to me Jon. I know about your mistress. And I really don't care. I only want to know ... why? Am I that bad?"

"I don't know...."

"Jon. Don't lie. Please. Let's just talk. Honestly. Be honest with each other again, like we used to be. Rhoda ... Dorothy ... everybody knows about you and LaVerne. They've told me. All I want to know is ... why?"

"And you believe them without even asking me about it?"

"There's too much evidence ... not just rumor."

Jon lights another cigarette and looks at me. "I never loved her," he says simply.

"That's not the answer. Why have you had to go to another woman?"

"You make it sound so easy. Like 'Why did you go to the store,' or 'why did you drink milk?' Well, it isn't easy. I don't know the answer. She was there, she was fun. But nothing really happened between us. Nothing like what you think."

"But why did you go in the first place?"

"Damn it, Laura Lee, I don't know the answer to that!" He throws a small stick into the water. "If I knew the answer, I'd ... "

"Have there been others?"

He groans slightly. 'You're determined to have a scene, aren't you?"

"No. I just want us to be honest with each other, not to lie to each other."

"Oh, I can tell," he says, looking at me. "I can tell by the way you've got your jaw set, by the way you're holding your voice in control. You're all upset. You want me to give you a reason to hate me."

"Jon! Don't change the subject!"

"No. No. Don't change the subject, A fine night. A good walk. My last chance to relax before I go back to work. And this is the time you decide to have a 'confrontation.' That damned Rhoda! I can tell this is her doing. She isn't content to mess up her own life, she has to go sticking her nose into everybody else's life."

"Rhoda had nothing to do with it! She just said...."

"I know, I know. She just dropped a hint or two. She just let you know a fact or two. She just stuck her nose an inch or two through the door. The bitch."

"I don't care what you think about her. I want to know what you think about me. Aren't I good enough for you? Woman enough for you? You have to go out and get some on the side? You have to have some whore do things for you I won't do?"

"LaVerne isn't a whore."

"Not a whore? No. She just sleeps with anything that has pants and is married. And from what I hear, she isn't too concerned about which side of the fence she's sleeping on."

Jon throws another stick into the water. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I hear she's played the lesbian game a time or two."

Jon stares at me open-mouthed. "Who the hell have you been talking to?"

"Rhoda said...."

"Shit. I knew her big fat ass would be in there somewhere spreading her crap around. La Verne's no more a lesbian than you are."

"Well why do you go to her?"

"I don't any more."

"Well, why did you?"

"Do we have to discuss this tonight?"

Suddenly I feel an urgency.

Jon is holding something back. I want it all out. I want it all over.

"Yes! Yes, we have to discuss this tonight!"

"Alright, alright, ALRIGHT," he shouts.

"You don't have to yell. Let's talk like two human beings. Like grown-ups."

"Grown-ups," he snorts, but he lowers his voice. "Okay, I'll tell you all about LaVerne, if it'll make you happy."

"It won't make me happy," I say.

"Then why do you want to hear it."

I'm suddenly afraid of what he's going to tell me.

Suddenly I don't want to hear it.

"Jon, don't ... don't tell me if you don't want to." I take his arm. He brushes me off.

"No, you're so damned sure that something wrong is going on, it's best you know all about it. You and your damned Ann Landers philosophy. Well, I'll tell you about it. All about it." Jon....

"No, you were so damned anxious to hear about it, I'll tell you about it."

"I don't...."

"Yes you do. You want to know about La-Verne. Okay. I met her by accident. While I was waiting for you ... I've forgotten where you were. At work, I guess. Anyway, I was standing at the bus stop, waiting for you. And she drove by in her car. She saw me. She asked if I needed a ride. I decided what the hell, why not. So I got in. We rode for awhile. Not long, but long enough, and I found myself at her place for a drink. A drink and a fast lay. And it was fun. That's all there was to it, at first. A quick drink, a fast lay, and then I was back at the bus stop and you showed up.

"But I'd taken down her phone number. And a couple of weeks later while you were on one of your famous trips out of town to see your precious friends, I gave La Verne a call and asked her over. I was surprised when she showed up. But not too. And we had another fast lay. She was good. Great, as a matter-of-fact.

And more important she was fun. She was young, and different, and fun. And it seemed at the time that our marriage was going nowhere.

"Then I didn't see her for a year or so. Until I wondered one day what she was doing. So I called her up. She remembered me." Jon laughed bitterly at that. "I'd wondered if she would, and she had. So we got together again. Then it became sort of regular. Once a week, while you were working. Usually Saturdays. I'd go over and we'd talk for awhile, and then have a drink and fall into bed. For LaVerne that wasn't too much of a job. She'd only have a robe on when I'd get there.

"It was great for awhile. But I thought ... I could tell ... hell, I had a feeling that she wanted something more. I had what I wanted, but I thought she wanted more. So I began trying to tell her there couldn't be anything more. But there would be times ... times when she'd be quiet after I'd say something, times when our conversation would stop in the middle and our words would hang there, waiting for one of us to say something more.

"So maybe I lied ... if I did lie, it was more to myself than to LaVerne. I loved her. Quietly. It tore me up sometimes, the love I had for that girl. It was like I felt for you when we first met," Jon says, looking directly at me, then away again, quickly, as though he doesn't want to see me. "So I don't know. We had this thing going for us, LaVeme and I. It was nice. It was fun to go over there. And I'd tease her about being my mistress. And she'd tease me. And I'd tell her I had plenty of mistresses on the side. And we'd exchange cards, and funny things. And we began having lunch together. That was part my doing. Trying to give something more to her than a fast fuck. Maybe I was trying to get something for myself out of it, I don't know.

"But one thing I knew all along. It wouldn't work. If La Verne and I tried to make anything more of our affair, it wouldn't work.

"It was the kind of relationship that depends on long separation to continue. It was based on some laughs and some good times, and like all good times I guess we both wanted to have it last. Only it couldn't. If it lasted ... Bang ... like a bubble. Fun and brilliant for a little while, but not to be touched. Not to be made much of.

"So La Verne went on vacation, and when she came back, it wasn't the same between us. It was sort of strained, and then I made the big mistake of letting La Verne see me drunk. And I talked too much.

"And that was it. The bubble broke. The thing we had was gone, and it wasn't just for fun anymore, it was too serious, and LaVerne told me at lunch that she had met someone else, that she didn't want to hurt my feelings or anything, but maybe we ought to call it quits.

"And I was understanding, and she was kind, and there wasn't anything else to be said, except goodbye and good luck to each other.

"Which was a relief to both of us. So it s over.

"Are you glad?" I look at him.

He doesn't look at me as he replies. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm glad. It's a relief."

"Being glad and feeling relief aren't the same thing. Are you really glad it's over?"

"I told you, damn it. Yes, I'm glad it's over."

I don't believe him. He doesn't sound convinced. More important, he doesn't look glad.

But it is enough for me that he would say so.

"I love you Jon," I say, leaning my head on his shoulder.

"Sure, Babe," he replies, tossing his cigarette butt into the pond. "Sure, Babe."

He puts his arm around me then. Squeezing me up close to him, he turns my face to meet his, and he kisses me long and deeply, and I don't care any more that he's been unfaithful to me.

I want him. I just want him, no strings attached.

And for tonight I've got him.

That's the important thing.

The only thing important.

We lie down now on the tall grass that caps the dam bank. He is at my side but slightly on top of me, kissing me firmly, strongly, the way I like it.

His hand sneaks under my blouse, pulling it out of the jeans I'd slipped into for our walk. His rough palm touches my stomach, and it's cold on my flesh, and I shiver. His hand moves upward to cup my breast and squeeze it, to pinch the nipple.

And then it slides back downward, to slide under my jeans, under the elastic of my panties, and I am shivering now not from the cold but from the heat of his touch, from the flashing fire that begins to spread through my body. His fingers curl my hairs around themselves, tugging gently but firmly, as one lone finger finds its way snugly inside me, parting the lips.

"Jon," I murmur between our lips, and his answer is to insert his tongue in a long french kiss while his finger starts sliding in and out between my legs, which I spread to give him better access.

He takes advantage of this moment.

He removes his hand from under my jeans, and begins to unbutton them.

He pushes my blouse up and over my breasts, and kisses the nipples as his hands fumble quickly at the jeans' buttons between my legs, the buttons which will expose me to his lust.

He kisses my belly as he slides the jeans down, and I hunch upward so he can slip the levi's over my hips.

He removes my panties with them, and his mouth finds my lower lips, his moist tongue licks around their edges, then dips into the now wet cavity, to tickle the quivering clitoris, and my jeans are down around my ankles, and I kick them off, jeans and panties and my inhibitions.

So that they all lie at my feet, and I become his thing, his woman, his love, lying on the grass, giving in to his touch, to his kiss.

He holds my buttocks' cheeks in his hands, rolling the flesh as he kisses me down there, and I take my hands and put them in his hair, tangling my fingers in his dark curls, and he kisses me more deeply, as I moan.

Then I feel his tongue moving upward in slow circles, touching me everywhere on my body.

I release his hair.

He kisses my breasts, and his weight pushes me against the ground, against the grass.

He unzips, pulls himself out.

And we are making love, now, his body covering mine, each thrust crushing me against the grass, pushing my body against the hard earth, and I feel primitive and lustful, and young again, as he pounds himself into me.

I am aware of nothing as he takes me, except for the urgency of our bodies which flows through my veins like a real thing, like a separate being, hungry and insatiable in its demands.

I twist and buck under him, grabbing his belt, then releasing it and scratching, clawing at his back, trying to tear him apart, trying to devour him, trying to merge with him, to get inside him, just as he is inside me.

It's painful this love making, and old and ancient and primitive and savage, and we both climax, me first and then him, and he rolls off when he is done, and pushes himself back into his pants, and I start crying softly.

I don't want him to leave my body. I want him to rest inside me.

I want to hold on to him, to that part of him, and I turn and throw myself on his hard, firm body, my head on his chest as I cry out my frustration and need and love for this man.

"You wanna smoke," he asks me tenderly. I shake my head.

He reaches up to push some of my hair out of his face.

He gets himself a cigarette and lies there smoking it, looking up at the stars even as I look down at the grass and ground beneath us.

"You were hungry for that, weren't you," he tells me. I nod my head. "I never thought you were the fucking type. It ... you never struck me as the animal woman before."

This surprises me. "We ... we had sex from the first," I tell him. "You know I like it. I'm only human. I need my share of sex. Just like you do."

"Yeah, I could tell that from the way you and Chuck were going at it the other night." It's a cruel thing for him to say. I say nothing, but gulp.

We are there for just a little longer before Jon stands. "Get dressed," he tells me. "Let's go back to the house."

I'm snuffling as I pull on my pants.

We're half way back to the house before I remember that my panties are still out there on the dam where we made love.

* * *

I have a long time to think. We decide not to drive back tonight, and I call and arrange things for Laura, and we are ready then to spend the night and drive back the next morning. Gay is just as glad, and she makes up the couch into a bed for us, and we sit around in those last few hours before sleep is to overtake us, talking and drinking coffee, and though Gay notices that I am not "all with them" she says nothing about my distraction, even when John Senior falls asleep and Jon goes out to the outhouse to take a leak.

"Get rid of that poison you call coffee, Mom," he says laughing.

No, even when we're alone Gay says nothing directly about our marriage or my problem.

She's just friendly tonight, glad, as I say, to have us stay.

I think they are lonely, Gay and John Senior, all their children grown and gone and hardly ever coming to see them.

Then Jon comes back, and soon the lights are all off, and everybody's in bed, and Jon falls asleep and in the other room I can hear Gay snoring like old women do, a sort of heavy breathing, and I think:

What it all amounts to, I suppose, is an expiation of some God Forgotten sinning, a searching out of someone who will say "I forgive you" or something very like that, certainly not a marriageable prospect, but one in desperate need of perspective and a partner, though the two do not necessarily go together, and frequently clash, because any life partnership tends to be a distortion of perspective: filled as such arrangements are with separate and desperate needs and wants, distinct divisions of loyalty (self-preservation demands selfishness, partnerships demand compromises), so it is a battle to remain a self in search of a life against a life in search of a self.

These days growing more and more inward bound, tied more and more together in a chain that threatens and beckons, the rush to get through the week and into the weekend which is also rushed, to claim as much of it as possible before the all too. inexorable Monday: and oh the suburban Sundays spent writing faint letters, and drifting sleepily through television program after television program, a day more of sleep than of rest, and sometimes pacing the floor thinking (it was my sister who said that night travel was so depressing because one could think, and I laughed at it, but I have recalled it ever afterward). Thinking isn't too bad unless one feels one has wasted one's life, and then it is a damnation and a headlong sinking in a mire of drinking and smoking and (in suburbia) sudden spurts of gardening.

We are all artists in suburbia, with our landscaping that never ceases, our interior decorating that ought to cease, and our recollections of old college days or old Army days, our cocktail hours and coffee Klatches. It is a hard and biting world for our women out here, out in this wilderness she is measured not by what a woman is but what she does, which leagues and clubs she belongs to and whether or not she helps in the car pool that takes the children to school, and how she sets her table. It is still woman's duty to take care of her man, and a man's duty to decorate his woman. But the sidereal effects of affluence have added to those simple and consuming duties.

Of course, Jon and I are sort of oddballs in this world: two outsiders whom one is never sure whether to invite or not. But we receive our strawberry shortcake from the welcome wagon, and our letters inviting us to open charge accounts and join civic affairs, and when we ignore them, busy suburbia goes on, forgetting us, except as we walk our dog in the common evening, and pass Miss Grey Poodle, and Mr. and Mrs. Great Dane, everyone smiling and nodding, and the dogs backing off and sniffing the air and/or each other.

But in the wilderness, on Sundays, the thoughts start now and then, and this picture of myself is terrifijingly typical: Living in and apart from the neighborhood, never really quite normal or fitting. But I do not care too much too often. There are other things to concern me, my past, my present, my future. It is only oc-cossionally that the triviality of my living looms in front of me, disturbing and tiresome.

It doesn't bother Jon too much: he enjoys suburbia, enjoys living in a home and having a dog and a fancy car, he enjoys being a property owner, with its concomitant yard work and Sunday drives, with its dog-walking-evenings, its garbage-to-the-corner-mornings, these things manage to occupy and pleasure him. Watching him at morning coffee, his satisfaction is visible and his world seems simple. He has managed to come through with very few self-defeating illusions, and the few remaining are shoved aside easily by his activity. He has no regrets: his luxuries are more material. New draperies, a few new shrubs, Saturday night on the town, the private club to which we belong and I rarely go, the small and the large meals, the disco-teque.

So Sundays I spend at home, sleeping or regretting, and he is driving around, shopping at Ward's or Sears, or merely looking at the burgeoning homes.

Jon stirs in his sleep, his arm around me, on my naked belly.

CHAPTER FIVE HUNTING AND RHODA

So I have decided to leave Jon, to make my own way, to find some way to make myself free. I know he doesn't want me, and as much as I want him, marriage of any sort, even the kind we have, is a two way proposition. It has to be both of us, or nothing.

Nothing.

So long with the same guy, so long living together, and for it all nothing.

Except that empty almost frightened feeling of knowing it is almost all over, that soon it will be all over, and there is nothing to be done except say "enough, we're done."

Done.

It's such a simple word. Over with.

Such simple words! No more.

Just two words, and yet they sum up a lifetime. A lifetime of growing up and having dreams and thinking that, after all, things are going to turn out well, that the story book end can be true, that I will live forever with my man, my daughter, and there will be nothing but love ever after.

No more.

No more waking up in the morning to the old familiar sounds and smells. No more going to sleep at night with the full expectation that tomorrow will be like every other day.

There are no more tomorrows. Not for Jon, not for me, not for the two of us together.

I want to end it all quickly.

To make the actual leave taking as simple as possible, as simple as the simple words that describe this painfully un-simple act.

I will get a place, I tell myself.

Not saying a word, I will get an apartment, and have it ready for little Laura and myself, and then some day when Jon will be gone all day and all night, I'll have Rhoda and Chuck move my things out for me.

And I'll leave just a brief note with Jon and not tell him where I'm going or why or anything. Just that I've gone and not to come after me.

I want it over quickly so it won't hurt either of us. Just never see him again.

I'm sure from the way he looked when he was talking of La Verne that he won't fight me, or make a scene. I'm sure that my leaving will relieve him of so many problems.

I'll make it quick.

Maybe a letter to Gay and John Senior to tell them. They've been wonderful to me, as good as my own parents, really, maybe better than my own folks.

But it will all be over and though I hate to lose John Senior and Gay as friends, I know they'll see how much better this is for us all.

No recriminations, no hard words.

Just the end of a dream.

It was a lousy dream anyway.

* * *

Rhoda comes over to help me look for a place. "Not too big," I tell her. "but at least one bedroom. No bachelor pad for me."

"I'll find just the place," Rhoda says with a wink. "I think I already know of one. But are you sure you want to do this? Just move out and not say anything to Jon?"

"Yes, I'm sure. And I don't want you to say anything to him, either. Not to anybody. I don't want word of where I've gone to get back to him."

And then Rhoda is gone, and I go out to do the last thing necessary. Find a new job.

One where Jon won't be able to locate me even by accident.

And I know what I can do. I did it before.

* * *

"Well, Mrs. Hicks," the fat man says, "You can start day after tomorrow. If ya want." I want.

It's been a long time since I've been a waitress, but it's the easiest job in the world to find.

There's always some place needs a waitress. Even this little dumpy coffee shop in the Mexican part of town. Jon would never come down here. He would never let me come down here. So I have no doubt that in a city of this size, he'll never find me.

By the time he gets through looking for me in the "better" part of town, he'll be ready to give up.

If he even bothers to look for me. I wonder if he will?

* * *

So now I have a new job. I won't even call my old one and tell them I'm quitting. I just won't show up. They won't call for a day or two and by then I'll have moved out.

Because I'm leaving the day Laura has her party.

When the kids have all cleared out that afternoon, I'll have Rhoda and Chuck come get my things.

If Rhoda is able to find me a place to live.

* * *

"It's the cutest little place," Rhoda is saying enthusiastically. "You'll just love it. It's a garage apartment, so it has lots and loads of privacy, and a little yard for Laura to play in, and Jon will never think to go in that area looking for you, but it's not really a bad part of town.

"You'll just love it. And it only costs ninety-five dollars a month, and your landlady pays the utilities."

"That's about all I can afford," I tell Rhoda. I don't tell her about my new job.

She doesn't need to know too much.

If she opens her big mouth about where I live, she at least will never be able to give away where I work.

I can always find a new place to live, but once Jon catches on to the type of work I'm doing, it will be hell to find a new job.

He'll just hang around the coffee shops looking for me.

So I keep my mouth shut on that score.

And Rhoda takes me by the place to look at it.

The nice thing is, it's vacant and I can move in "anytime." The landlady looks like an old fishwife, fat and she smokes, and I suspect she drinks too much. In her sleazy voice she tells me she "don't want no drinkin', no high livin' and no men comin' 'round all hours of the night or day, jus' live respectable and we'll both be better off. And no parties, neither."

No problem.

No problem at all.

I'm amazed at how easily this is all going. It's almost unbelievable.

It's quick, too, which is what I'd wanted. I'm afraid that if I give myself time to think, I'll maybe give in, lose some of my resolve and not go through with it.

I remind myself I have to go through with it. For both our sakes, Jon's and mine.

I hardly look at the apartment. It has one small bedroom in the back, a hallway and bathroom which lead to the front, and a front room which doubles as a kitchen-dining area. I smile. It's hardly any bigger than John Senior's house.

But it will do for little Laura and myself. It does have its own fenced in yard, and sitting back from the street like it does, it will be a nice place for little Laura to play.

It's two blocks from the bus stop, and the bus there runs right downtown and then out and stops again about four blocks from where I work.

So that's okay too.

And Rhoda drives me home, and I suddenly feel a little scared. Rhoda senses this.

When we are back at my place, and while I'm silently fixing a cup of coffee, Rhoda comes over to me and without saying a word slips her hand around my shoulder, holding me, like at any moment she might pick me up by my blouse. She doesn't pick me up, of course. She just rests her hand there.

"Scared, honey," she asks.

I nod, still silent.

"Well, no need to be. Christ, you're just doing what you think best. If you have any regrets, though, now's the time to consider it. 'Cause once you've moved out, you can't come back again."

"I know," I say. I wonder if I really do know, or if I'm just being selfish again, wanting something no woman can get. "Do you think I'm wrong to do this Rhoda?" I turn and look into her eyes.

"Hell, no," she laughs. "You've put up with a hell of a lot from that prick. Let him stew in his own juices." A hell of a lot.

The daily arguments over little things. The painful nights without his body next to mine.

The mistress I've found out about.

The nightly silences when we don't speak.

The withdrawal from each other.

All, all over with tomorrow.

I know where it's ending. I just wonder where it all began.

Somewhere back in Texas, I suppose.

Rhoda slips her hand again around my shoulder, this time her whole arm goes around it and she leads me to the table.

"Sit down and drink some coffee," she tells me. "If you wanna cry on old Aunt Rhoda's shoulder go ahead. But make up your mind right now. Youn're either gonna leave the SOB or you're gonna stay with him. And this is one of those sweet and sad moments in your life when you have to make a big decision. One that will always be with you. 'Cause if you decide to stay now, you'll never leave him. And if you decide to go, you'll never come back."

"You make it sound so easy."

"It is, kid, it is."

I suddenly burst into tears.

Rhoda helps me get up and I lay my head on her ample bosom and shake and cry.

She holds me close to her.

I don't know how we get to the bedroom, but somehow we are there, and I'm lying down next to Rhoda and she's comforting me.

And doing things no woman has ever done to me before.

For a few brief moments, this is an erotic world, and my head swims as Rhoda undresses first me and then herself, and then slips us both between the cool sheets and covers.

She kisses me and holds me, and I can feel her fingers tugging at my pubic hair, pushing against my hole, entering me.

Her mouth is all over my body, and it's suddenly like it was last night with Jon, only sweeter, better.

She kisses me on my lower lips, inside them, between them.

Her mouth works wonders on my clitoris, her fingers nudge against my anus, and I shiver and shake at her touch.

I can do nothing to stop her.

For some crazy reason, I don't want to stop her, I want her to go on and on.

I don't want this to ever end.

I can feel her licking and kissing me down there.

Her fingers pushing.

Pulling.

Entering me.

Her breasts hanging heavy against my own legs, her body somewhere between my legs, her hands and mouth all over me. And then her teeth, nipping the tender flesh, her hands pulling me to her, forcing me into this depravity.

She's better than Jon.

I moan, twist.

She nips me harder with her teeth. I groan, heave upward toward her devouring mouth.

She gurgles as she swallows the excess of my juice that is now flowing so freely.

We are locked together, two women, doing this love thing. I am not ashamed, not surprised, only lost in the eroticness of this perverted act.

Each nibble that Rhoda makes on my hole, on my flesh, sends fire through me.

I am panting, heaving now, my breasts rising and falling as I gulp for air, as I strangle on my own emotion, as I almost smother for the love I am f eeling, the loving I am getting.

Rhoda knows what she is doing to me. It speeds her up, makes her own pace faster, faster, faster.

We are twisted on the bed now, groaning, the both of us lost in our love for this desperate act of sex.

We say nothing.

What we are doing is everything. I wouldn't even care if Jon were to walk in and catch us naked and balling like this.

I wish he would. Deep down inside me I wish Jon could see this perverted act which he has driven me to.

And then it is all over.

I scream as Rhoda pulls the hard knob of my clit between her teeth, I shiver as the orgasm begins rushing through my body as my lust flares in its completion.

"Oh, god," I whisper in a quiet prayer. "Oh dear god, that was good, that was good, that was good!" I hug Rhoda to me. She says nothing, but I can feel the moisture of my own body juice and her saliva mixed flowing from her mouth, one small trickle, from her mouth, from her mouth down to my breast, and over its curve as I hug this loving lesbian to me.

Because I know now that Rhoda's a lesbian.

One hundred per cent.

And I don't care.

Only the recollection that little Laura will soon be home and that there is the last minute rush to get things ready for her party prevents me from letting Rhoda and myself drift from lust into sleep.

I nudge her.

"Gotta get up," I tell her in a husky voice. "Laura's coming home. Things to do."

"Uh, huh," Rhoda says. We both dress quickly. There really is a lot to do.

* * *

Everything a montage, a quick successive shifting from one scene to another in a sequence hardly understandable, and far too comprehensive. A darting back and forth between the past, the present, and the sufferable. A schizophrenia of imagery.

Oh yes, madness. Sitting in a dark room and pondering the sea that pulses in the night beyond the open window, and feeling the warm inside heartbeat of the self and maybe remembering things that might never have happened.

Dreams and nightmares and realities twisted in an illogical fabric, woven together with steel, and tangible, terribly tangible. The smells and tastes and sounds of the past physically felt. Drifting away from reality, and then actually sundered, floating free in a world that never was that isn't that couldn't be, and even at times feeling mad, serenely, flowing like Zen with it, only now and then struggling, but struggling, feeling the heavy current against the self. Outside there, the sea pounding, and inside the heart warm yet and frightened.

Frightened.

Hugging the knees, a child again. Insane. Is it ever going to be morning? Yes. Of course.

CHAPTER SIX A PARTY FOR MY DAUGHTER-AND ONE FOR ME....

Today is supposed to be little Laura's birthday party day, and there is all the last minute shopping and getting ready to do-things I should have had done yesterday, even before yesterday, but there has been so much to do.

It's hard to prepare for a celebration when your marriage is breaking up.

Especially if you don't particularly want the marriage to break up.

But I wake in the morning to the usual tune of the garbage cans being lifted up and banged about, and as the sunlight caresses/wrestles with me in those last few minutes in bed before I am fully awake, it is hard to believe that it was less than a week ago that I was on the beach with Jon and Laura watching the waves and sandpiper.

A long week this has been.

From the day I decided to leave Jon until today. Not quite a full week. How many days? Four? Five? A thousand?

Counting back.

Let's see, I think to myself as I lie in my warm bed, covers under my chin. Let's see. Yesterday: getting the apartment, the new job. (And the scene with Rhoda-oh god, forget that scene.) And the day before ... what happened the day before? Oh yes, we were at the farm, and making love under the stars in the grass like a couple of love sick teenagers, and I discovered that it was final, that Jon and I really had nothing. That Jon was not capable of love. Not the kind of love I feel. And the day before that, that was the night at the bars, a lost night, a lost and senseless night. But it was fun being single again, if only for a night, good to feel young and free. And before that ... oh lord yes, that was the night of the long knives, the night I met Jon's mistress. So far away! Like a thousand years ago? But really not so far in my past. Just a couple of days ago. And the day before, the day I decided to leave Jon.

Funny I should decide to leave him and then find out he had a mistress-maybe a dozen mistresses. But I knew even before I met La-Verne that I had lost Jon.

That Laura and I were alone.

Laura. Her birthday party.

Just some of her little friends.

And it's time for me to get up and get the party going.

It's going to be a long time 'til night, 'til I am moved out. And I doubt if Jon, should he come home today, would even notice that things of mine are missing-because the party and the helter skelter activity of the children will cover up any suspicious emptinesses.

So I get up.

I go to the bathroom and urinate. I wash my face, cleaning off the remains of the night.

I brush my teeth, brush my hair with a few quick strokes, enough to shake it back into place.

Back to the bedroom, where I pull out a bright colored mini-dress for the party. Get into my clean panties, my hose, my bra (now why do I do it in that order? I chuckle, wondering at the forcefulness of habit). Then slip the dress on over my head, straighten out a few slip-on-wrinkles, another quick stroke of the brush through my hair, a little touch of makeup, and I am done, ready for the day.

But is the day ready for Laura Lee, I ask myself as I walk briskly into the kitchen.

Jon is gone.

There's his coffee cup, the instant coffee sprinkled over the table, crumbs from his toast. Well, only a second to clear his remains off the table, then another few minutes to fix Laura's hot breakfast and my own toast and juice and coffee.

Then I call Laura. She stumbles downstairs in her little pajama's, wiping sleep from her eyes.

"Ready for the big day, honey," I ask her, and her eyes brighten.

"It's my birthday!"

"Uhhuh."

"Do I get my present now?"

"No honey, not until your party. Then you can open all your presents at the same time. Okay?"

The bright look dims a little-but only a little.

"Tell you what, hon," I say, watching her gulp down her hot cereal and drink her juice, almost both with one motion. "Why don't you run over to Shana's house and play while I do some errands."

"Okay, Momma," Laura says.

After breakfast she goes upstairs and dresses in her levi's and a T-shirt, and then she whisks herself out the door, and the house is quiet.

It doesn't take long to clean up the breakfast things, and then out to the car.

A short drive to the shopping center.

Pushing my cart through the aisles.

Stopping at the "favors" counter. Little items to place at each child's plate. Let's see. A party hat, a party whistle, and some streamers. That's easy. But a little gift for each child? Not so easy.

I debate over the sets of small cars and trucks for the boys or the small sets of mechanic's tools. And for the girls? That's easy. A set of little dolls, each about an inch high, three of them to a set.

I decide on the small cars for the boys, and I buy six of those, and five of the doll sets (Laura is-the sixth girl, and she'll have enough presents).

That done, I select a dozen-then pick two dozen-balloons. Pay for the purchases, standing in the long line.

Then to the bakery for the cake. All done, just as ordered.

Complete with candles.

Then going by the five and dime for the party napkins and party plates. And that's it.

Just the last minute items, and not very many of those.

Then driving home and taking everything in the house, waving hello to Shana and Laura who are playing in the yard next door.

Leaving everything in the kitchen, and going into Jon's and my bedroom to make sure Laura hasn't discovered and unwrapped her present, which is hiding in our closet and has been for two weeks.

It's okay.

So getting the house ready for the party, which is to come off at one-thirty. The table set.

Enough ice cream in the freezer, and the cake now on the kitchen cabinet in the cake box. Sandwiches cut in animal shapes.

Everything, everything ready.

Then Rhoda and Chuck arriving, I hear the doorbell ring, and they come in subdued and quiet, and Chuck takes out the luggage filled with my clothes and the boxes that I am hurriedly packing even as he takes them out.

I'll leave Jon the dishes, the furniture, everything except my personal belongings and Laura's toys and things.

And the boxes are quickly packed.

And Chuck leaves, and Rhoda helps me finish preparing for the party.

She pats me now and then on the rear, and I want to tell her not to, want to tell her yesterday was a one time happening, only I don't have the courage. I'm afraid that if I bring the subject up, then we'll be in for it. We'll have an angry scene-or worse, we'll have another loving scene, because I am very vulnerable to Rhoda and her advances. Yesterday proved that.

Yesterday.

It certainly proved something. Maybe I am lesbian.

Or-and I believe this, need to believe it, want to believe it-yesterday only happened because I was scared and lonesome and Rhoda was there and there is nothing abnormal about me.

Even if Rhoda is a lesbian.

That's her problem and I don't want to get involved with her scene.

I should have known when she and Chuck took me to that homo bar. I mean, how did Rhoda know where it was if she'd never been there before?

How did Chuck know about it?

And what about my lover boyfriend?

What am I getting into?

A sudden fear chills me, and I stop in the middle of clearing off the cabinet and just stood there.

"What is it, honey," Rhoda asks solicitously, patting my shoulder.

"Don't do that!" I fairly scream at her. She gives me an odd look, grins and goes about her business.

"Okay, hon, no need to get upset. Just between us girls."

I wonder how much she expects of me.

* * *

The party is getting off to a good start. The kids are in the living room, playing blind man's bluff. Shana's mother is supervising the game while I cut the cake.

Rhoda comes in.

She says nothing but leans against the ice box.

The phone rings.

"Would you get that, Rhoda," I ask her, carrying cake on little plates to the counter where the children can get it later.

"Sure, Babe," she says, lifting the receiver off the hook. "Hicks' place," she says into it. I don't hear the rest of her conversation.

"That was Chuck," she says quietly as I come back by her.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. He said to tell you everything is all set. He put your things in the front room of your new place."

"What's this about a new place?" says a voice. I look at the doorway to see Madelaine, whose Bobby lives down the street, but whom I have never met.

"Oh, a new job," I say, telling only half a lie. Rhoda grins thinking it's all a lie.

How little she knows about me!

* * *

The party is a super success. And by four o'clock all the little dears have gone.

And Laura is pleased and playing with her presents. Twelve new toys. She can hardly decide which one she wants to play with, so she has them all spread out around her. Her new dolls (two), her set of doll dishes, her electric cook-stove (from Jon and me), the doll clothes (three sets-oh these unimaginative mothers! At least they're all different looking), the doll buggy, the toy tea service, the little skirt for herself, and the jumper suit, and the sweater.

All on the floor in front of her.

"Time to pick them up, honey." She minds me, without asking why.

We put them in the car.

"Where are we going, Momma," she asks innocently.

"Well, I thought we might drive out to a little place I know," I tell her. "It's a little fairy tale cottage and we'll live there for awhile."

"Is that where Daddy is," she asks.

"No honey. Daddy's at work."

"Oh," she says, toying with one of her dolls. She asks me no more questions, for which I am thankful.

We pull in, and while I am getting the last of the suitcases out of the car and the last of her new toys out, she is running through the apartment, looking at everything.

"Do you like it, honey," I ask her, brushing a stray hair off my nose.

"Yeah," she says enthusiastically. "This is neat, Momma."

"Good, honey. We'll live here for awhile if you want to."

"Can Shana live with us? And Lettie?"

"Well, no, but maybe you can go see them once in awhile," I lie gently to her. I don't want to tell her everything too soon, don't want to upset her little world too suddenly by telling her, "No honey you'll probably never see your little friends again, and you'll certainly never see your Daddy again, or even your grandparents."

It is rough enough thinking of a way to tell her she is going to be living in a new house.

But to her it's just an adventure, and I smile as I watch her playing in the new rooms.

I put my things away, and hers, in the bedroom.

I hear her laughing outside and then silence as she settles down with her dolls. Rhoda calls.

Do I want to go for a walk?

I tell her no, then change my mind.

I call Laura in from the yard and put her new sweater on her and tell her that she and I and Aunt Rhoda are going for a walk on the beach.

She is happy about the prospect.

* * *

Rhoda is uncomfortable about having Laura along with us. I know Rhoda wants to talk about "us" and I also know that's the last thing in the world which I want to discuss.

So little Laura is my protection against the wicked step-aunt.

And I have the perfect excuse for bringing her along.

"I hope you don't mind, Rhoda, but I don't know of anyone who could babysit for me, and she's too young to leave in a new house in a new neighborhood all by herself." I smile sweetly, and Rhoda nods glumly.

"Sure, hon," she capitulates. "I understand."

We go to the beach at Santa Monica, drive up Wilshire and park just off where it deadends at the cliff. We walk in the park at the top of the cliff, beneath the palm trees beside the shrubbery.

Rhoda is dressed in pants and a pea coat, looking very pixie-ish-and also butch.

I am still in my mini-dress from the party.

Laura is running ahead, sometimes trailing behind.

We walk down the cement stairs that lead along the face of the cliff to the bottom, where we cross the highway and go onto the actual beach.

And there it is again.

My daughter playing in the distance and beside me someone who tells me they love me. At least I know what Rhoda means when she says she loves me. She means she wants my body, wants my sex. Jon? ;

I don't suppose I will ever understand what Jon meant when he said, as he often did say, he loved me.

We pass the beach houses.

I look at the windows without thinking, until in one window I see a face looking out. It is the face of a girl, and she stares out just the way I stare in-without emotion, without thought. Just a face in the shadows.

Rhoda takes my hand.

"I don't guess I have to say anything," she says to me. "About what?"

"About us getting ... getting together again."

I have courage now. "Rhoda," I tell her, "there's nothing between us. We've known each other a long time, and I'll always be your friend. But nothing more. Let's forget the other day. I'm not ... like you. I'm me. And I just want to be alone and free."

I think of the lonely face in the window I have just seen.

"Okay, hon," Rhoda gives in. "But if you ever need me, you have my phone number." She looks like she's going to cry.

"Rhoda, don't take it so hard. We've never been anything to each other. And the sex thing

-well, it wouldn't have happened under any other conditions. You know that."

"Yeah," she whispers. "I know."

And I know that for Rhoda life is a lot more lonesome than it is for me.

For Rhoda there will always be the search for a girl, for a love that no one will ever be able to give her. I squeeze her hand. "Cheer up, Rhoda."

"Sure babe," she says. She smiles.

I know now why she is so anxious to help me leave Jon. But it doesn't matter any more. Because I know my own mind, know what I am and who I am and maybe not where I am going, but at least I know where I'm not going.

And that's not down Rhoda's road.

She takes Laura and me home.

Away from the lonesome face in the window.

* * *

Chuck comes by that first night. Rhoda leaves and an hour later, right after I put Laura to bed, Chuck's knock comes on the door.

I let him in and motion for him to be quiet. "Laura's sleeping," I explain. He grins and tiptoes in.

"That's okay," he says, "I just wanted to see how you were getting along, settling down in your new place."

"Why, just fine, Chuck," I tell him. "It was a lot easier than I had thought it would be-and little Laura isn't half as full of questions as I would have thought."

"Good, good," Chuck nods.

"Would ... would you like a drink, Chuck?" I can't think of anything else to say.

"Yeah, I'll have a snort or two and then be on my way."

I am relieved to hear him say that. About being on his way.

I am not too anxious for any company tonight. Not tonight.

I fix the drinks, and Chuck stretches himself out on the couch, feet far in front of him, fingers drumming nervously on the arm of the couch.

I don't know why he should be so nervous.

I take Chuck his drink and then seat myself primly on the easy chair, legs knees-together, back straight.

Chuck looks at me, and this makes me nervous.

"Listen," he starts to say, "why don't you come on over here to the couch and make yourself comfortable. You don't look too comfortable on that chair."

"No," I say, "I think I'd better stay sitting where I am. No misunderstandings that way, Chuck."

"No misunderstandings."

"Chuck, much as I like you, I'm not exactly in the mood for ... anything tonight. I'd like to get to bed."

"So would I," he grins.

"Chuck!"

"Well, can't blame a guy for trying, can you, Laura?"

I grin back, a little weakly. "No. Not for just trying."

He put his hand on his crotch, his fingers folded over the bulge in his pants. He finishes his drink.

I don't offer him another. I sit silent, waiting for him to go.

For quite a while we sit like that. Then he stands up.

"I guess I ought to hit the road."

"Yeah, Chuck. Listen," I go on, feeling a crazy need to apologize, to justify myself to this man. "Listen, I'm sorry but it has been a long and difficult day."

"Sure, kid," he says as I stand up to see him to the door. "I understand. I'll come by again sometime."

"You do that," I tell him, and then add to make it seem more sincere, "I'd like that." Tomorrow? "About eight?"

"Fine."

"I'll see you then, Kid," he smiles. "But I'm warning you now. I'll be ready for a hot evening."

"So will I," I tell him. And funny thing is, I will be. I know it.

I'm ready to be a single girl now. All hot and lots of places to go. But tonight, I plan to relax. Right after I write to Jon.

Which I do immediately. To get it over with. Dear Jon, I write and grin wryly at the opening. It really is a 'dear John' letter. Dear Jon:

Hon, don't think I've left you just to get away for awhile. This is for always. I just couldn't leave you completely, however, without telling you some of my reasons for going.

For the last several weeks-months, really-I've known that things between us weren't as good as they ought to have been. We've been growing apart in so many ways.

I know what you were trying to tell me about LaVerne. I also know that it was true, that she is not your "true love" only your mistress. But maybe you don't understand the implications of all you said that night.

Jon, you're not the type of guy to fall deeply in love with any one woman. For you, love is a stirring of the body, and any woman can do that for you. You also need some ego fulfillment-we all do-and you manage to convince yourself that the object of your affection-or more accurately, the object of your erection-is in love with you. And for you that's enough. If you think they love you, you convince yourself that you care for them. Only Jon, you don't, not really. What you care for is the comfort, the convenience, the thrill. An honest marriage for you is a dull, dull thing. I should never have let you marry me: maybe we could be together now, if we had stayed single, lived in sin, whatever you want to call it.

But we didn't, and now we can't be together any more. I'm sorry that it worked out that way.

I'm not going to cause you any problems, not going to throw a fuss or have a scene with you. You will hear from my lawyer in a few days, and I hope you will take the sensible course and let the divorce go through without contesting it. I'm determined never to see you again, but I will let you see little Laura whenever you like.

Only I hope you will leave me alone.

Jon, you're a nice guy and in your own way, sincere. But for you, there is never the deep emotion which I need: all women need it. Except possibly women like LaVerne. I don't think LaVerne really needs love. Affection, perhaps, a good time, certainly, some security, definitely. But love? No. For her, for you, for people like the two of you, love is what you do in bed, and anything deeper is frightening and confusing-and painful. It involves too much for you, Jon.

But I hope you do find whatever it is you need in the way of affection. Every man needs someone, even if it is only someone who will hold you and tell you, you are alright.

But I'm not that girl.

Love, Laura Lee

And that is out of the way. But I doubt if I can really leave Jon. "You can't go home again" but you also can't ever leave home. Not really. I really do love Jon. I'll miss him. But he is like a familiar room.

How many rooms to one lifetime, how many objects, how many faces, flicker through the consciousness and then flicker out again, unrecalled? Names too. Names that in the future might ring a small bell, possibly create a second or so of dejas vous.

Faces, names, things. Meaning nothing, but if the light is right, if the time is right, if the mood, day, place is right, then even the nameless take on meaning.

That house by the beach, that grey wooden house with its scratchy windows, and through the glass, in the shadows, the pensive face of a young girl, not smiling, not frowning, just a face, thinking. Thinking of nothing I knew. That face, staying with me, and so. many others falling away. The living can haunt us far more often than the dead, the living that we have never known. Making us wonder if we have ever known anyone. And Chuck is coming over tomorrow. I guess it means a party for Laura Lee.

THE END
A Party For Laura Lee ....(79k)    by L.L.H





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