Sherry whispered from behind me, her arms locked around my waist, her body pressed hotly against my T-shirt. "Take it when you can get it."
I knew what she meant. The old man was away, leaving us alone for the first time in the empty farmhouse. I also knew she was leading me on, treating me like a boy who's never had a woman.
"If you weren't my father's wife-" I threatened, but I had already had all I could take.
I whirled and her mouth engulfed mine. I felt myself falling into a dark, fiery pit of desire-a pit that, for me, led straight to Hell.
AUTHOR'S PROFILE
Jay Carr is a pseudonym for James P. Duff, a well-known magazine writer and novelist. He was born in Chariton, Iowa, graduated from the University of Washington and also attended Stanford and San Fernando Valley State.
During World War II he saw action with the U. S. Army in Europe and he was awarded three battle stars and the Purple Heart. After the war, he was a reporter on the Seattle Times and Stars & Stripes, and he then became a teacher and an insurance investigator.
His stories have appeared in the top national magazines and he is the author of six books.
CHAPTER ONE
The warm evening breeze, unusual for that time of the year, came in through the opened car window. A cat hissed angrily at some unseen enemy and I could just make out a vague shape darting quickly across the lawn, disappearing into the deeper darkness of the shrubbery.
Leah stirred sleepily against my shoulder, mumbling something I couldn't quite hear. A screen door banged shut with a loud crash, the noise coming from the direction of the house. I knew it would be Mr. Denning, Leah's father, standing up there, slamming the door intentionally, peering down at the darkness of the car interior, probably wondering what we were doing. Leah was twenty years old, an attractive, intelligent, sensitive girl, and yet her father still treated her as if she was a small child. It had often times been a bone of contention between us.
"I hear the beckoning thunder," she said laughing lightly.
She had that faculty of reducing the ridiculous and absurd little things that happened to their proper perspective; I suppose it was one of the reasons that I loved her, but only one of many. Feeling her next to me, the warmth of her body against mine, knowing how that body looked, I knew there were many, many reasons for my love.
"It's going to do more than beckon in a moment," I said, and added: "I thought you were asleep."
"I almost was."
"A very nice compliment to my male ego."
"Don't use such high-sounding terms with me. I'm just a poor little country girl, all confused by your worldly words. I declare, Mr. John Hogan, I think you've been to college." She giggled. "Besides, your male ego is inflated enough as it is."
"No thanks to you."
She sighed, a weary sound in the night, abruptly losing her good humor, sitting upright, poking her fingers at her dark hair, not looking at me. "Are we going through that again, Johnny?"
"I guess not. At least, not tonight."
"Not any night. Remember?"
"I remember."
She turned, looking at me now. I could just make out the shape of her face in the darkness, the long nose, the fullness of the mouth. She was the most beautiful and most desirable girl in the whole country, and she was mine. I couldn't see her eyes, but I knew how they would be staring at me, trying to read what was within my mind at that moment, trying desperately to understand me. How many times had I stared back into those eyes, the curious shade of greenish blue, and wondered about her? How could I be so lucky as to have her love me?
"Kiss me, Johnny," she whispered, "gently, very gently."
Our mouths met, clung together momentarily, verging on the edge of further passion, and then pulled apart. My hand strayed down the front of her dress, almost as if I weren't fully aware of what it was doing, as if I were losing control of it, and touched the familiar fullness of her breasts briefly, then was moved along by her own hand.
"Please, Johnny," she said. "You're the boss."
"Don't say it that way."
"What way should I say it?"
I felt the quick anger rising within me, the anger and the frustration. It seemed to me that we were cheating on each other, allowing our emotions to rise to a certain high pitch, then drifting away again, not fulfilling the need that was within us both. I knew her need, knew it well, and she knew mine; we had answered that mutual need the one time, and then no more.
"It's been a nice evening, Johnny. Let's not spoil it."
"And it closes now."
"It has to close now. We're not married."
"We will be," I told her.
"When?" There was a hesitancy in her tone.
"Soon. Very soon."
"Then we can wait that long."
That screen door banged again. It wouldn't be too long before he would be out on the porch, clearing his throat, calling down to the car. He had never come right down to the car, though I had expected him to on more than one occasion. I suppose, in a way, that I couldn't blame him for his overprotective ways with Leah. He was only a moderately successful man, the head cashier at one of the banks in town, one of those men who slip through life attracting little or no attention from those around them. His one claim to fame was the happenstance that he had fathered such a beautiful creature as Leah.
"Good night, my darling," she said, brushing her lips across my cheek.
"Good night."
"You're not mad?"
"I'm not mad. I'll rush right home and take a cold shower. A very cold shower." I couldn't keep the edge out of my voice though I knew I was hurting her.
"Maybe you should stop in at Murray's first," she said, laughing lightly. Murray's was a roadhouse on the highway leading to the county seat; it was a place supposedly frequented by people with little or no morals. "You could always find someone there to ... relieve your anxieties." She was laughing at me, good-naturedly.
"I prefer a cold shower," I said.
"Silly. Love me?"
"Very much."
"Say it."
"I love you."
"And I love you, Johnny Hogan. More than is good for me."
And then she was out of the car door, running quickly up the walk to the house. It was the way she always left me, the way she always went inside, almost as if she were afraid that she must run, that if she didn't she would not be able to get away from me.
I waited a moment before starting the car, letting the frustration slowly ease out of me. The anger never stayed with me very long. There had been times when I had wanted to stay angry at her, and yet it had always been impossible for me to do so.
I pulled away from the curb and began the drive out to the farm, suddenly feeling very tired, remembering the load of work that awaited me the next morning. My father and I were alone at the farm now and, since the death of my mother, he had been doing less and less of the work, shifting more and more of the responsibilities onto my shoulders.
It was a beautiful spring evening, warm and relaxing, and I knew I could start the plowing the next day. As I drove the eight miles out from the town of Buxton to our farm, I thought about Leah and myself, and our lives. There had never really been another girl for me, at least not one like Leah. Oh, there had been girls, of course, and there had been Miriam Swensen while I was at the university. But no one like Leah.
I could remember the night only a few months ago, the night of the party at Jay Wilson's house. There had been around twenty of us there that night, including Eddie Mack, who was always trying to make time with Leah. The others all envied me, but they kept their distance from Leah; at least, they had since I returned from the university.
We all had drunk a little too much and Eddie and I had almost gotten into a fight over the way he danced with her.
Later, after we left the party, I had pulled into a parking spot along the bank of the Santee River, feeling the drinks within me, feeling the desire for Leah within me. We had been going together for almost six months, seeing a great deal of each other, necking and that sort of thing, but nothing more than that.
We had sat there, and she had said, "Eddie was acting like a stupid fool tonight." The way she slurred over her words, I realized that she had drunk too much, which was very unusual for her.
"I can't blame him. He wants you, just as I do."
"Do you really?"
"Damn you, you know it!"
"How? How do you want me?"-
"I want to strip everything from you and love you and feel you against me and hear you."
"Have you done it much, with others?"
"Enough to know what I'm doing."
"You talk too much," she said.
She had caught me unprepared for the suddenness of her assault. She had moved against me, her hands running through my hair, her mouth seeking mine, finding it, holding it, enveloping it. We had strained against each other, exploring in new places which had been off-limits before.
I felt the passion rising within me, the full, throbbing passion of my twenty-two years, seeking an outlet in the girl beside me, the girl whom I loved and desired. And she had answered that passion with her own, matching it, surprising me with the fullness of it. The times before, when we had been like this, she had always backed away, not let herself go too far.
Her breasts pushed against my chest; her mouth would not leave mine, but her hands left my hair, playing along my back, the nails digging in, hurting me a little. We finally pulled apart, both breathing heavily, and I could not get the taste of her out of my mouth, did not want to.
"Johnny, is this what it's like? All this whirring in my head? I feel like I'm going to bust right through the top of the car."
I didn't answer her; I didn't want to answer her. I didn't want to talk. My hands went up underneath her sweater, seeking and searching, feeling the fullness of her breasts, the hot touch of her bare skin.
She giggled suddenly, a strange sound coming from her, and said, "My God! Your hands feel so good, so awfully, awfully good, Johnny." And then she was pushing me away, turning her head away from me.
I felt the quick anger rise to the surface, the damning, punishing anger, until I saw what she was doing: she was undressing; she stripped right down to nothing. It certainly wasn't the first woman's body I had ever seen, but the beauty of it, the marvel of it, caused me to catch my breath; I suppose I was even suspended in a state of shock for a moment or two.
"We might as well be comfortable, my darling," she whispered, moving toward me, stretching out.
We were caught then. There was no turning back. Our bodies met and locked together and the whole inside of the car seemed to revolve around the universe, and it was like nothing before, for me, a new experience, an experience of love mixed with passion and desire, a maturation of the emotions....
Later, I could hear the annoying sound of her crying. She was crouched on the far side of the car, her sweater clutched futilely around her, her head bowed, the tears welling forth.
"I didn't know," I said.
She sobbed, not answering.
"I'm sorry."
"I suppose ... I suppose there has to be a first one." Her voice shook and tears made a salty trace down the gentle planes of her cheeks.
"Leah, I said I was sorry."
"I heard you."
I reached for her. "Come here."
"No. Please, Johnny, no." She pushed against me, torn and trembling.
"It isn't as if the world is going to end," I told her. "That's easy for you to say."
"Leah, I love you."
"I know. I know you do, Johnny. But that doesn't make it ... all right."
"What do you expect me to say?"
"What have you said before, to the others?" Her eyes, misty with tears, stared intently into mine.
"There haven't been that many others," I said.
"Johnny-hold me tight."
She came against me then, the passion gone, the fright and, I suppose, the shame mingling within her. It was a new experience for me, having a virgin, and I wasn't exactly sure what she expected from me. She rested her head in the hollow of my shoulder, crying softly, and I realized then how much I loved her, how much I needed her. There was no doubt in my mind that we would eventually marry. And, secretly, I was happy that she had been a virgin, that I was the first one. I hadn't given it much thought before.
After a while, she sat up, dressing herself clumsily, wiping the tears away from her eyfs, asking me for a cigarette. She smoked only on rare occasions.
"Johnny, what if-what if I get pregnant?" she whispered, her face starkly white.
"It's a long chance."
"It happens."
"We can get married. Now, if you want." I put my arm around her, cuddling her against my shoulder.
"No. That would be rushing it. Everyone would be suspicious. Daddy would want to know why we rushed. And there's your father."
"What we do will make no difference to him."
"We can wait, until he gets straightened out,"
"He missed my mother too damned much." I tried to make a joke out of it, knowing that I was failing. "It's time he grew up a little."
"Promise me one thing, Johnny," she urged. "Promise me we won't do it again! Not until we're married."
It had been an easy promise to make, but a much more difficult promise to keep. Driving along now, remembering that night, I could recall how easily the words had come from me, making the promise. But there had been so many nights since then when we had been on the verge of going through that same experience. She had held me to my promise, firmly, though I had wished time and time again that it could be otherwise.
She had worried about getting pregnant for a long time. Even when the danger had passed, she still talked about it. I suppose, in a way, that I couldn't blame her, even though our relationship was strained by such close, continual contact.
I knew one thing: I loved her very much, as much as could be, and that as soon as my father got himself straightened around, she and I would get married.
But my father continued along in the same fashion he had since the death of my mother.
I turned off the main highway and drove up the narrow road that led to our farm. The buildings were set almost a half-mile from the main highway. As I pulled the care alongside the barn and stopped and got out, I could see Martin Higgins' green pickup truck parked in front of the house. I sighed. I didn't want anything to do with him, and I certainly wished that my father would choose someone else with whom to share his idle hours.
As I walked toward the house, I could hear the sounds of their laughter coming from the opened windows. I picked out the sound of my father's laughter; it was deep and resonant, forced-sounding, and it always surprised me to hear him laughing like that. While my mother had been alive, he had contented himself with mild chuckles. Now it sounded almost as if he were forcing himself to laugh in that false, hearty way.
I walked up the stairs onto the porch, pausing for a moment before opening the door. I wished, somehow, that I could avoid seeing them this night. Leah was in my mind and I didn't feel as if I could put up with Higgins. But I was this far, so I opened the door and walked in.
Their laughter stopped immediately when I entered the room. Dad was stretched out on the sofa, a half-finished drink in his right hand. Martin Higgins was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, trying to balance an empty beer bottle on the back of his hand. They had both been drinking heavily.
Higgins dropped the bottle to the floor, rising to his feet. He was a big man, tall and heavy, rather florid in the face, in his early fifties, about the same age as my father; he walked with a sort of stooped-over shuffle, as if he were continually looking for something below him.
"Johnny boy," he said, "it's mighty early for someone your age to be gettin' home. When I was a strip like you, they had to kick me out and send me home."
"I hear," I said, hoping my words would bite home, "that still happens on occasion."
Higgins threw back his head and laughed. "You bet it does, boy. You're damned right it does. There's life in these ol' bones yet."
"Don't tease the boy, Martin," my father said.
"I ain't teasin' him none," Higgins said, a leer twisting his face.
I looked at my father. He was big, like Higgins, though not quite so heavy. His hair was still full, still jet-black except for the tracings of gray along the temples; he was a handsome man, not showing his age, his body erect and straight, his face unlined except for the sun wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. It was only when you looked into his eyes that you saw the unhappiness that was within him, the sadness, written there indelibly.
"It's late, Dad, " I said. "We've got a lot of work to do tomorrow."
"Work is for the young ones like you," Higgins said.
Dad tipped the glass to his mouth, shaking his head slightly, not looking at me, almost avoiding me.
I shrugged my shoulders, starting to leave, knowing that I would get no help from him in the morning.
Higgins said, "Get any tonight, Johnny boy?" There was a taunting note in his voice and his bloodshot eyes mocked me.
I whirled around, wanting to strike out at him, wanting to slash my fist across his dirty, foul mouth. But he wasn't even watching me; he was in some world of his own, a world of drinking and young girls.
"That Denning gal you go with is really somethin', Johnny boy," he went on, licking his lips. "She's built. Damn good. I seen her just the other day, walkin' along the street, that cute little ol' rear end of hers and I thought to myself-"
I pushed my open palm against his shoulder, jarring him around. "You'd better keep your damned dirty thoughts to yourself!"
He blinked, smiling, looking at me as if he could crush me with one big sweep of his arms, which was very likely. He had a good three inches and some forty pounds on me and his reputation for rough-housing was known throughout the whole county. He was a dirty fighter, a fighter who fought to maim and hurt.
"You take it real easy now, boy," he said, an ugly look coming into his suddenly narrowed eyes.
"Just keep your dirty mouth shut!"
"Hey, he's a feisty little one, ain't he? George, this boy ain't been raised right. I can see that. He's got no respect for his elders."
Dad rose. "Okay," he said, "you go on to bed now, Johnny. Like you said, it's late, and there's work to be done tomorrow."
I left them, hearing the sounds of Higgins' laughter following me all the way down the hallway.
I hated him. I blamed him for the way my father was, yet I knew that was not true. My father was his own man, always had been, and whatever kind of life he was leading was of his own choice.
I spent a restless, sleepless night, turning and tossing, thinking about Leah, the touch of her, the smell of her, the sight of her, and worrying about my father and what was happening to him.
CHAPTER TWO
I stumbled around in the half-light of the early morning, going across to the barn, feeling the tiredness in the middle of my back. As I entered the barn, I paused and took a look at the house. A light was on in the kitchen. I sighed. At least he was up and maybe he would fix some breakfast for me.
I went up in the haymow, pushing forkfuls of hay down the chute, taking my resentment out in the work, feeling very much sorry for myself. I climbed down the ladder and got the oats and ears of corn for the three horses we still had left on the farm.
Next, I got the shelled corn and carried it along to the cows in their stalls and then measured out linseed oil to each cow. I could remember, a long time ago, when my father had first let me help him with these morning chores, how proud I had been; I had been the youngest of the three boys and, as such, I had always felt that I was in the way, stumbling around, asking questions, getting in everyone's way.
Well, he and I were the only one of the Hogans left now. Bob, my oldest brother, had died somewhere in Korea. Jay's death had been even more senseless: he and three other teen-agers had been drinking beer at Murray's roadhouse and then went speeding along a rain-slicked highway to their death.
Each of their deaths had taken a little from my father; he and Bob had been a lot alike and, when we received the telegram telling of his death, Dad had gone off by himself and stayed away for two days. At the time of Jay's death, when he discovered that the boys had been drinking beer in Murray's earlier, he had gone to the roadhouse and made a shambles of it and Murray.
Later, I had heard him talking to my mother, saying that he had made a mistake in doing that. "If we'd been proper parents, Jay would not have been there. It wasn't the fault of Murray."
My mother had died almost a year ago, the summer after I got home from the university. That left Dad and me.
I had always admired and respected my father, though I couldn't honestly say that I had always understood him or his motives. There was an aloofness about him, a curious kind of detachment, that caused him to remain apart from everyone around him; everyone, that is, but my mother, Millie, for whom he had always shown an active, almost possessive love.
I knew the people of Buxton felt toward my father much the same as I did. He was one of those men who never make a visible effort toward friendship or leadership, but who always seem to have more friends than anyone else, who always seem to be the one the others come to when there is a question of what to do. I knew that he had come to Buxton back in the deep days of the depression, bringing my mother along with him as a young bride, asking nothing from any man, and still managing to avoid the despair and poverty of those days.
He had leased a small stock farm in the bottom lands of the Santee River and had worked night and day throughout the years until he had bought that farm and the two neighboring farms as well. We still managed the original farm; it was some two hundred acres, mostly in stock, with just enough crops to take care of the animals. Dad had leased out the other two farms, and I was happy for that; as much help as I was getting from him, the one was all I could handle.
There was no jealousy on the part of the other farmers. They all seemed to acknowledge the fact that my father deserved to do well.
My relationship with my mother had been a good one, based on love and understanding, despite the fact that I had known she had a natural tendency to "baby" me, especially after the deaths of Bob and Jay. It had been my mother who always insisted that I should be the one member of the family who should go on with his education; I was never sure just how my father felt about that, but he did foot the bills for me, and that was something.
Mother had been a rare woman, beautiful and intelligent, living in a world dominated by men and yet always maintaining her complete and irrevocable femininity. That she was beautiful, no one could deny, and I grew up with the knowledge that I had the most beautiful mother in the county.
She had been very tall for a woman, with a straight and erect manner of carrying herself that magnified the beauty of her person. She had had reddish hair that glinted in the sunlight, seeming to give off little sparks. I could remember, quite distinctly, the time I had come upon my parents as a child of six or seven and seen my father with his hands wrapped in Mother's hair; at the time, I had failed to understand the words he had been speaking to her, yet they had always stayed with me.
Her face had been rather long, with a long nose and curiously dark green eyes-intelligent eyes, eyes that never missed what was going on around them. Her mouth had been very wide and expressive, changing with her mood.
She had been a lady, pure and simple, and yet with it, a woman who obviously had enjoyed the physical relationship a man could offer her. She had dearly loved my father, even "babied" him a little, as some women will do to a man they love. As for him, I had seen, time and time again, the way his eyes would follow her when she wasn't looking, the anticipatory look in his eyes, a look that would sometimes embarrass me after I became aware of such things.
Though I had no way of verifying it-and wouldn't if I could-I've always had the idea that my father was a lusty man, demanding and possessive in the physical side of marrige. He obviously had taken great pride in her, the knowledge that she was his woman and all that that entailed.
Neither of my parents ever talked much about their own parents or background. It was something of a secret around our house and once, in a fit of anger, Dad had bellowed out that Mother thought she had married beneath her, that perhaps she should have stayed with her highfalutin parents. I knew only that they came from the Midwest. There was never any mention of relatives and I grew up without the usual quota of aunts and uncles and cousins that the other children in our community had.
A man did stop at the farm once when I was quite young and spend part of the day with us. He had looked a lot like Mother, with the same kind of eyes, the same way of carrying himself, and I had always imagined him to be her brother. Though she hadn't been the kind to cry a great deal, she had cried after the visit of this man and I heard my father telling her that she could always go back, and she had replied that it was foolish for him to talk like that.
She obviously had had a great deal of schooling. She talked differently from most of the other people around Buxton-at least most of the people with whom we came into contact-and always used correct grammar.
She seemed to be a natural teacher and I wondered if she had ever been one in the past. She read a great deal and was very discriminating in the kind of thing she read. She had often talked to me about the importance of schooling, stressed it over and over again.
I had never seen anyone change quite so much as my father did when my mother died. He had been aloof and detached before, yet always appeared friendly; but now it was almost as if he were living in another world.
He had always been a tremendously strong man, able to work from dawn to dusk without letup, seeming to thrive on such labor, but now he hardly did anything at all around the farm, pushing more and more of the work and the responsibility onto my shoulders. It was almost as if he didn't care about the farm any more, as if it were something he would rather forget about.
I could realize how keenly he had felt my mother's loss. Her humor and intelligence had always tempered his strength and determination, and now he was like a man walking around in his sleep, unsure of himself, unsure of which way to turn, knowing only that he was supposed to be doing something, heading in some vague direction.
It was quite obvious that, being the kind of man he was, he missed the value of Mother as a woman. I, too, had felt her loss keenly, but, of course, in a much different manner. And I had Leah as an additional outlet for my emotions, while my father had no one.
I imagined it was difficult, patterning your life with another individual for thirty years, then losing that individual. I knew that my parents led a full sex life up to the end, and I had often wondered what my father would do about that. He had never been able to talk with me, just as I had never been able to talk with him. I suppose Bob was the only one of us three Hogan boys with whom my father had had any real relationship. He and Bob had been a lot alike, the strong, silent leaders, in love with the life on the farm. Jay had been wild and unruly, causing my mother a lot of mental torture, running with a fast crowd in Buxton, continually ignoring his share of the work on the farm.
Mother had seen to it that I should be interested in my studies, in books; it had been almost an obsession with her that I go on to college after finishing high school. I had been a good athlete in high school, one of the best all-round athletes in the history of Buxton High, according to the local newspaper, and Dad had never been able to understand my interest in books or athletics.
While I was at the university, he made a point of writing me one letter a year, a very formal, stilted kind of letter, asking me about my health, how my studies were coming, that kind of thing. I had always imagined that he wrote because Mother insisted that he do so.
Anyway, after Mother's death, he got to running around with Martin Higgins. Higgins was one of those men for whom life seems like one great big party. His local reputation was secure; the rumor was that there was hardly a woman or a girl above the age of sixteen in the whole county who had not shared Higgins' bed at one time or another.
I did not like him. More than that, I sincerely disliked him. I was tired of his continual boasting of his sexual conquests, and I worried a great deal about my father spending so much time with him.
I had finished attaching the electric milkers to the udders of the cows and was putting fresh straw in the horses' stalls, when I heard my father come up behind me.
"You're workin' too hard, Johnny," he said.
I turned, holding the pitchfork loosely. "Someone has to do the work. It won't do itself."
He looked tired this morning. There was a dullness in his eyes and I wondered how much he had drunk the night before, how long he had sat there and listened to the exaggerated tales of Martin Higgins. He had never been a hard drinker and I had the idea that it was getting to him, sapping his strength.
"We can afford to hire a man," he said.
"Maybe that's best."
"Sure. We'll think about it." He seemed to hesitate, looking down at his hands. They were gnarled, huge, tremendously strong. I could remember seeing him Indian-wrestle, the way his hand would almost crush that of his opponent. "Breakfast is on the table."
"I'll be a while longer."
He tried to smile. "That new calf drinkin' from the bucket yet?"
"He still likes the teat."
"I'll try him this mornin'."
He started away, and I said, "Dad?"
He stopped. "What?"
"How long is this going on?"
"How long is what goin' on?"
"You, the life you've been leading."
He lifted his hands, dropped them again. "Johnny," he said, "you're still a boy. Maybe you been to college and maybe you read a lot of books. But that don't make a man of you."
"That's not answering my question."
"I guess it don't.
"Are you going to answer it?"
He shook his head, walking away from me, and I silently damned him for that. Why couldn't he take the time to talk with me? Why couldn't we understand each other, get through to each other?
CHAPTER THREE
The days went by and the work piled up. There was no more mention of hiring a man to help, and I was too stubborn to bring it up again. I just worked and worked. There are a million things to be done around a farm in the spring; it's simply hard, drudging work, nothing more than that, day in and day out, without letup. I was getting little or no help from him. He was spending more and more time with Martin Higgins and I was spending more and more time doing the things he should have been doing, making the decisions that were rightfully his.
I had had to plow and then fertilize the twenty acres we were putting into corn for feed, with no help from him. The morning chores he left completely to me, which meant that I had to feed the stock each morning, run the electric milkers, set the milk out for the trucks from the dairy to pick up, and do everything else.
I was seeing less and less of Leah. I was just too tired out to do much else but attend to my work. In the month following that last night, we saw each other only twice. Both times, I allowed myself the luxury of wanting her, and both times she put me down firmly, reminding me of my promise. She had even gone to a dance with Eddie Mack, which sent me into a blind rage of jealousy.
The week after the planting was finished, a week of long hours of cultivating for me, jarring, bone-hard work, Dad left with Martin Higgins. Ostensibly, they were going on a trip north, to look over some land for possible investments; but I had the feeling that they were just going off on a week's vacation of fun and pleasure, leaving me with all the work.
It was a week to the day after he left that he returned. It was late in the afternoon and I was mending a couple of cracked boards in the barn when I saw his car turn in from the main highway that ran by our farm, and drive along the road toward the house.
As he pulled up beside the house, I could see that there was someone in the car with him, someone with bright blond hair. I walked across to meet him, knowing that I should not be feeling so resentful toward him, knowing that he had worked long and hard to make the farm as successful as it was, and yet I had the feeling he was taking advantage of me, forcing everything onto me.
He got out of the car and almost ran around to the other side, not even greeting me, to open the door. He was dressed in a new blue suit and was wearing a white shirt and tie, very unusual for him.
I stopped, open-mouthed, staring in fascination as the woman got out of the car. She looked around the farm like some royal landowner looking over her property, at the house and the barn and the watering trough and the old windmill that we no longer used, at everything. And then she looked at me, stared at me impudently.
She couldn't have been much older than I was-a tall, well-built woman with unnaturally bright blond hair, worn long and loose, a bright-red slash of a mouth with full, pouting lips. She was carrying a flowery hat in one hand and wore a clinging white dress, showing the long beauty and strength of her thighs, and she had a pinkish sweater thrown around her shoulders. She smiled, showing a lot of white teeth. When I looked into her grayish eyes, I could instantly see the craftiness there, the cool, calculating shrewdness.
I had seen her kind before, many times.
Dad turned, looking at me for the first time, smiling almost shyly, like a kid with a new toy. It was the first occasion in my life I had ever seen him even remotely embarrassed, and my mind began running over the many possible explanations for this girl's being with him, this kind of a girl.
"Sherry, honey," he said in a low voice, looking down at his big hands, sort of shuffling his feet awkwardly, "this here's my boy."
She laughed. It was a strangely musical kind of sound, as if it did not belong to her, as if it came from somewhere else. It made me think of dimmed lights and low music and hushed voices, and mirrors on the walls; I thought I might be going out of my mind.
"When you said boy," she said, "I didn't know you meant a husky fellow like him-as big as him."
"I'm big for my age," I said, sarcastically, wondering what in hell was going on as I heard my own voice.
She looked from my father to me, then deliberately winked at me, throwing her hip around in a suggestive manner. It was a well-practiced movement, one that had taken a long time to get down so pat. My father had not seen the movement nor the wink.
"You better tell this boy where we stand, George," she said. "It appears to me that he hasn't got the right kind of respect for his new mama."
I stood there, stunned, feeling foolish, feeling as if I should run away and hide someplace. Suddenly everything went sort of hazy in front of my eyes; I suppose I almost passed out from the shock of hearing what she had said. I couldn't believe it.
"Is this some kind of a joke?" I asked.
"Tell the boy, George. Don't just stand there."
"Johnny, this is my new wife."
"Oh, hell!" I snapped and turned around, not wanting to look at them, not wanting to believe what I was hearing and seeing.
I heard her saying, "His manners aren't so hot, Georgie. You should maybe teach him a little better in the future."
I felt his hand on my shoulder, turning me, forcing me around. His fingers dug in, hurting me.
"She's right, Johnny," he said. "I think you could be a bit more polite."
I shook, my head. Looking into his eyes, seeing the happiness there, the sure knowledge that he possessed this young woman with her sexy young body, I suddenly felt guilty, as if I were depriving him of some great honor for which he had worked long and hard.
"I'm sorry, Dad. You caught me ... unprepared."
He smiled happily, punching me on the shoulder. "That's good, that's good."
I wasn't sure what he meant by that.
She laughed again. "Is this what you call home, Georgie?"
"This is it," he said, proudly.
She ignored him, looking directly at me. There was a lot in the look; she was clever and she knew what she was doing. "You and me should have a talk, later on."
Dad was getting the luggage out of the back of the car. I made no effort to help him. I was afraid that if I moved from the spot where I was standing, my legs would fail me. I could only stand there, unmoving, looking at her, realizing what she was. Dad said something I couldn't catch and walked on into the house, carrying the luggage.
She made as if to follow him, then paused, looking at me coquettishly, her mouth open. "We'll get along, won't we, Johnny?"
"I guess we will."
"Your daddy loves me. I've got something he wants, and he's got something I want. My life hasn't been so good."
"That's a blunt way of putting it."
"You don't talk like he does. You don't even act much like he does. He's a real hell-raiser, full of life. You stand there like some wooden Indian. You got a girl?"
"I've got a girl."
"Is she pretty?"
"Sure."
"Pretty as me?" she demanded archly. "I think so."
"Does she treat you right, Johnny?"
I didn't answer her. She ran a hand down the front of her dress, laughing, then swished around and followed my father into the house. I turned, watching her. Her walk meant only one thing, the obvious thing.
My father was a new and different man. I watched him throughout supper, the way he sort of bent over his plate, yet his eyes never really leaving her. The times she got up to get something from the kitchen, his eyes would follow her, almost devour her.
I don't know why, but it made me a little sick at my stomach. Perhaps I was remembering my mother; perhaps I had imagined that my father could never make a fool of himself the way he was doing now.
There had never been any outward love between us, but there had been respect from me for him, and now I felt that leaving me.
Sherry talked a lot during the meal, but actually said very little. I still knew nothing about her, nothing of how they had met, where she came from. Dad just sat and looked at her and listened to her prattle on. She had changed into a pair of tight-fitting jeans and an equally tight-fitting sweater, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
It was obvious that she wore nothing beneath her outer clothes. She sort of oozed sex and I found myself following her movements with my eyes, visualizing what would happen later on between her and my father. I felt uneasy in my stomach and my palms grew moist.
At the end of the meal, I got up and took my jacket from the hook by the kitchen door.
"You leaving us, Johnny?" she asked.
"I'm going into town."
"To see your girl?"
"Maybe."
Dad rose. "You don't have to leave, Johnny." She smiled, a promise of things to come. "Of course you don't."
I went out the kitchen door, not answering, just wanting to get away from them. I slammed the door behind me. I was walking toward my car when I heard my father come out, half-running after me, calling my name.
I waited for him. It was a warm night, with a full moon and a blanket of stars covering the whole world. A horse nickered in the barn, annoyed at something. I thought of Leah, the shape of her mouth, the way she kissed me, the joy of kissing her. I thought of the farm, so full of memories for me, my brothers, my mother....
"Johnny," he said, "you've got to understand certain things."
"Such as the facts of life?"
"No. Don't get sassy, boy. Not with me."
"I'm going, Dad. You go on back in with her."
"You listen. I've been a lonely man since your mother died. I loved your mother. You know that. Hell, boy, I'm not even sure whether or not you know what it means to be a man. I ain't ever asked you about such things. I don't intend to now. That's your own business. But Sherry's my wife, Johnny. You got to remember to treat her right."
"Do you want me to leave the farm? Is that it?"
"Damn you, boy," he said, angrily, "you're not listen-in' to me. You're not even thinkin' about me. You're standin' there thinkin' that I'm makin' a fooL of myself, that I'm a middle-aged fool that's run out and got himself a young woman." He paused, then went on. "Maybe you're right. She answers somethin' within me, Johnny, and that's mighty damned important to a man like me. She didn't have much. But she's decent."
"Where did you meet her?" The question came from me almost involuntarily, and I immediately wished that I hadn't asked it. I was afraid of the answer I would get.
"It's none of your concern, but I'll tell you anyway. She was workin' in this place."
"What kind of a place?" I couldn't stop myself and, strangely, I felt that our roles were suddenly reversed, that I was acting the father, facing the errant son.
"It ain't what you think," he answered, his cheeks reddening.
"I hope not."
"Johnny, she was singin' in this club me and Martin went to. It wasn't much of a club, but what she was doin' was all right by me and it should be all right by you."
"Okay," I said.
"Is that all you're goin' to say?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I guess nothin' more than that."
I felt that I was disappointing him, but there was nothing I could do about it. I was angered and, in a way, humiliated, and I was taking it out on him.
"We never talked much, did we?" he asked, looking at me in a strangely stiff manner.
"I guess we didn't," I said.
"You were your mother's boy."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I'm not sure. It just came out."
We stood there like two strangers who had been pushed together unwillingly, forced into a conversation and neither really interested in what the other had to say.
"I'm sorry," I said, trying to ease it for him. "I guess ... hell I don't know, Dad. It was a shock, seeing you come home this afternoon with her. I wasn't prepared for it. I suppose I'll get used to it."
"You'll have to get used to it. It's done."
"Yes."
He turned around and walked slowly back to the house. I noted the way his shoulders sagged, just a bit, and it came to me just how old he was! I thought of the long hours and years he had spent working here, making something for nothing. Because of his labor my own life had not been too difficult. And now I was blaming him for doing something of which I had not given my approval.
I suddenly felt very sorry for him.
I took a step after him, meaning to follow him, and then stopped. It was as he had said. We had never been able to talk; we couldn't start now. He had his life to lead, in his own way, and I had mine to lead, in mine.
It was easy to rationalize it, to stand there in the light of the moon, and rationalize away his actions.
And then Sherry's laughter floated out from the house, almost as if it had been aimed directly at me, hitting me, forcing me away, reminding me of what she was, how she looked and walked....
I had stopped along the way and phoned Leah, and she was waiting for me when I drove up. She got into the car and said, "Hurry, before Daddy sees us."
We drove in silence and I realized that she knew about my father's marriage. Probably everyone knew it; it would be all over town. Almost unconsciously, I drove back to the spot along the Santee River where we had each other that night. As soon as the car stopped, she was out of the door and I could hear the sounds she made as she walked through the underbrush and trees bordering the river.
I was puzzled by the way she was acting.
I got out and followed her. I found her leaning against the trunk of a birch tree, her head tilted toward the sky. "It's a warm, wonderful night, Johnny."
I nodded.
"Why did you come here tonight? Why did you bring me here, to this particular place?"
"I don't know. I didn't think about it."
"Give me a cigarette."
I handed her a smoke, then took one for myself and held the match for both of us. The moonlight glinted palely off the running river.
A fish jumped out of the water and I could hear the splash very distinctly.
"It's warm enough for a swim," I said.
"Without any clothes on? It would be fun."
"Should we?" I whispered as excitement began to beat along my veins.
"No, Johnny." And then: "It's all over town."
I knew what she meant, yet I didn't want to talk about it; I didn't even want to think about it. The picture of Sherry and my father was there, in front of me, and I didn't want it to be there. This was my girl next to me, the girl I loved, and she had been a woman with me once, and I wanted that again.
She was so beautiful. She was long-legged, tall, almost as tall as me, with a natural beauty that set her apart from everyone else. I had seen the women at the university, the ones like Miriam Swensen, the ones who made themselves beautiful with all the artificial aids that man has invented; but Leah was beautiful by herself, for herself. She was beautiful just standing there, leaning against the tree.
She was wearing a skirt and low-heeled loafers and a short-sleeved sweater. In that semi-light, I could just make out the mounds of her breasts, pushing themselves against the restrictions of the sweater; I closed my eyes and remembered the beauty of them that night, the taste of them, the wonder of them....
I flipped my cigarette out over the river. It made a high, sparkling arch, and then disappeared into nothingness. Her cigarette followed mine and we stood there a moment, in the peaceful darkness.
I reached out for her, pulling her to me. Her mouth came to mine; her body pushed agonizingly taut against mine, grinding, seeking. Her hands were at the back of my neck, squeezing, hurting, demanding, and then I reached one arm down behind her knees, lifting her off her feet, turning to walk back to the car. Our mouths never parted during that time; it was as if they could not come apart.
The door on her side was still open and I started to put her on the seat, and then her hands were pushing against me, her mouth leaving mine.
"No, Johnny! No, no, no, no!" There was suddenly hysteria in her voice.
"For the love of God, Leah!"
"Not again! No!"
I dropped her roughly on the seat, turning away from her, hearing the small sound of pain come from her mouth. I went to the front of the car, resting against the fender, fumbling for another cigarette with shaking hands, feeling the passion still within me, damning her for refusing me, this of all times.
After a moment she got out of the car and stood beside me. "Is that why you brought me here?"
"Damn you," was all I could say.
"That does little good."
I turned, gripping her bare arm fiercely, feeling my fingers digging in, twisting her flesh. Then, at that moment, I wanted to hurt her.
I said, "What in hell do you think I am? I can't turn it on and off. I want you, Leah. I love you! All of you-every little part of you. I can't forget that night or the wonder of it. Damn it, I want you again. Now."
"No, Johnny, it can't be this way, sneaking around in a car," she murmured, running the palm of one hand up along my cheek.
"Why not?" I demanded, still hot and angry.
"We've been all through this, too many times," she reminded me.
"Oh, to hell with everything!"
"Don't be childish, Johnny."
"I'm not the one who's being childish."
The anger boiled up between us, almost alive in its intensity. Foolishly, I raised a hand and slapped it down hard against the fender. The shock sent tiny needles of pain through my whole arm. I knew that it was her I wanted to strike out against.
"Johnny, I'm not going through that anxiety again, not like the last time. It was almost too much for me, worrying about whether or not I was pregnant. I enjoyed it with you, you know that; it was like ... I don't know ... it was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me, and I would very much like to do it again. Do you think it's easy for me? I have my own desires, my own emotions. You don't know how many times I've lain awake at night, in the loneliness of my bed, and wished that you were there beside me, holding me, loving me."
"That does neither of us any good."
"Perhaps not. But until we're married and can share each other fully, there's going to be nothing else."
"I'm a man, Leah. I have certain drives within me, certain basic needs."
She laughed. It was not her usual laughter; this sounded harsh and strident, unnatural. "Like father, like son."
"What in hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You know what it means." Her face was tight and strained and there were dark shadows of hurt beneath her eyes. I felt my irritation growing apace.
"My father is his own man, Leah. I can't explain him to you."
"The whole town is laughing at him. He stopped in town this afternoon and paraded up and down the sidewalks with his new wife, showing her off, showing them all what he had bought for himself.
"They know, Johnny. You know. I know. He's a middle-aged old fool who has been running around with that crazy Higgins for too long. Sex." She spelled it out. "S-e-x. It's ridiculous. From what I hear, she isn't much older than you. What is he trying to prove? What are you trying to prove?" Her voice had grown strident now to match the anger that stirred inside me.
"I don't like this, Leah. I don't like the things you are saying about him, or about me," I told her bluntly.
"I'm just repeating what I've heard. I can believe it, knowing you, knowing how sex is on your mind so much. That's all you seem to want from me. And it's obvious that's all your father wants from her"
I grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her, not exactly realizing what I was doing, knowing only that I could not listen to what she was saying, knowing that she was destroying something between us.
When I stopped shaking her, she calmly asked, "Do you feel better now?"
"Not much."
"Take me home."
"With pleasure."
"And then go look for a girl for yourself. Get a young one, like your father did. Rape her, if you have to."
There was a sharp, cutting edge to her voice. It sliced through me like a knife, but I was too aroused, too furious to answer her.
I drove recklessly and far too fast back to town, slamming on the brakes in front of her house, skidding along the curb before finally stopping the car.
"You can stay away from me from now on, John Hogan," she said, her eyes bright and hard.
"Go back to your dream world," I told her. "Dream about men, Leah. But don't let one of them touch you. Don't ever do that."
She sat there for a moment, her hands folded in her lap, and I could hear the sounds of her crying. A great sob racked her, shook her all over. But I could not turn to her. I could not give in to her that much, not after the things she had said.
She got out and closed the door and I gunned the motor, driving away like some crazy teen-ager in a hotrod.
My world was turning upside down.
CHAPTER FOUR
Summer came with a real rush after that night, with my own private world gone to hell. The days got hotter and the work piled up, and the nights seemed interminably long and lonely.
I would go over and over that last night with Leah in my mind, wondering where we had taken the wrong turn, trying desperately to understand her needs and drives and, at the same time, justifying my own emotions. I could still hear the sounds of her crying as she sat there beside me in the car.
Time and time again, I wanted to drive into town and see her, to try to patch up the rift between us, but I couldn't. Several times, I found myself heading for town, knowing that I was going to try to see her. And then I would turn around, damning myself for my stubbornness, yet not able to abandon it. Time seemed to be against me, holding me in suspension, dragging me along.
I was angered and shamed, more so than I had ever been in my life. Wherever I went, whatever I did, there seemed to be a reminder of what was happening to me. Leah made no effort to get in touch with me, which didn't surprise me, knowing her as I did.
I heard that she was going out with Eddie Mack and, once, I thought I saw her in a car with him. The sight shocked me, almost blinded me with its intensity. I was furiously jealous. Eddie was the only guy who could give me any competition at all for her and, despite what had happened, I still considered her my girl.
The shame of what my father had done grew on me.
Gradually, as the days and the nights went by, I began to see less and less of the friends I had around town. I tired of their snide remarks about my new "mother," of their not-so-gentle allusions as to what she had been. There are so many subtle little twists that people can give to their conversations under such circumstances, twists that can cut one down to the quick. And I was cut down to the quick.
There seemed only one direction my anger and shame could go, and I directed it there-against my father. I blamed him for all my troubles and the relationship between us deteriorated steadily. We became like two surly, ill-tempered animals, snapping at each other with increasing frequency.
Sherry did not help matters. My new stepmother was a curious puzzle to me. I could not help but wonder about the relationship between her and my father, the vast differences in their ages, the obvious lack of any mutual interests between them. I was also curious about her background, for I actually knew very little about her.
In the beginning, those first few-days, she was very courteous and proper with me and yet, in the back of my mind, I thought that she was only playing a role, trying to convince me that she wasn't what she appeared to be. She was establishing herself in her new surroundings, that was all.
It was on the fourth day of her arrival at the farm that her role toward me underwent an abrupt change.
I was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, brooding as I had been won't to do recently, trying to force myself up and out of the house to the work that had to be done.
I wasn't even aware that she was there until I heard the soft movement beside me and looked up into her soft pink face. She was smiling, a teasing, sleepy kind of smile, and she bent down very suddenly, kissing me wetly on the cheek, her breasts brushing against my shoulder as she did so.
"A kiss from Mama this morning," she said, laughing lightly as she straightened up.
Looking up at her, I felt the tension burgeon within me. She looked so wanton and so desirable that I instantly imagined what she would be like in the middle of the night, if I wakened to find her beside me.
My room was next to my father's, and I had heard the sounds the past few nights. I knew what was going on.
She was wearing her inevitable shorts that showed the complete and almost irresistible beauty of her legs, and a pale pink sleeveless blouse. She arched her back, stretching suggestively, pushing her breasts against the fabric of the blouse, smiling still, watching closely out of half-closed eyes for my reaction.
"You're not very happy," she said slyly.
"I'm happy enough," I replied, conscious of the irritable tone in my voice.
"Have you had breakfast?"
"Of course."
"A growing boy needs a hearty breakfast." A hand came against my shoulder, squeezed lightly. "My, my, you are a growing boy."
I reached up, gripping her hand, moving it away from my shoulder. I crushed the hand, wanting suddenly to hurt her, to drive her away from me. A look of pain came over her face and her easy smile vanished quickly.
"You don't know your own strength," she snapped.
"Keep away from me," I snapped back at her.
She retreated slowly from me, rubbing the hand I had gripped, watching me cunningly, the smile coming back to her mouth. I felt she was judging me.
"A mother," she said meaningfully, "should be affectionate with her son."
"Don't play games," I told her.
"I'm not playing games, Johnny. I want you to like me. I want to be a good mother to you."
I didn't know what to say to that. I knew she was making fun of me, of our incongruous roles, playing with me, seeing what I would do, and I disliked her for that. She went to the stove, pouring herself a cup of coffee, turning to lean back and face me. Everything she did, every movement she made, seemed like a conscious pose, as if she were demanding any male within looking distance to stare only at her, to stare and ask the inevitable question.
My curiosity about her was boundless. I wanted to know all the details of her past.
"Who are you?" I asked her bluntly. "What are you?"
She laughed. "Every man wants to know that. They want to know when and where and how." She was serious for just a moment. "I've been married before, Johnny. I've been around enough to know what's what. Let it go at that."
That hardly answered my question, yet I felt that she would tell me no more for the present.
"We should get along, Johnny," she said banteringly.
"We will!"
"You're very young," she said.
That surprised me. "I'm as old as you."
"Are you?" She laughed, shaking her head. "You're a baby," she said viciously, as if condemning me for it. "Nothing but a goddamned baby!"
"Is that a way for a mother to talk?" I asked smilingly, feeling that I might yet get the upper hand with her.
She shook her head, not answering me, and walked slowly across in front of me, prancing a little. I could almost hear the music in accompaniment to her walk.
"Where's Georgie?" she asked, peering outside.
She knew that I did not like to hear her call my father by that stupidly childish name.
"How the hell should I know?" I said angrily.
She turned slowly, the pink tip of her tongue running along her upper Up. "You're too snappy today," she said. "Aren't you and that girl of yours getting along?"
"That's my business."
"You and me are alike, Johnny. We need a little excitement around a dump like this. I'm going bats and so are you."
"I didn't ask you here," I told her.
She came back to the table, slipped into the chair next to mine, laid her hands on the table. Her fingers danced along the top of the table, touched my hand, moved up my arm. I quickly moved my arm away but, deep within, I could still feel the touch of those fingers; they burned like live coals.
"My life hasn't been a bed of roses, Johnny," she said. "I've learned to roll with the punches, to take what I can get when I can get it. Your daddy offered me something in return for what I could give him. It was a bargain, nothing more than that. I'm living up to my half."
"You don't have to tell me," I said.
"Don't lie to me. I know your kind. Your nose is out of joint from being stuck up in the air all the time. You look at me and you think just one thing. Well, that's okay. I don't give a damn what you think."
"That's fine. That's great," I said sarcastically.
She leaned over toward me and I could see the outline of her breasts, heavy and alluring. My eyes went to them almost involuntarily, as if I could not help myself.
"They're nice to look at, aren't they, Johnny?"
I opened my mouth, but couldn't speak; nothing came out. I could only sit there and stare at her and feel the growing emotion of desire within me, and know that emotion was all wrong. She was my father's wife and, regardless of what else she was, regardless of how much she offered herself or how many times I looked at her and felt this desire within me, I would have to keep that in mind.
I wasn't conscious of my father standing there inside the door until he cleared his throat. Sherry didn't bother to move. She remained where she was and slowly turned her head to look at my father.
When I glanced up at him, I could see the controlled-but only barely controlled-anger in him. His eyes were on me, boring into me, damning me for just being me-young and alive, sitting there with his wife.
"Our little boy is unhappy this morning," Sherry said.
"Leave him be, Sherry," Dad said, and there was unconcealed anger in his tone.
"We were only talking, Georgie," she said, taunting him.
I noticed then that his hands were balled into fists. I hadn't known he could be that jealous of her. It came to me as a shock.
"You got work to do, Johnny," he said.
"I could use some help."
"Don't snap back at me, boy! Remember who I am."
I rose slowly, matching his anger with my own. There had never been many violent words between us; perhaps we were not close enough to get actually angry at each other. But at that moment, in front of Sherry, I felt that he was treating me like a child, using me to raise himself in her eyes. It wasn't fair and I didn't like it.
"Don't get on him, Georgie," Sherry said, also rising, standing beside me, carelessly throwing one arm around my shoulders, pushing her hip against mine. "He's just a young one and there's lots of things in this world he don't understand yet."
"I don't need you to stand up for me!" I barked at her, moving away.
There was an undercurrent of tension between the three of us. From the way my father was looking, from Sherry's changed attitude this morning, I imagined that something had happened between them during the night. Whatever it was, I didn't want to get caught in the middle; I had enough problems of my own without adding to them.
She walked in front of me, going to my father, putting her arms around his neck, a member of royalty passing out a small favor to some serf. Her head blocked out his face, but I knew they were kissing passionately, right there in front of me, and I could see the way her body was grinding against his, tauntingly, demandingly.
I didn't know what she was trying to prove, but I did know that I couldn't watch them. Frustrated as I was in my own love life, I couldn't bear watching theirs.
I stormed out the door, slamming it behind me, leaving them alone, the way I supposed they wanted to be.
But I couldn't get the burning feel of her fingers out of my mind. And I was remembering the look of her as she walked across the kitchen, challenging me, inviting me, wanting me to look and see and know.
I damned Leah then, damned her for not yielding to me, not letting me assert my manhood.
I pushed myself into the work on the farm, driving myself on and on. It seemed the only thing I could do.
The nights were becoming almost unbearable. Martin Higgins was coming out nightly, bringing with him a different girl almost every time. His supply seemed unlimited. Apparently, Sherry had gotten her way with my father and was now getting a little of the excitement she craved.
I was not a member of this group. I was an outsider. I felt unwanted, as if I were in the way. It got so that I would leave each night just as Higgins drove up. I would walk, alone and lonely, through the hot night, but never far enough away; I could always hear the sounds of laughter and music coming from the house.
It seemed almost as if I were going out of my mind. During the day, Sherry would taunt and tease me with her sexuality, even in front of my father. At night I would wander not too far from the house, listening to them, dreaming of Leah and Sherry. They were getting mixed up in my mind.
The memory of Miriam Swensen also returned to haunt me. I recalled so vividly the look of her, the feel of her, her obvious delight in just being a woman, in teaching me the many wonderful facets of the physical relationship between a man and a woman. In a way, I guess, Sherry reminded me of Miriam, though in personality they were poles apart.
The nights were horrible. I would walk through the fields and the pastures with my memories, only to return and sit beside the barn and listen to the sounds of revelry coming from the house.
Later, I would lie in my bed and listen to the sounds coming from the next room. I was ashamed of my eavesdropping, yet unable to resist the nightly ritual. The sounds and the thoughts almost drove me crazy with want.
One afternoon, as I came out of the barn, I saw Sherry standing by the water trough, her back to me. She was wearing nothing from the waist up. She stood there, her long, beautiful, tanned legs spread apart for balance, the upper part of her body bent over the trough, splashing and having a good time.
I was carrying an empty pail in one hand and I guess I must have frozen on the spot, staring at her, wanting her to turn around so that I could see her breasts-the breasts that I had visualized so many times in my dreams-yet at the same time afraid that she would turn.
And, finally, she did-the water dripping down her face and shoulders, down across her magnificent breasts. Her nipples were very large, almost abnormally so, and very dark.
She saw me looking at her and she threw back her head and laughed, running one hand roughly across her breasts. I felt the constriction in my throat, the almost involuntary movement of my mouth.
"Do you like what you see, Johnny?" she asked tartly.
I could only stand there and stare and feel the hot flush spread over me.
She was barefooted. She came slowly across to me, stopping only a foot or so away, watching me craftily, enjoying herself, savoring my discomfort. The water trickled down across her breasts, tantalizingly.
"Thirsty?" she asked.
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. "I've been told they're beautiful."
"It's the truth," I stammered.
"You can touch, if you really want to," she murmured, half-leaning forward.
I felt my hand rising, reaching, and then I dropped it quickly, knowing that if I touched her I would lose control of myself.
"No!" I yelled. "No!"
She laughed again. "You've seen 'em before, haven't you? But none like these." She was awfully proud of them, masochistic in the way she thrust her gleaming wet flesh toward me. "Don't be bashful, Johnny."
I could not take my eyes from her. Never had I seen anything like those magnificent white globes of flesh. I had wandered with my dreams for so many nights, picturing her just like this, alone and wanting, and now she was here in front of me, desirous, and all I had to do was reach out and she would be mine.
Passion throbbed within me and I was losing control when suddenly I saw, over her shoulder, my father's car turning in off the main highway. She caught the startled look on my face, because she turned and dashed toward the house, not looking back at me.
I was still standing there, the empty pail in one hand, when the car drove up and stopped. My father got out of the car and looked at me in a puzzled manner.
"Are you all right, Johnny?" he asked.
I didn't answer him. I was still seeing the wanton beauty of those breasts, still feeling the throbbing within me, the knowledge that I had almost reached out and grabbed Sherry and taken her. I couldn't answer him.
He came across to me, grabbing me roughly by the shoulders, shaking me, concern in his eyes. "What's the matter?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. It's nothing."
He released his hold and stepped back, that puzzled look still on his face. He turned, looking at the house, then back at me.
"Is anythin' wrong with Sherry?" he asked, a note of urgency in his voice.
Anything wrong with Sherry, I thought. What could be wrong with someone like that?
"I said there was nothing wrong," I snapped.
He stood there for a moment, as if he were debating something within himself, then shrugged and turned and went into the house.
If he only knew, I thought. If he only knew.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was that night that I phoned Leah. I couldn't stand my loneliness any more. The sight of Sherry that afternoon had almost done me in.
I drove to a gas station along the highway, using the phone booth there, not wanting either Sherry or my father to overhear my conversation.
I felt like a rudderless ship floating through the water, swept along this way and that way without any choice of direction.
Leah answered the phone.
"I'd like to see you," I said.
"Not if it's going to lead to another situation like the last time," she told me.
"Leah, please. Let's not act like children."
"I'm not acting like a child, Johnny," she said and there was condemnation in her voice.
"And you think I am?" I couldn't keep the urgency out of my own voice and I damned myself for that. "I just want to see you."
"I know what you want," she said.
"I'm not going to beg you, Leah."
"Johnny, I think it would be better if we let things ride for a while."
"You mean you don't want to see me?"
"I mean that I'm not sure what I want. Not right now, at this very moment,"
"You've been seeing Eddie Mack," I challenged her.
"That's my business," she answered tartly.
I felt helpless, standing there in the phone booth, unable to see her face. Words failed me. I could only stand there and listen to her murmured "Good night" and hear the emptiness at the other end of the line.
I came out of the phone booth feeling very sorry for myself. Everything and everyone seemed to be going against me, working against me, and nothing I could do would change that. For a brief moment, I thought of driving into town and going to Leah's house, and then I saw the senselessness in that.
I drove slowly back to the farm, not really wanting to, but unable to make up my mind to go elsewhere. I could not seem to get the picture of Sherry out of my mind; her face and Leah's strangely mixed together, kept flashing through my memory, haunting my every moment.
As I pulled the car alongside the barn, I could just make out two people stumbling down the steps of the front porch. I recognized Martin Higgins from his size and his booming voice as he roared out an epitaph to the still night. The girl with him giggled obscenely and half-fell down the steps, saved only by the strength in his arm.
I watched them as they leaned against the front of his truck, hugging and kissing, making all the little sounds that two people under such circumstances make. A wave of jealousy swept over me. A man like that, yet he still had a woman with whom to share the night, while I had nothing. I wanted to run to them and jerk Higgins away and tell the girl that he was an old man, while I was young and fresh and full of manhood.
But I only stood there and watched them and listened to them until, finally, they got into the car and drove away.
Someone inside the house was turning off the lights. I did not want to go in yet. I did not want to face either my father or Sherry. My father would be happy in the knowledge of what awaited him during the night, and I could not stand the sight of seeing him like that.
I walked away from the barn, out into the open pasture land, land that I had walked as a boy, feeling the intolerable frustration within me. I had had my boyhood dreams, just as any boy has, and now my dreams were maturing and they weren't the dreams I had dreamed as a child.
I have no idea how long I walked. I know that there was an aching in the backs of my thighs when I returned and saw that there was only a single light on in the house. I felt relieved, satisfied that Sherry and my father were in bed, yet also disturbed that again I would have to listen to their love-making in the night.
As I walked by the barn, someone stepped out of the deeper shadows ahead and stood waiting for me. I knew who it was, even in the darkness, and I changed my route abruptly, not wanting to see her, not trusting myself to see her.
"Don't run away from me," Sherry called out softly.
I hesitated, unsure of myself, one part of me yearning to go to her, the other knowing that it would be wrong, that nothing but evil could possibly come of it.
She seemed to sense my hesitation as she came quickly to meet me, one hand rising to touch me, as if to assure herself that it was actually I standing there.
"I've been waiting for you," she said, and there was the old familiar teasing note in her voice.
"Why?"
"That's a stupid question, Johnny."
"Perhaps." I looked at the house, conscious of her nearness, remembering the sight of her breasts that afternoon, remembering the luxury of having a woman, the pure, physical delight of just being with a woman. "Where's my father?" I asked weakly.
"In bed asleep. He had too much to drink."
I found that hard to believe. I had never seen my father take too much to drink. He was not the kind of a man who needed liquor to bolster him, and yet I sensed that what she said was true. He had changed so much recently, in so many ways.
She stood silently beside me, a motionless shadow in the vague darkness, as if she were waiting for me to do or say something.
"It's a warm night," she said finally.
"Yes."
"How far is it to the river?"
"A little less than a mile," I told her.
"The water would be cool," she said invitingly.
I didn't answer her.
"Have you ever been swimming with a girl? You know, in the nude?"
"What difference does it make?" I asked harshly. "You're mad at me."
I felt her hand on my arm, squeezing lightly, then moving up, the fingers playing along my cheek, tantalizing me; they brushed quickly across my lips and just the bare touch of them sent a quick, deepening thrill throughout my whole body.
"Don't do that!" I snapped at her. , "A swim would do us both some good," she said suggestively.
"Damn," I said, more to myself than to her. The mere thought of floating through the water with her naked body beside me was enough to quicken my blood.
"I don't understand you, Johnny," she said in a low voice. "I've wondered about you a lot. I wonder why you run out of the house night after night. Why don't you get yourself a girl and join us? We have lots of fun."
"I bet you do," I said sarcastically.
She moved against me, brushing her body against mine. I could feel her breasts pushing against my chest, her hands locking themselves around my neck. She laid her head against my face and the scent of her hair was in my nostrils.
I stood there with my hands at my sides, afraid to lift them, afraid even to move for fear that she would either melt away into another dream or that I would discover that she was real and could be mine. I didn't know which fear was worse.
"Does your girl Mss you like this?" she whispered, and brushed her lips across mine.
Her lips, didn't stop. They seemed barely to touch mine, giving the promise of more to come. It was teasing and tantalizing and agonizing. And then I felt the hot thrust of her tongue against my lips and I opened my mouth and let it slide inside. It was alive, probing, seeking, a hot flame of passion. I was lost in the void of passion. Her hips ground against mine; she was humming deep within her throat, a strange animal-like sound, and I felt myself slipping into the gulf of her sensuality, slipping down....
I pushed her off, roughly, turning away from her. I was shaking all over, trembling like someone who has been badly frightened. I suppose I had been frightened by the intensity of my desires; the desires that were still there but that I could not decently fulfill.
The face of my father swept before me, reminding me of the wrong I was committing. Regardless of anything else, he was my father and she was my father's wife.
That irrefutable fact overrode everything else. "You're a scared little boy, Johnny," she taunted, chuckling. "Shut up!" I cried.
"Maybe someday you'll be a man, like your daddy!"
"Goddamn you! Go away!"
She laughed. It was a strange sound in the night, a horrible tinkling kind, and it seemed to bounce around inside my head, bumping from side to side, tormenting me. I ran.
I ran toward the house and up the porch steps and into the house. I stumbled over a chair in the living room, almost falling, but continued on until I was in the sanctuary of my own room.
I closed the door and leaned back against it, knowing that what she had said was so very true. I was a scared little boy, scared of what I would do to her and with her, scared of what that would do to my life..
I stayed there for a long time, until I heard her come into the house. I heard her footsteps outside of my door and I brought a hand up to my mouth, fingering my lips, remembering the taste of her mouth, her tongue like a flame of desire.
I wanted, so desperately, to throw open the door and lunge out at her, to answer the animal instinct that was so strong within both of us.
But T did nothing.
I stood there and, finally, her footsteps passed on and I heard the door closing into their room. I half-stumbled across to my bed, throwing myself down.
I could hear her laughter coming through the walls. My father's deep voice answered, and I knew that he was having what could have been mine only minutes before.
That knowledge rendered me utterly helpless.
I lay back on the bed, shuddering with lust, trying to blot everything out of my mind, not succeeding. I would never succeed in that.
I lay awake for a long time, listening to the sounds in the next room, tormented by them, until at last they ceased.
Then I got up and undressed and got back into bed. Sleep would not come. Erotic visions kept floating across my mind, torturing me with their exactness. Every woman with whom I had shared my body was in my mind and, suddenly, I was remembering Miriam Swensen above all others, the wonder of my affair with her....
I had been twenty years old when I met Miriam Swensen. I suppose, for my age, I had had a normal emotional life. There had been a few girls in town while I was growing up-the usual kind of thing, the back seat of a car or a blanket thrown down along the banks of the river. But I had never spent a whole night with a girl.
Miriam was about thirty when I met her, a divorcee working in the bookstore near the university. She was small and pretty and always neatly and meticulously dressed. Her breasts were abnormally large for a girl of her stature and I could remember the first time I saw her, wondering if they could be real.
Her breasts fascinated me and I hung around the bookstore, just watching her, afraid to speak to her. She seemed to exist in another world, a world of emotional maturity and sophistication.
I took to going to the bookstore as often as possible, on any pretext, just to look at her and marvel at her. I suppose I had what you would call a crush on her.
It was she, finally, who made the first direct move toward our eventual relationship. She came up to me one day and said, "Look. Either get up the courage to speak to me or quit coming here and staring at me like some godforsaken child."
That was the beginning.
Her candor and abruptness in everything amazed me. She got right to the point in everything she did, regardless of what it was.
That first night, we ended up at a drive-in movie and I attempted to make love to her in the car. She only laughed at me and said, "A car is no place for loving, not the kind of loving I like to do."
She-taught me a great deal. I suppose each man has to have a woman like that at some time in his life. I never loved her and she never loved me; we never even spoke of such things. We were interested only in each other's bodies. For me, it was a time of exploration and discovery, the pure physical delight of possessing a woman and everything she is.
We would meet each day at lunchtime and go to her apartment and make love. It was as regular as clockwork, but the routine and method would vary from day to day. Miriam knew everything.
Lying there in my own bed, I knew why I was remembering her: she reminded me of Sherry a great deal. They were so different, yet somehow alike. Miriam had been educated and cultured. Sherry was coarse and obviously had not had much schooling. They were both women who knew what they wanted and how to get it. Their main goals in life were the same, taking from men what they could get, when they could get it.
Knowing this, I felt the curious mixture of fright and passion for Sherry even more strongly than before.
It had been so long since I had had a woman like that. Leah was not that way; with her, love and sex were the same. Sherry and Miriam had different ideas on the subject.
CHAPTER SIX
It was two days later that I saw my father leave the farm in the morning. It was a hot, humid day and I was working in the fields, cultivating.
I saw Sherry come out of the house and look toward me, shielding her eyes with her hands. She stood that way a long time and I knew that she wanted me to see her, standing there alone.
I kept busy at my work, trying not to think of her alone at the house, trying not to think of what I could do if I went up there.
But it was useless. Try as I might, I couldn't get her out of my mind. I found myself looking for excuses to return to the house. Finally, I turned the cultivator around and headed for the barn.
She was waiting for me, sitting cross-legged in the shade of an elm tree. She didn't say anything as I came up, just sat there and stared up at me. But the look in her eyes told me all I wanted to know; it was a look of calculation triumphant.
I wiped the perspiration from my face and forehead with my handkerchief, walking slowly over to where she sat. She was wearing shorts and a halter; the latter was barely sufficient to contain the glory of her breasts and, standing above her, I could see the beginning swells of beautiful flesh, and remember the time I had seen them naked and inviting.
"It's too hot to work," she said coyly.
"It's too hot for anything," I replied.
"Not for anything" she grinned at me.
"Where did Dad go?"
"Some business at the bank. You don't have to worry. He won't be back until late this afternoon."
"I wasn't worrying about him."
She laughed. "Why did you take so long coming? I've been waiting for you."
I shook my head, not answering her.
"You knew you would, sooner or later," she said. "There's no sense in fighting it."
"What do you want from me, Sherry?"
"You ask the most stupid questions," she retorted petulantly.
She lay back on the ground, resting her head in her upturned hands, looking up at me challengingly.
I stared down at her, visualizing what she would look like without the shorts and halter. She wasn't really beautiful and her body wasn't the best I'd ever seen. What, then, was it about her? I couldn't answer that, not now.
I thought, perhaps, it might be her sensuous approach to life, the knowledge that she was what she was, and her bold acceptance of it.
I felt the old tension mount within me, and I saw the quick smile spread across her mouth, and knew what she was thinking.
"I need some fun around here," she said, "some people my own age. Your old man and that stupid old Higgins, both of 'em trying to act twenty years old. They're not kidding no one."
"Then why did you marry him?"
"Why do you think?" She sat up suddenly, shaking her head. "God, it's hot out here. Don't it ever cool off in this damned place? Let's go in the house and get something cold to drink."
She rose and brushed by me. I felt the pressure of her breasts against my arm, saw the quick look of triumph as she went by. I meekly followed, fighting myself all the way. I watched the swing of her hips as she went up the porch steps, saw the tightness of the shorts across her buttocks. She obviously wasn't wearing anything underneath.
We went into the deeper coolness of the house. She went on into the kitchen and I could hear her opening the refrigerator, closing it again.
I was still standing in the living room when she returned, carrying two bottles of beer. She handed me one and said, "For God's sake, Johnny, relax. You're standing there like a wooden Indian."
I took the beer and gulped at it.
"I've never seen you drink before," she said.
She had settled herself on the couch, curling her legs up beneath her, relaxing, yet with a wary look in her eyes.
I sat down in a chair opposite her, not taking my eyes from her. She seemed the embodiment of all women at that moment, the ultimate in my desires.
"If you weren't my father's wife-" I blurted out, unable to continue.
"Go ahead, finish it."
"You know I can't."
"Hell, Johnny, what's the difference?"
It actually seemed as if for her there was no difference. She didn't mind that she had married my father. I was a man, a young man, and that was all that mattered to her.
"I'm bored around here," she said harshly.
"Why don't you leave?" I queried.
She sipped slowly at the beer, licking her tongue around the top of the bottle, smiling suggestively.
"You know something, Johnny?" she said. "You ask the most stupid damn questions I ever heard. You're not a bit like your old man. He gets to the point, bless his soul. He don't fool around none."
"But he's too old for you," I taunted back.
"Now you're getting the point. I need someone like you." She patted the couch at her side with one hand. "You come on over here and sit by me. I won't bite you-not unless you ask me to."
She was leading me on, teasing me, treating me like a boy who had never had a woman. I resented that. I wanted to tell her that I hated her lousy guts, that she was nothing but a two-bit floozy who didn't know when she was well off. But I didn't tell her that.
I rose to my feet and went to the window, looking outside. I could see the heat waves rising from the land; the cows were grazing in the shade of a grove of elm trees, so many tiny fingers in the distance. A flock of crows settled among the rows of com. I looked carefully at the field, realizing how much work I had put into it and that the cultivating had to be finished and soon, or the crop would be no good.
And yet I stayed there in that room with her, so very conscious of her behind me. I wanted her. Oh, how I wanted her! As I had told her, if she weren't my father's wife ... but she was.
She crept up behind me, putting her arms around my waist, locking her hands together, rubbing her breasts against my back. I was only wearing a T-shirt and I could feel the wanting fullness of her breasts against me.
"We could have good times together," she murmured.
"Damn you," I whispered, "damn you."
She only continued rubbing against me, driving me half out of my mind. Her nipples had hardened right through the fabric of her halter and they were like two hot points of passion thrusting against me.
"Take what you can get, Johnny," she whispered huskily.
I whirled around, knocking her away with my sudden motion. She half-stumbled, falling into a chair, sprawling there with her legs spread, smiling up at me.
I took a step toward her and she leaped from the chair, meeting me halfway, her mouth open and wantonly inviting. Our bodies locked together in mutual want. I felt myself falling into the pit of desire, felt my hands running over her body, slick on the hot moistness of her bare skin. Her mouth enveloped mine, seemed almost to engulf me.
My hands felt the snap on her halter and I unloosened it. She stepped back, allowing the halter to fall away to the floor. She cupped her huge breasts in her hands, offering them to me. Her mouth was open and her face was flushed.
"This is it, baby," she said throatily.
She bent down and picked up her bottle of beer. I stood transfixed while she poured the beer over her breasts.
"Take 'em, Johnny!" she yelled. "Take 'em and drink!"
I reached out and fondled one of her breasts. My head was bending down toward her quiescent flesh when I heard the sound of a car draw up outside.
I jerked upright, stunned, feeling guilty, shocked-a child caught doing something he shouldn't.
Looking into her face, I saw the triumph there, the conscious, easy triumph, and I said, "Damn you to hell!"
She was stooping over, picking up her halter, wrapping it around her breasts. "Here," she said quickly, "snap me up in the back."
My fingers were nervous now, fumbling, and I had to try three times before I finally got the snap together. I expected my father to walk into the house at any moment, and it was only then that I was conscious of someone knocking at the front door.
"There'll be another time, baby," she whispered.
"Never!"
She grinned. "We'll see."
Fighting to control myself, I went to the door and opened it, feeling the cold shock of surprise at seeing Leah there. She looked very cool and calm and collected in a white sleeveless dress and a large hat that shaded her face.
"Are you going to ask me in or am I supposed to stand out here in the heat all day?" she asked tartly. "I'm sorry. Come in."
She followed me into the living room, and stopped abruptly when she saw Sherry, who had resumed her posture on the couch, and was sipping beer from the bottle. She took her time lighting a cigarette, blew smoke toward the ceiling.
"We haven't met," Leah said, frowning.
"I'm sorry again," I said, hearing the nervousness in my voice, acutely aware of what this scene must look like to Leah. "It must be the heat."
"Sure," Sherry said, winking broadly, making little pretense to conceal her meaning, "you're pretty hot today, Johnny baby."
I ignored it, but I saw the quick look with which Leah pierced Sherry.
"This is Leah Denning," I murmured, "and this is my father's-this is Sherry."
"You look very cool," Sherry said, her eyes veiled, "almost cold."
"Maybe that's your trouble," Sherry said and laughed.
I was confused and nervous. It was obvious that an immediate and deep dislike had developed between the two women.
I reached out, touching Leah's arm. "Would you like something cold to drink?"
Sherry laughed again, wickedly. "Maybe she'd like something more exciting, Johnny baby," she said.
For the first time since she had entered the house, Leah turned and looked into my face. I could read the sadness evident in her eyes and my heart went out to her; I wanted to take her in my arms. I felt guilty as hell. Only moments before, I had been alone with Sherry, my father's wife, staring with undisguised lust at her naked flesh, reaching for it, and now I was facing the woman I loved.
I looked away from Leah's penetrating gaze, fearful that she would read what was going on inside me.
"Go ahead, have a beer," Sherry urged.
"No thank you," Leah retorted. "It's a little early in the day for me."
"I imagine it's early for you most of the time," Sherry said bitingly. "You probably only like it late at night."
"Your manners seem to be like the rest of you," Leah observed, "crude and vulgar."
"All right," I snapped, "that's enough from both of you."
"From what I hear tell," Sherry went on, ignoring me, "I just might be your mama-in-law one of these days. You should maybe learn a little more respect for me."
"Then you'll have to earn my respect."
I grabbed Leah by the arm, wheeled her around and walked her toward the door. As we went out, Sherry's gusty laughter followed us.
We walked silently toward the barn. The heat seemed almost unbearable now, searing right through me. I could remember, as a child, playing games in the summer, here around the barn, and the laughter we had shared as children. Where had that enjoyment of life disappeared to?
I was still holding Leah's arm when we entered the barn. Inside, it was ten degrees cooler, but there was a musky odor from the hay up in the mow, the rank smell of animals.
There were tears welling up in Leah's eyes.
"Is this what it's come to?" she asked. She shook her head, biting at her lower lip, very close to bursting into tears. "That we have to come out here in the barn?"
"You two obviously weren't getting along," I said lamely.
"What kind of a man are you, Johnny?"
"What do you mean by that?"
Her fingers came up to touch my cheek. They seemed cool and gentle and I suddenly felt ashamed, remembering what I had been doing with Sherry. And yet the shame was not for myself alone; if Leah had treated me differently, I would never have allowed myself to lose control over someone like Sherry. At least that's the way I was rationalizing it within my own mind.
The palms of my hands were hot and sweaty, and I wiped them along the thighs of my levis. "Damn," I said, searching desperately for something to say to her, "it's hot. I've been cultivating out-"
"I didn't come all the way out here to talk about the weather, Johnny."
"Why did you come here, then?"
"I'm not sure. Not now."
"What is it, Leah? What's wrong with us?" I demanded.
"Hold me, Johnny. Just hold me."
She came into my arms and I held her there, gripping her strongly. Her head rested in the hollow of my shoulder and I could feel her body up against mine. My mouth was in her hair. I closed my eyes and, momentarily, the woman here with me changed into Sherry and then quickly changed back again. I was becoming confused, mixing my love and desire for Leah with my lust for. Sherry.
I reached a hand down, tilting her chin up so that our eyes were looking into each other's. We said nothing; we simply stood there for a moment, and then her lips touched mine briefly and I savored that small kiss and smiled down at her.
What kind of a man was I? she had asked. I couldn't answer her. Within an unbelievably short space of time, I was making love to two women, one of whom made me feel dirty and cheap, the other making me feel clean and wholesome.
Leah placed the palms of her hands against my chest, shaking her head slightly. "These past days have been terrible," she said sadly.
"I know."
"I've missed you."
"I know that, too."
"Johnny, tell me you love me." There was a note of urgency in her voice, a questioning that had never been there before.
"You know I love you," I said.
"Say it again and again," she pleaded.
"I love you and I love you and I love you."
She put her arms around my neck, pulling my face down to hers. This time, her mouth lingered against mine and the kiss was long and sweet and loving and I could feel the beginning beats of passion within her body, straining against mine. My hands gripped her back hard, moved down to run along her buttocks, pulling her up against me. .
We stood locked like that, loving each other, lost in the maze of our emotions, until finally our mouths parted and she stepped back slightly to look up into my face.
"There's no one for me like you," she said.
"I want you. Here and now."
"And I want you, my love."
Her eyes were half-closed and tiny drops of perspiration beaded her upper lip. She took that huge hat off and threw it aside.
Watching her, I knew that I could have her, right there in the barn in broad daylight. I knew that and she knew that I knew it. She smiled, accusingly, but did not back away when I moved toward her. Our mouths again met and this time the passion was full and throbbing and I knew it was going to happen, despite my promise to her.
And then, so suddenly, that it caught me completely off guard, she jerked away from me, a look of shocked incredulity on her face.
I turned to see what she was looking at and saw that Sherry was standing in the doorway of the barn, watching us coolly.
"What the hell!" I cried out angrily.
"My God, what kind of a person are you?" Leah flung at her.
"A beautiful show," Sherry replied, clapping her hands daintily. "Go ahead, don't stop because of me."
"You're filthy!" Leah screamed, almost beside herself with outrage and disgust.
"Get out of here, Sherry!" I yelled.
"Now, Johnny baby," Sherry said quietly. "That's no way to talk. You're quite a boy, after all, aren't you? Trying your luck with both of us in one afternoon."
I took a step toward her. Something in my face must have warned her how angered I was, because she stepped back into the full sunlight, the teasing laughter gone from her suddenly, replaced by a look of genuine concern.
"Don't, Johnny!" Leah's cry reached me. "Don't touch her. Let her be the way she is. Don't let her get mixed up with us."
I stopped. My hands were shaking and I realized that I could very easily have struck Sherry; the knowledge that I wanted to was not satisfying to me. I felt no bigger because of it.
"You'd better go, Sherry," I said quietly.
"Go ahead and have your fun," Sherry said defiantly, and moved out of our sight.
Turning back to Leah, I realized that the ecstatic moment we had shared had passed and would not return.
Twice this day a woman could have been mine; twice this day I had been frustrated.
"She's evil," Leah said. There was genuine shock in her voice.
"Yes, I guess she is."
"Johnny?"
"What?"
She raised her hands, dropped them again helplessly. "I've never met anyone like her before."
"Neither have I."
"I don't know how to say what I want to say."
I went back and stood beside her. I had an idea what was going on within her mind, yet I did not want her to express it in words. I was frightened by what she might say.
"She's your father's wife, Johnny," Leah said. "You don't have to tell me that. "You heard what she said. Johnny, how could anybody?"
"Don't say any more, Leah. Please."
"She came in here deliberately. She came in here knowing that we wanted to be alone. Why would she do that? Why does she act the way she does, Johnny? Is there something-between you two?"
"Don't be absurd, Leah," I said and knew that the words sounded false.
"My God, Johnny," she said tremulously.
"Don't even think it, Leah," I begged her.
"I can't help it," she sobbed.
"Stop yourself. Now, this moment," I commanded her.
"Johnny I came here because-well, because I've missed you and I've wanted to see you and because the other night on the phone I was a little abrupt with you. I didn't want to be. I feel-funny about her, Johnny. I can't really explain it. I just feel as if something evil and nasty has come into our lives."
"Like you said, Leah, she's my father's wife. I can't very well help what he's done. Because of him, she has a right to be here."
"I have a feeling about the two of you, Johnny," Leah said. "I know how you are. I can look at her and imagine what she would be like. I've heard the way she talks. I'm-frightened for you, Johnny."
"Don't be, Leah," I told her. "There's only you and me"
I felt the lie in the words as I spoke them. I held her close to me, not wanting her to see my face, afraid that she would be able to see the lie there. Even as I was holding her, I was thinking of Sherry, of the way our bodies had met in the living room, of the way she had poured beer over her breasts....
My emotions were mixed and confused. I loved Leah; I knew that. But I also desired Sherry. I told myself that any man, being around her day in and day out, would have to desire her. She was that kind of woman.
Leah and I walked hand in hand back outside, toward her car. The intense brightness of the sun half-blinded me. We made the idle land of talk two people like us make under such circumstances, promising each other the future.
I kissed her gently before she got into the car, closed the door for her, and watched her drive away. It was only then that I realized I hadn't asked her about Eddie Mack. That fact bothered me; normally, I would have been jealous, would have grilled her about it.
As I watched her leave, I saw my father's car coming in off the highway.
Turning, I caught sight of Sherry standing on the porch. She was smiling, superior and haughty, as she looked down at me.
"She's a cold fish, Johnny," Sherry said.
"She's the woman I love," I answered.
"What's love got to do with having a good time?"
"You wouldn't know, would you?"
"You've got a lot of growing up to do, Johnny. One of these days you'll be a man and maybe you'll know the score then. Just remember the way we kissed. She couldn't kiss you like that, Johnny. Never in this world."
"Go to hell!" I snapped.
"I'm good, Johnny. I'm awfully good," she said, and laughed. "We'll have to finish that beer one of these days."
We both knew what she meant. I stood there in the heat and the dust and watched my father's car come up, and I felt helpless.-I saw him get out of the car, heard him mumble something to me on the way by, watched as he went up the porch steps and put his arm possessively around Sherry, entering the house with her.
She looked back at me, hard, just before the door closed behind them, and I knew what she was thinking.
I was afraid of her and I was afraid of what I would do. Every ounce of decency within me rebelled against the thoughts that welled up within me, the pictures she conjured up....
Sometime later I walked slowly up the steps and into the house. My father, standing in the middle of the living room with a bottle of beer in one hand, gestured to me.
"This includes you, Johnny," he said happily. "I'm gonna give a big party this Sunday. We'll have everyone come." He walked across, patting Sherry affectionately, the way one would pat an obedient pet. "I want everyone to meet this little wife of mine."
I could almost visualize the inner workings of my father's mind. I suspected that he knew he would appear ridiculous in front of most people, yet this was tempered by a curious kind of pride, pride in what he had been able to get for himself because he was a man. I pitied him, something I had never done before.
I wondered if he knew exactly what kind of woman he had married. Looking at him, at the obvious happiness in him now, standing beside Sherry, I didn't have the heart even to bring up the subject. It would be useless, I knew, and would only cause further trouble between us.
"You bring that Leah girl, Johnny," Sherry was saying.
"Sure, sure," Dad said, bubbling over.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" I asked.
He looked at me questioningly, perhaps not understanding exactly what I meant. When Mother was alive, our parties had been famous throughout the county. Everyone had come and they had always had a good time; it was the thing to do, to go to the Hogan farm for a party. Now it seemed to me that he would be throwing that memory into the faces of our friends, flaunting them with his new woman.
"I know exactly what I want, Johnny," Dad said. "Maybe it's time you found out what it is you want."
"Give the boy a little time, Georgie," Sherry said meaningfullly. "He needs a little time to find out."
She came across to me, right in front if my father, throwing one arm around my shoulder, leaning up against me, rubbing her thigh against mine.
"He's got himself a girl," she said, "but I get the idea he don't know what to do with her yet."
Dad laughed nervously, peering at us. I could see the lines of age in his face, the way his shoulders were beginning to stoop slightly, the worried look in his eyes.
"He'll learn soon enough," he said.
"Sure he will," Sherry said, rubbing her hand across the middle of my back.
I wanted to scream out at her. But I could only stand there and look shamefacedly at my father and reel her next to me and feel the lust for her within me. I hoped he could not see it in my face, though I couldn't imagine how he could fail to do so.
I moved away. "I've got to finish the cultivating."
I wanted to lose myself in the physical effort of work. As I left, Dad said something which I couldn't fully hear, and then I was outside in the hot sun once again.
Then I heard my father's angry voice, almost screaming at her: "You tease the boy too much!"
Her reply was muffled and I did not catch it.
But I knew now, as I walked away from the house, that he was very conscious of what she was doing to me. In a way, I suppose he could not be blamed for being jealous; he would want to possess her fully and not share her with anyone. I couldn't blame him. I knew the jealousy that was within me when I thought of Leah with Eddie Mack.
Walking toward the cultivator, I could not get the sight of Sherry's breasts out of my mind, those tantalizing, dark nipples as she had poured the beer over them, the knowing, wanton look on her face.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Sunday of the party was an almost perfect day. It was bright and sunny, with just the hint of a cooling breeze coming from the west. Cotton clouds floated across the deep blue sky. It seemed the kind of a day made for happiness, made for people to get together and enjoy themselves and forget about their troubles.
My father had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to make sure that everyone would have a good time. He and Martin Higgins had spent the better part of one day building a raised wooden platform for dancing in the middle of the yard. There were enough kegs of beer and enough bottles of hard liquor to satisfy a small army; the food, most of which had been prepared in town, was piled high on tables set in the shade of the elms, enough, so it seemed to me, to feed half the county.
Sherry, with the prospect of a party at hand, had stayed away from me during the previous day or so.
She had thrown herself into the preparations with a willingness that had surprised me. She seemed very confident, self-assured, as she went gaily around the farm, overseeing the final preparations.
I felt nervous and inadequate. If I had had my way, I would have avoided the party altogether. Dad and I had had words about it, angry words, and he had been insistent that I be present. I felt as if we were being put on exhibit, as if my father were forcing us to show ourselves to our neighbors, to prove to them that we were happy at the farm.
Leah was coming with a group of others of our age from town. I had not seen her since the morning she had come to the farm and almost discovered me with Sherry. We had talked on the phone only once, when I had invited her, an ambiguous conversation of amenities, nothing more than that.
Remembering that morning, the closeness with which I had held both women, the nearness with which I had come to the ultimate goal with each, I felt a flush come over me. I was like an animal in heat, an animal denied continually that final, triumphant moment, and I knew that I could not go on this way much longer.
I was finishing dressing that day, having already seen some early arrivals through my bedroom window, when the door opened and closed softly behind me. Turning, I saw Sherry standing there, her hands behind her, leaning indolently against the door, that superior, self-satisfied smile on her mouth.
"Well," she asked insolently, "do I pass inspection?"
I could not speak. I could only stand there and look at her and feel the rising lust within me. She seemed to be the epitome of wanton sexuality at that moment, almost a parody of what every man should desire to fulfill that deep biological longing within his body.
Her blond hair was freshly washed and waved, long and beautiful and incredibly soft-looking, tied across the top with a narrow red ribbon; I had the impression that if I loosened that red ribbon, her hair would fall loosely about her face and shoulders, and I ached to run my hands in it, to grip it and feel it against my own face.
She was wearing a multicolored blouse of Hawaiian print, tucked in tightly at the waist, and a shocking white skirt that clung to her as if she had been molded within it. She had on red pumps and a wide red belt around her waist and wore no stockings, which somehow seemed to heighten her sensuality.
When she moved away from the door, which she now did, I could visualize her nude body beneath those clothes. I could see every line of her and desire every line. Her breasts strained against the blouse, yearning for liberty.
I was sure that, as usual, she wore absolutely nothing beneath her exterior clothing, that she was deliberately letting me know this, just as she would let every man know it who looked at her this day.
An overwhelming, piercing desire swept through me. I could think of only one thing. I reached a hand out for her, not caring for anything but the touch of her. She ducked neatly away, laughing lightly.
"Oh, no!" she laughed. "Mustn't touch."
"Damn," I muttered.
"You like?"
"Sherry, you're-I don't know how to say it."
Her tongue flicked out to lick her lips. "I thought you college boys knew all the words," she said. "You disappoint me, Johnny baby. You could at least quote some poetry to me."
"I don't know any poetry. I look at you and I want to-" I couldn't finish it.
"You want me, don't you?" There was cool calculation in her eyes.
"Now you're the one who's asking the stupid questions."
"The time will come, Johnny," she assured me. "Just wait."
"You've been teasing me too long," I said angrily. "Teasing?" She seemed almost genuinely surprised at the idea "I never tease, Johnny. When I want something, I go after it in the only way I know how. Believe me, baby, I'm not teasing you."
Crazily enough, I knew she was speaking the truth. She definitely wasn't teasing me. Given the right opportunity and the right timing, she would cease being a tease. I wanted that moment, right now. I just didn't give a damn about anything else.
"This is a big day for me, Johnny," she said. "Do you think they'll like me?"
I wondered if she actually cared whether or not they liked her. I doubted it. Her kind never bothered about what other people thought. But, perhaps, I was being unreasonably harsh with her. I actually knew so little about her, other than that she was physically the most desirable woman I had ever come into contact with. Her background, where she came from, how she had lived, things like that, were a complete mystery to me.
"You didn't answer me," she prodded.
"The men will look at you and think one thing."
"And the women?"
"They'll probably tear out their hair out of jealousy."
"Is your sweet little girl coming?"
"Leah will be here," I replied.
"Good." There was a threat in the way she uttered the single word. "Why do you say that?"
"You don't know much about women, Johnny," she said. "It's time you learned something."
"I know what to do with a woman like you," I said, feeling the anxiety within me.
"Do you now?" she laughed.
I was about to answer her challenge when the door swung open behind her and my father stamped angrily into the room. His eyes were cold and harsh and his mouth was set in a thin, hard line.
"I was just coming out," Sherry said quickly.
"It's about time," my father said sharply.
"Look, Dad," I began, "we were-"
"You keep outa this!" he interrupted, turning his furious eyes in my direction.
"Come on, Georgie," Sherry said coyly, "don't be like this." She went up beside him, putting one arm around his waist, hugging him. "This is a happy day. Let's not spoil it by arguing before the party even begins."
"I told you to stay away from him," my father barked, looking down at her.
"I was just being nice to him," she replied. "You're not paid to do that," he snapped. "Paid?"
There was a bewildered, confused look on her face as she stepped back from him.
"Dad," I said, "there's no sense in acting this way."
"You shut your mouth!"
"Don't talk to me like that!" I yelled back at him, letting the hostility come to the surface "I'm old enough
"You're old enough to know what you're doing!" He was yelling at me, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, close to the point of violence. "She's my wife and you're my son. You're old enough to know that."
"I've never forgotten it," I said defensively.
"I hope to hell you haven't."
For the first time since I had met her, Sherry seemed almost subdued. She stood aside from us, ignoring our argument, that bewildered look still on her face, staring at my father as if she did not comprehend what was going on.
Dad turned to her, grabbing her roughly by the arm, and said, "Let's go. Our guests are waitin'."
She tore away from his grasp. "You don't talk to me like I'm some common whore," she said in a deadly quiet voice. "I don't take that kind of treatment, George."
He stopped, staring at her in silence for a moment, as if he could not believe that he was hearing right.
"Come on, Sherry," he said in a lower voice.
I felt like an intruder, forced to stand there and watch them. It was doubly embarrassing for me, because of the relationships involved and because of the knowledge that was within me, the knowledge that what my father was thinking was absolutely correct.
"Come on, Sherry,' he said again, almost pleadingly.
I felt shame for him, standing there, begging her that way, losing control of himself in front of me. But I knew the power of her hold on him, the same power she held over me, and so I pitied him, wanting to help him, damning her for what she was doing to him.
"For God's sake," I said, "let's all start acting our ages."
"This is none of your business, Johnny," Sherry said, still not taking her eyes from my father's face. "Your father is trying to act like a big man. He's not that big." There was subdued fury within her voice now. "I've known much bigger men and they didn't get away with talking to me like that. You hear me, George?"
"I hear you," he replied contritely.
"You don't talk to me like that, George," she ordered, rubbing salt into the wound.
My father looked at me helplessly, ashamed of what he was being forced to do in front of me, yet helpless to prevent it. He bowed his head and shrugged his shoulders, and in that moment I wanted to tell him how much I understood the struggle that was going on within him. But I couldn't tell him that; something inside me prevented me from doing or saying anything.
"Okay, Sherry," he whispered, "okay."
She smiled triumphantly. "That's better." She winked at me, the old self-assurance returning. "Now let's all go have ourselves a whooping time. Let's show these country yokels what a real woman does."
She went through the door, hips swinging, getting in the groove for the audience which was waiting for her.
My father didn't look at me. He merely followed her, his shoulders bowed, showing his age.
A horrible premonition hung over me, a premonition of disaster and danger.
I sat hunched over on the wooden bench, a glass of lukewarm beer in one hand, an unlighted cigarette in the other, only dimly aware of the party going on all around me.
The yard was crowded with people. There was a great deal of noise and confused mingling going on. Music drifted over everything. I could hear Martin Higgins' booming laughter dominating the scene somewhere else.
I looked up and tried to see my father or Sherry, but I couldn't see either of them in that crowd.
The day had turned sour for me. I looked down at the glass of beer, raised it to my lips, swallowed it, not really tasting it. I wanted, suddenly, to get good and drunk, to let myself wallow in the self-pity of drunkenness, lose myself in the vacuum of alcoholic nothingness.
But would that solve anything?
Of course not. I tried to tell myself that I was too mature, too intelligent, to allow myself to get involved like this. Things like this just didn't happen. She was nothing more than a woman of the streets, a woman my father had bought and paid for, a woman with whom he shared his bed each night. I could not allow myself the luxury of wanting her, desiring her.
She was his.
I loved Leah. Leah was the one for me. But Leah refused to respond to my deepest desires. Was that sufficient reason for me to act the way I had been acting?
Sitting there, feeling sorry for myself, mulling the whole thing over in my mind, I suddenly caught sight of Sherry in the middle of a group of men, laughing shrilly showing herself off for what she was. A woman came up and took one of the men by the arm, dragging him away, causing the others to laugh.
Sherry, turning her head to survey her audience, caught sight of me. She nodded across the space, and then proceeded to ignore me. The men around her were acting like a bunch of fools, a group of drones around the queen bee, waiting for the least sign of acceptance.
"Damn you," I muttered to myself.
One of the men put his arm around her waist, half-forcing her toward the dance floor. I lost sight of them among the crowd, but I could visualize the-man with his arm still around her, leading her up to the dance floor, pushing his body against hers.
Damn. It was I who was acting like a fool.
"Here's the Ail-American boy now," I heard a familiar voice say behind me.
A group of my friends from town had arrived and now surrounded me. I saw Jay Wilson and his wife, Peggy, and then Leah came through, followed closely by Eddie Mack, whose voice had been ridiculing me.
Eddie and I had never gotten along, not as far back as I could remember. He was big and handsome, broad through the shoulders and narrow through the hips, with close-cropped, blond hair and narrow blue eyes beneath shaggy eyebrows that almost met in the middle.
We had gone through school together and he had always been second best. Time and time again, he had done something outstanding, only to have me better his feat.
In a way, I couldn't blame him for feeling the way he did toward me. I suppose in his shoes I would have felt the same way. I had been president of the student body in high school and he had been vice-president; I had been the leading scorer on the basketball team my last two years in high school, and he had been the second highest.
Once, during our senior year, when I'd had a gimpy leg and was supposedly out of the Big Game that closed the football season, Eddie had played his heart out. He'd been the fullback, the guy who carried the load, and he had rammed and butted his way through the opposition all during the game, holding the team together, making it possible for us to be still tied at 13-all going into the last minute. I had come off the bench for one play, a long pass which I had thrown right into his outstretched arms and he had taken the ball over for the winning touchdown.
The papers had ignored Eddie's play during the game, giving the credit for the victory to me, playing up my courage in coming into the game with a bad leg.
As I say, I couldn't really blame him for feeling the way he did toward me.
But I could blame him for trying to take Leah away from me.
Watching them now, I felt a surge of jealousy sweep over me. I stepped toward Leah, one arm stretched out to give her a hug, but she stopped just short, looking at me intently.
"Some shindig you got here, hero," Eddie said.
"I'm glad you could come," I said to Leah.
"Where's that new mother of yours?" Jay Wilson asked. He was small and peppery, a little ball of redheaded fire, the best friend I had.
"You keep your foolish eyes where they belong!" Peggy snapped at her husband. She was bigger than he was, bordering on being fat, but they were happy and had a lot of fun together, neither taking the other too seriously.
"I can look, can't I?" Jay asked in mock seriousness.
"Act your age, little one," Peggy replied.
"How about some beer?" I asked.
"Let's dance first," Eddie said, putting his hand on Leah's arm, gently drawing her away from me.
She let him lead her away and I stood there, foolishly, watching them leave.
The jealousy must have shown on my face, because Peggy said, "What's in a dance anyway?" and touched my face gently. "He's got no staying power with her, Johnny."
"Sure, who cares?" Jay put in.
I knew they were trying to help. Yet they couldn't realize the personal torment I was going through, the torture of loving Leah, of desiring Sherry.
"Sure, what the hell?" I said.
"That's the spirit, old buddy," Jay said.
I turned and slumped down on the wooden bench again, I was only kidding myeslf, and we all three knew it.
"Let's get drunk," Jay urged hopefully.
"Don't get any ideas, little man," his wife told him.
"You two go on and have some fun," I said.
"And let you sit here and feel sorry for yourself?" Peggy asked. "What kind of friends do you think we are? Were I you, friend John, I'd lift my butt off that bench and get me a pretty gal and raise a little hell. Throw it back in her face."
"That's the ticket," Jay put in. "They're all the same in the dark anyway, aren't they, honey?" and he patted his wife's ample behind.
"You're not going to find out, that's for sure," Peggy snapped at him.
I appreciated them. I knew what they were trying to do. But I wanted to be alone. I didn't want to get some other girl and dance with her.
I saw my father pass across my line of vision. He looked old and tired, worn-out, as if he were forcing himself into having a good time. He seemed almost to be groping his way through the crowd, as if someone should have been helping him, leading him along. The sight of him shocked me and I half-rose, wanting to go to him, then slumped down again, knowing he would refuse my help, be insulted by the offer. There was nothing I could do for him anyway. Hell, there wasn't anything I could do for myself.
I got up and, without saying anything to Jay or Peggy, walked off, pushing my way through the crowd toward the dance floor.
The sun was sinking rapidly. The heat of the day, still baked into the earth, was rising uncomfortably to smother everything within reach. I could feel the perspiration soaking through my shirt.
The noises of the crowd were growing louder and shriller; the liquor and the beer were having their desired effects.
The old parties had not been like this. They had been happy and carefree affairs, everyone having a good time because they were being themselves, not pretending to be something else. Here, now, there seemed to be a sickness in the air, an all-enveloping sickness that called forth foulness and a stench from those it touched.
I came to the dance floor and, looking up, saw Sherry dancing with a man named Bart Hiller. Their bodies seemed almost stuck together, weaving around on the floor, oblivious to everyone and everything else. From my vantage point, I could see the beauty of Sherry's legs.
She saw me looking at her, smiled sensuously, and wiggled even closer to Hiller.
I heard someone mutter a foul curse under his breath and turned to see my father standing beside me.
"She's your wife, Dad," I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, damning myself for it.
He didn't even look at me. He probably wasn't even aware that I was there. He had a drink in his left hand and he raised the glass to his lips, gulping down a great quantity, coughing on it.
I put my hand on his arm, saying, "Let her be, Dad. Don't let it bother you."
He jerked his arm away from me. "What do you know about such things?" he asked angrily.
"Come on, Dad," I begged him. "Let's go sit down someplace."
"I don't need you," he snapped.
Someone behind us laughed loudly. Dad turned quickly, trying to see who it was. I could see the muscles in his jaw working harshly. This day was not what he had planned and I had an idea that it would end in violence.
"Take it easy," I cautioned him.
There was a sudden, rising crescendo of laughter coming from the other side of the platform and, turning, I saw Bart Hiller's wife marching stiff-legged to where Sherry and Bart were dancing.
She grabbed her husband by the scruff of the neck, yanking him away from Sherry. From that distance I couldn't hear her words, but Sherry only smiled her answer, which seemed to make Mrs. Hiller even angrier. Bart staggered along the edge of the platform, disappearing down the stairs on the far side. Mrs. Hiller turned and stamped after him, amid a great deal of laughter all around.
"Why is she doin' this?" my father asked in a strained voice.
"Who knows?" I replied.
"Johnny-" and he shook his head "-Johnny, I just don't know. I can't seem to cope with her."
I opened my mouth to say something, to try and give him some sympathy, but at that moment Martin Higgins came up, slamming one big arm around my father's shoulders, laughing boisterously, and dragging him away into the crowd.
Everything went round and round in my head from then on. I was only vaguely aware of the mass of people around me. Drunken voices raked at each other; fights broke out here and there and, amid it all, I wandered like a lonely sentinel, unsure of myself.
Leah, for some reason, was avoiding me. I kept seeing her just beyond me, always with Eddie Mack. I was doing a slow burn. I wanted to dance with her. I didn't want her with Eddie Mack.
The sun was only a couple of inches above the horizon when I found myself in the company of Leah, Eddie Mack and the Wilsons. I felt out of place, an intruder.
Sherry chose that moment to come up to me. I had watched her dancing with half the men in attendance, showing herself off in a manner which both shamed and thrilled me.
She took my arm, smiling challengingly at Leah. Somehow or other, I found myself moving up to the dance floor with Sherry, conscious of Leah's angry, accusing eyes following me.
We danced. Oh, God, how we danced. She placed herself close to me, moving her body wantonly against me, driving me half out of my mind with aroused feeling. Her fingers played along the back of my neck and, once, I felt her teeth nibbling at the lobe of my ear.
I didn't give a damn. I just didn't care. I wanted it to go on forever.
Later, as we moved away from the dance floor and rejoined the other four, I couldn't look Leah in the face. My father came up and tore Sherry away from me.
"Damn you, Sherry," he said in a loud and threatening voice, "you keep away from him!"
"I'll dance with who I want!" she yelled back at him.
My father was half-drunk. He stood swaying on uncertain legs, angry at the world.
He turned his rage in my direction then. "You keep your stinkin' hands off her! he yelled at me.
"We did no harm," I replied.
"You heard me!" He was almost screaming, almost beyond himself with rage. He pushed me backward. "She's my wife, my woman!"
"That's a laugh," Eddie Mack said contemptuously.
Angered beyond myself, knowing that I couldn't take my pent-up emotions out against my father, I turned on Eddie.
"You goddamned loud-mouth," I said, "keep out of this!"
"Hey!" Eddie yelled. "You want something?"
Leah hovered behind him, anxiously watching us. Suddenly, I needed violence; I needed something or someone against which I could strike out.
I threw a punch blindly. It caught Eddie high on the cheek, spinning him backward into a knot of people who had gathered to watch the show. Some one of them pushed him back toward me and he came in low, crouched over. I met him head-on, my knee cracking against his face. I saw the blood spurt quickly from his mouth, heard Leah's voice screaming something unintelligible.
Eddie had fallen to the ground on his side. I went for him and spun away, kicking up with his feet. One of his shoes caught me in the groin, sending a shock of searing agony right through me. I halted in my tracks, blinded by the pain.
Something struck me on the side of the neck and I felt myself stumbling to one side, falling to a half-sitting position. I could dimly see Eddie coming for me, yet I could not get out of the way of his crashing fists; they pummeled me without mercy. I tried to get to my feet. I was coughing blood.
The next thing I knew I was on my back and Eddie was astride me, his knees squeezing my ribs, his fists pounding into my bleeding face. I gave him a judo crack across the throat. The sound that came from him was like death, and he wheeled off me, crawling on all fours across the ground. I kicked him viciously in the side and he sprawled flat.
I'm not sure what happened next. I know that I was on top of him and that my arms were tired from lifting them and letting my clenched fists come down against his head and face.
Strong hands finally pulled me away.
I sat hunched over in the semidarkness of a stall. Someone poured a bucket of water over my head. There was not a bone or a muscle within me that didn't ache.
I looked up to see Jay Wilson standing above me.
"You okay now?" he asked me.
"I'm okay," I said, but I wasn't sure.
"Hell, man, I thought you was gonna kill him."
"Maybe I wanted to."
"What?"
"Nothing. Skip it."
Footsteps sounded along the floor of the barn. I could hear Peggy Wilson's anxious voice asking something, the reply given by Jay and then, distinctly, Leah's question, "Is he all right?"
And then there was quiet. I took hold of a slat in the side of the stall, pulling myself to my feet. Leah was there, standing quietly, an angel of purity in the growing darkness.
"You broke up the party," she said to me senselessly.
"I don't give a damn," I said.
"I've ... never seen you like that."
"I've never felt like this."
"You were like an animal, Johnny."
"Oh, Christ!" I snapped. "Don't lecture me now."
"I won't lecture you, Johnny. I have nothing more to say to you."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," she said slowly, "that we're through. I can't go on like this. You jumped on Eddie for no reason. Maybe that woman has gotten to you like she's gotten to your father. You're two of a kind...."
Her voice drifted on, but I was no longer listening to her. I was standing there, leaning against the side of the stall, feeling horrible inside. There were so many things I wanted to say to her, so many important things, and yet I could say nothing.
It was the end.
There would be nothing else for us.
And still I thought of Sherry, the way she had felt when we had danced together.
I don't know when Leah left. I just know that suddenly it was quiet and the darkness had grown deeper and, away off in the distance, I could hear the sounds of cars moving. A horn blared annoyingly. Pigs were squealing. Something scurried across the floor near me, a rat probably. A women's voice, unrecognizable, screamed something at the night.
I was alone.
I was alone in a world of confusion, of mixed-up dreams and tangled emotions.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I awakened stiff and sore all over.
I crawled out of bed and switched on the bedside lamp, and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. I listened intently, but I could hear no sounds coming from their room.
I rose and went into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, not feeling like shaving this morning. I took a look at myself in the mirror above the basin. I saw the bruise marks around my left eye, the gash across my forehead where Eddie Mack must have slashed at me with his teeth. My left hand was swollen and puffed, the knuckles split, dried blood caked on them.
I was a mess.
I was feeling very sorry for myself as I went back into the bedroom and began dressing. The day and night before had been disastrous, in more ways than one. I wasn't even sure what had happened. It was like trying to remember a dream, with gaping holes in your memory.
My fight with Eddie Mack had proved absolutely nothing, yet I felt that in fighting with him I had dug some kind of an unbridgeable chasm between Leah and myself. There was a dim memory of her lecturing me, telling me everything was finished between us.
Had it been worth that? Had I really been that jealous of her? Or had it been something else that had driven me into fighting?
Senseless questions. No answers.
I stumbled through the house in the semidarkness of dawn, putting the coffee pot on the stove, thinking to hell with the morning chores. If they were to be done, let him get up and do them, let him worry about them.
I was through, finished. I was taking no more.
And yet, standing there, leaning against the sink in the kitchen, I knew that I would back down, as I had always backed down before my father. I could stand there and imagine a different kind of life, a life away from the farm, a life without the emotional tug-of-war that was going on within me now; but I knew, deep inside me, that I was powerless to leave the farm. There was a pull here, unexplainable, yet nevertheless tangible and real.
Perhaps it was the memory of my mother, or of my dead brothers, of the life I had dreamed about. Whatever it was, I could not let Sherry ruin it; I could not let her force me away from something that was really mine, something I had worked for over long, hard years.
I was dimly aware of someone coming through the house. I heard something fall to the floor and roll across the rug. I was frightened that it might be Sherry. I could not stand the thought of seeing her this morning, not with everything that had happened.
I was turning to go out through the kitchen door when I heard my father's voice say, "Don't leave yet, Johnny."
Turning to face him, I was shocked by his appearance. His hair was wild and unruly and he seemed to have aged almost ten years overnight. The appearance of strength and vitality which had always set him apart from most men his age seemed to have evaporated into the air, leaving him stooped and old, a mere shadow of what he had been.
"I want to talk to you," he added.
"The chores have to be done," I said.
"To hell with that!" he snapped.
I waited, feeling within me the sure knowledge of what it was that he wanted to talk about. I searched desperately in my mind for some excuse to leave him.
I did not want to listen to him; I did not want to get involved in a discussion with him.
The coffee pot began perking, a curious sound in the otherwise quiet morning. He shuffled across to turn off the heat on the stove, a barefooted old man in his pajamas. I noticed that his hand shook as he lifted the coffee pot and turned to look at me.
I shrugged, going to the cupboard, getting two cups, holding them while he poured the coffee into them. The steam rose in a cloud between us, momentarily blocking the view of his face.
He put the coffee pot back on the stove, then slumped wearily down into a chair.
"I'm gonna ask you somethin', Johnny," he said in a curiously strained voice.
"I'm not sure I'll answer you."
"You will." He looked up at me and there was a little of the old fire in his tired eyes. "Damn you, you will answer me. You remember that I'm your father."
"I can't forget it," I said haughtily, not liking the way he was looking at me, the way he was treating me.
"Johnny, have you ever had a woman?"
I sipped at my coffee, let the burning hot liquid pour down my throat and into my stomach, warm me all over, wondering just what he was getting at, "I've had women," I said finally.
"Then you know what it is."
"I know what it is."
"Good. Then mebbe you can understand when I tell you I want you to keep your goddamned nose outa my business. I know why you fought with Eddie last night. It wasn't because of Leah and don't you try and tell me it was." He was leaning forward now, his elbows resting on the table, the cup of coffee forgotten beside his hands. "I don't need no help from you, Johnny. I'm man enough to handle my own problems in my own way. You understand that?"
"I understand that you made a damned fool of yourself yesterday," I said.
"I don't give a damn about that. I'm old enough to do what I want and how I want. I want you to understand about this other."
"Dad, don't be foolish. I had-"
"I don't want no back talk. I don't want nothing from you but the truth. I know what Sherry is and what she can do to a man. She's done it to me, so I gotta know. I'm a simple man, Johnny, with simple wants. One thing I want right now is my wife."
He was breathing hard, sitting there like some kind of an enraged animal, ready and willing to leap against me if I made the wrong move.
"Dad, this is foolish talk between us. There's no point in it."
"Don't tell me that. I got eyes. I've seen what's goin' on around here. You think you can fool me? She's got you with your tongue hangin' out, watchin' her every move."
"I'm a man too. I like to look."
"You be damn sure that's all you do, is look!"
"For crying out loud!" The sudden anger came up within me, bursting out. He knew. He could read what was going on within my mind every time I looked at Sherry. "You think I'd lay a hand on your wife? What kind of a son do you think I am?"
"That's beside the point. I know what a woman like Sherry can do to you. You ain't that smart, boy. You'll never be that smart. The women in this world like her, well, you just give up and let 'em do what they want."
"I can't believe you'd think that of me," I said.
"Believe what you want," he said irritably. "I'm tellin' you, here and now, to stay away from her."
I felt uneasy, knowing how much of what he was thinking was true. I also felt cheap and dirty because I knew within myself that, given the opportunity, I would take her.
I would take what I could get when I could get it. I was shocked by that thought. I could remember Sherry voicing that philosophy. Was I becoming like her?
I suppose at that moment whatever had been between my father and me in the past died. No longer could I look at him and feel the respect and admiration I had always felt; I now looked at him and saw him for what he was-a middle-aged man making a complete fool of himself over a cheap woman.
And I knew that I could just as easily make a fool of myself over the same woman, regardless of my supposed intelligence, regardless of the fact that she was his wife.
"I know she teases you, Johnny," he said, and there was constraint in his voice now. He was subdued, quiet, one man talking to another man about something that was vitally important to both of them. "She throws herself around to any man that'll look, showin' off what she's got. It's her way. She came from nothin' and she'll probably end up the same way. But not now. Don't you fall in with her games, Johnny. You got yourself a nice girl in Leah. You stay with her."
"Leah and I are finished," I said without thinking.
His eyes were veiled as he looked at me, shaking his head sadly. "I'm sorry to hear that, believe me. I think a lot of Leah. She would've been good for you. But if that's the way it is, then that's all the more reason for you to keep in mind what I been tellin' you."
"Dad, for Chrissakes, let me-"
"No," he interrupted harshly. "I've had my say. Whatever you said would only add to the way I feel. You know how I feel now, so you're forewarned. I don't wanna catch you messin' around with her again, Johnny." His eyes were narrow slits, staring at me, commanding me, threatening me. "That's enough," he added.
He rose to his feet, a little unsteadily I imagined, and I wondered if he had been drinking already that morning. From the change in him, I wouldn't have doubted it. It seemed to me that the only things keeping him alive now were his hunger for Sherry and liquor.
I wondered, as I watched him leave the kitchen an shuffle back to his room, what my mother would have thought of him now. The thought left a foul taste in my mouth, and I turned angrily away, slamming my sore hand into the jamb of the kitchen door.
I closed my eyes, picturing him crawling into bed beside her. She would be the kind not to wear a stitch of clothing in bed. I pictured the warmth of her body in the early morning, the fullness of her breasts....
No wonder he didn't trust me. I couldn't trust myself.
Right then, I wished that I were a thousand miles away. But I knew I couldn't run from what was facing me. It was senseless and useless even to contemplate that.
Yet, as I walked out into the still morning air and looked at the debris of the party scattered around the grounds, at the sun rising brightly at the edge of the horizon, I felt that something evil and vile had entered my life, that I no longer was what I had intended being.
As long as both Sherry and I stayed at the farm, this evil would be with me. It was impossible for it not to be so. As my father had said, my breaking up with Leah made it even more imperative that I stay away from Sherry.
With that thought nagging at my mind, I trudged about my morning chores.
CHAPTER NINE
The day somehow dragged by. I worked hard, letting the liquor of the night before ooze out of my pores in honest sweat.
I stayed out in the fields during the noon meal, not wanting to share the table with them. I imagined that there would be an accounting this day; my rather was obviously getting tired of playing the fool and he probably was going to have it out with Sherry, just as he had had it out with me.
But, finally, I had to come in. I was tired clean through and worn to a frazzle, still sore from the fight with Eddie Mack. I stripped my shirt off as I came into the yard, ducking my head and shoulders into the watering trough. The water felt cool and welcome and I came up spitting water to see Sherry standing beside me with a fluffy towel in her hands.
"Here," she said, "let me help you," and she began rubbing the towel across my shoulders.
Being that close, I looked into her eyes, saw the puffiness from too much sleep around the corners of them. She returned my look steadily, as if she were challenging me about something.
Her breasts, as she rubbed the towel across me, touched my arm. I grabbed the towel out of hands, turning away from her. My gaze went to the house and I wondered if my father were inside there, looking out at us.
Remembering our conversation of that morning, I knew that he would take violent measures if he saw me messing around with Sherry.
The thought was discomforting and I found myself wondering what I would do if he did attack me. Could I defend myself? Was I capable of that against him?
"God," she said behind me, speaking in a low, intense voice, "your skin is so damned smooth."
"Get the hell away from me!" I whispered urgently.
She laughed. "Are you afraid?"
I turned to look at her. She was again wearing shorts, tight and very brief, and a halter across her breasts. One hand rested against her thigh, the forefinger drumming against the tan of her skin.
"You heard what I said," I told her.
"I can hear."
"Get in the house!"
"You don't tell me what to do!"
I wanted to slap her across the face. I wanted to hear her cry out in pain and anguish. But I only stood there and felt my stomach flip over as I saw my father come from within the house and stand on the porch, staring down at us.
Something in my face must have told her that he was there, because she smiled teasingly and slowly pivoted around, brushing her hip against me.
"Come up here, Sherry," my father called to her.
"You wanna see me, you come on down here, Georgie," she answered tauntingly.
"Damn you," I whispered to her back. "You go on up to him. He's your husband. He's your man."
She threw her head back and laughed shrilly.
"Sherry, come up here!" my father yelled again.
"He's no man," Sherry said contemptuously, half-turning so that she could see both of us. "He's not the man you are, Johnny." She reached a hand out, squeezing my muscles. "You got him beat in spades."
I looked to the porch to see what my father was going to do. He stood there a moment as if he were debating something within himself, then he slowly came down the stairs and shuffled across to where we were standing.
He kicked angrily at a broken whiskey bottle, sending it flying off.
"I told you," he said intently, "to come up there."
"You don't boss me around," Sherry snapped back.
Before I knew what was happening, he had twisted his fingers in her hair. He grunted to himself as he twisted and she stumbled around, moaning in pain. She fell to her knees and again he twisted her hair and again she moaned in pain.
I stood there, feeling helpless, shocked at the sight of my father acting like this. I could never remember, in all the years, his ever raising his voice to my mother or to any other woman. And now he was acting like some drunken bum, hauling his woman around by the hair.
Sherry screamed.
The noise was ear-splitting and seemed to have some effect on my father, as he released his hold on her and stepped back, looking down at her. There was a look of complete disgust and revulsion on his face at that moment, and then it was erased by an expression of shocked incredulity as he fell to his knees beside her.
She crawled away from him and jumped to her feet. Her eyes were wild as she glanced around the yard, apparently seeking something with which to defend herself. She spotted the broken bottle lying a few yards away and ran for that.
But I was quicker. I reached for the bottle and scooped it up just a second before she got to it. We plowed into each other and she was knocked off-balance. She tumbled back onto the ground, her heels in the air, a shriek of pain or annoyance coming from her.
I had not been watching my father. I suddenly felt something slam into the middle of my back and I was sent reeling across the yard, falling to my elbows and knees. I still held the broken bottle in my hand and, as I looked down at the ground, I saw the blood coming from an open gash in my palm where the ragged edge of the bottle had penetrated.
Sherry had once more jumped to her feet and was running for the house. I heard my father behind me and I turned, resting on my knees, looking up at him. There was a look of sad desperation in his eyes as he glanced down at me. "I'm sorry, Johnny," he murmured. "I'm sorry." I threw the bottle to one side, too angry to answer him, and slowly got to my feet, taking a handkerchief from my pocket and binding it around the gash on my hand.
"Are you hurt?" he asked foolishly.
I still didn't answer him. I just stood there and looked at him accusingly. He could not take that; he shook his head and backed away a few steps, possibly realizing for the first time what he had done.
"Don't look at me like that," he begged.
"You disgust me!" I cried out at him.
"Try to understand, Johnny."
"What is there to understand? She's no animal that you can push around and beat. Whatever else she is, she's still a human being," I said.
I heard the screen door slam. She had come out onto the porch and I could see the butcher knife in her right hand. From the way she was holding it, she would know how to use it, and I was suddenly frightened that this whole situation had gotten out of hand. It was no physical fright; it was the fright of anguish at the rottenness to which we had all descended.
Dad took a step toward her and I reached out, grabbing him by the arm, stopping him.
She came slowly down the stairs, weaving the knife in her right hand the way I had seen hoodlums do it on television and in the movies. She stopped a few feet from us.
"Come on, Georgie," she said in a tight voice. "Come on and try that again."
"Put the knife down, Sherry," I comanded her.
She paid no attention to me. She was staring intently at my father, daring him with her look to come at her. I actually think that she wanted him to attempt something. There was a curious look of anticipation in her eyes, and I had the feeling that she had gone through this same scene with other men in the past, "Come on, Georgie," she begged him.
There was a sudden, deathly silence. I felt as if I were participating in some kind of a wildly obscene and surrealistic play. This couldn't be real, I told myself, and then, looking at the knife in Sherry's hand, I realized just how real it was.
My father said, "I'm sorry, Sherry. I shouldn't have done that to you. You have my apology."
The hand holding the knife dropped an inch or so. Her whole body seemed to relax a bit. She closed her eyes, opened them again.
"You better remember this, Georgie," she said threateningly. "I know how to use a knife and I don't like getting pushed around, not by you or anyone. You remember that."
My father turned without saying another word and walked toward his car. I heard the engine start, turned in time to see him driving off.
I was again disappointed in him; it seemed to me that he was running away, avoiding the real issuue.
She seemed to be reading my mind because she said, "He's not running, Johnny. He was going to town anyway." She laughed lightly, so different from what she had been only moments before. She had the ability to turn it on and off quickly. "He won't be back until late," she added.
"You caused that," I told her.
"So what if I did?"
"You do know how to use that knife, don't you?"
"You're damned right I do," she said proudly. "The kind of life I've had, you've got to learn such things."
"You're feeling sorry for yourself."
She shrugged, turned away from me, then stopped to glance back at me. "Georgie's gonna be gone a long time. We could pick up where we left off the other day."
"Go to hell!" I snapped at her.
She laughed teasingly, walking slowly toward the house, swinging her hips in a broad caricature of her real walk. She was again teasing me, leading me on.
I watched her until she had disappeared into the house. I felt uneasy. I did not want to be there, alone with her, knowing how I felt toward her. I damned my father for giving us this opportunity; he should have known better, especially after our talk.
What did he think I was made of? How much did he think I could take?
I could not stay there with her. I had to get away.
I picked up my shirt near the watering trough and almost ran to my car. I didn't look back; I was afraid to look back, afraid that I would see her and that my will power wouldn't suffice against her. I knew only that I had to leave, that I was frightened at the thought of what would happen if I stayed.
Driving along the highway, my insides were a jumble. I wanted her so damned much. She was always there, just beyond me, mine for the asking, yet I-couldn't ask. My hands shook on the steering wheel.
It was almost as if I were sick with some mysterious disease, a disease of want and desire. I had heard and read about men involved in such manner with women.
And now I was one of them.
I felt helpless, driven along toward the inevitable.
I drove blindly in the hot afternoon sun. Heat waves pranced along the highway before me and I tried vainly to catch up with them.
It was a futile chase, as I had known it would be.
CHAPTER TEN
The music came from the garish-colored juke box in the corner, loud and blaring and horrible. A couple shuffled indifferently around the sawdust-covered floor, oblivious to the rhythm of the music, interested only in the nearness of their bodies.
Someone laughed from a back booth, a silly kind of laugh, meaning nothing.
I sat slumped over the table in a booth on the side, staring at the obscenities carved into the wooden top of the table. Wonderful, I thought. I could imagine the time and the effort of those who had done the carving. They would sit there and laugh and think they were having a good time, that they were fooling the world. Well, was I any different?
I was carving obscenities in the recesses of my mind, picturing Sherry in every possible situation with me. I had to stop it. Easy to think about, yet seemingly impossible to do.
I either had to stop dreaming about her or do something about it. Both were impossible.
I sipped at my beer and nibbled at a pretzel. The beer was warm, and here inside it was just plain hot. There seemed to be no air moving at all. A big fan hung from the ceiling in the center of the room, slowly revolving, cooling nothing, wasting its motion, just as I was wasting my own motion.
That someone laughed again and I gritted my teeth.
I was on my third beer. I had had nothing to eat all day and my stomach growled its neglect. I ignored it and sat there and let the wave of self-pity wash over me, getting little comfort from it.
Somehow, I had found my way to Murray's, knowing that I could not return to the farm until .my father had returned. In the back of my mind was the sure knowledge that I needed a woman, any woman.
Or was that true?
Could I satisfy myself without Sherry?
It was still early and there was hardly anyone in the roadhouse as yet. I suddenly remembered Leah's telling me to come here. I almost laughed.
Leah. Where had I gone wrong with her?
Had it been the fault of Sherry alone, or had there been something specifically wrong between the two of us before Sherry had arrived?
I didn't know the answer. I didn't care to know the answer.
I rose and went over to the bar. Murray sat on a high red stool behind the bar, idly polishing beer glasses. He was short and thick-bodied, with a red face and a pushed-in nose, thinning reddish hair.
He didn't like me. He had never really liked me and then, after my father had torn up his place after my brother's death, he liked me even less. I couldn't blame him. I wasn't the usual kind to come here, and we both knew it.
"Another beer," I said. "A cold one this time."
"You don't like the beer here," he said. "You go someplace else, kid."
"I'll take the beer."
He mumbled something under his breath and came down off his perch, going for the beer.
Someone moved onto the stool next to me. I turned and saw a girl of about my own age, short and thin. Her blond hair was pulled back into a pony tail and her mouth, as she turned and glanced warmly at me, was a bright slash of pink lipstick, heavily applied. I could see that she had tried to make her lips larger than they actually were; the lipstick was smeared above her lips, making her appearance ludicrous.
She was dressed in a rust-colored blouse and white toreador pants. She wore the blouse outside at the waist.
She smiled at me hesitantly as Murray returned with my beer.
I touched the bottle. It was warm.
I said, "I want a cold beer, Murray."
"That's cold enough," he growled at me, his hands below the bar.
I knew he kept a baseball bat under there. I had seen him use it more than once. But, at that moment, I didn't give a damn about anything. I picked up the bottle of beer and tipped it upside down, pouring its contents out over the top of the bar.
The girl next to me jumped quickly away, laughing nervously.
"A cold beer, Murray," I said.
His little eyes narrowed into thin slits. He stood there for a moment, apparently debating whether or not to take up my challenge. I almost wished that he would. Even after my recent fight with Eddie Mack, I felt the need of physical combat. I wanted to strike out at Murray, at anyone who got in my way.
Murray shrugged, smiling, deciding not to do anything then. "You're the boss, kid," he said.
The girl next to me whispered, "You gotta watch him. He keeps a bat under there."
"I know."
"And you wasn't scared?"
I shrugged. Her voice, like her body, was thin. There was hardly any substance to it at all. She was like a small and frightened child, just waiting for someone to snap out at her, tell her what to do, inform her that her ghosts were not real.
Murray returned again with a beer. This time, as I picked up the bottle, I felt its coldness. I tipped it to my mouth, feeling it go down.
I said, "You're a very nice guy, Murray," and gave him a cold smile.
"You can go to hell, boy," he snarled.
"Now, now," I said, watching his narrow eyes, knowing how much he wanted to swing out at me. "You reach for that ball bat and I'll take it away from you and shove it down your throat." I felt mean as hell.
"You're tough, huh?"
"I'm tough enough."
"Like your old man," he said, and his grin was knowing, leering.
He came up with a wet towel and began mopping the top of the bar where I had poured the warm beer. He had a nude woman tattooed on his left forearm, her breasts a bright and garish red.
"You want somethin', Ruthie?" he asked the girl next to me.
She cleared her throat as if afraid to speak and nervously said, "I'll have a gin and tonic, please."
That seemed very funny to Murray. He threw back his head and laughed uproariously. I could see his yellow teeth within his opened mouth. He was making me very sick and very angry.
"Give the lady what she wants," I told him.
He stopped his laughter as suddenly as he had started it. "What lady?" he asked in all innocence.
"And bring it over to the booth," I added.
I took her by the arm and guided her toward my booth, I had no idea who she was or what she was. She was a woman. 'That was good enough for me. It was the most positive thought I'd had in days.
We sat down and I lighted a cigarette for her. She blew the smoke out of the corner of her mouth, and coughed.
"I'm Ruth Jensen," she said.
"I'm-" I started.
"I know who you are," she interrupted. "Oh?"
Murray brought the gin and tonic and mumbled something under his breath as he walked away.
"Sure," she went on, smiling, a little more self-confident now. "I was two years behind you in high school. I know you, but you wouldn't remember me. I saw you enough times, at all the games. I used to go to all the games. Sure, I remember you, Johnny Hogan. I saw you score three touchdowns against-"
"That was a long time ago," I broke in. "Too long ago."
I closed my eyes, remembering. Those had been the days. Everything had been fine then. No worries, no problems, just eating and sleeping and loving life, a big wheel in everything I did. My mother had been guiding me in my studies and I could remember that all the teachers had been surprised at the ease with which I managed to waltz through their courses. They hadn't been used to having athletes with brains and it had given me a great deal of pleasure to be such a student.
Sitting there, I suddenly thought of my mother. I could see her face so clearly in my mind, her kind and beautiful face, thoughtful. I would sit and listen to her, and my father and brothers would come in from the fields, tired and hungry from their work.
Yes, it had been good. And now?
"Are you okay?" Ruth asked me.
I opened my eyes. She was leaning toward me, one hand extended, a worried look on her face.
"Sure," I replied. "I'm fine. Great."
She sighed, relaxing back, a thin little trace of a smile on her pathetic mouth. She looked around her. This, I thought, was her heaven or hell, depending on which way you looked at it. This was the place where she came night after night, seeking a little love in this crazy world.
In a way, I suppose, this girl and I were a lot alike. We were both looking for the same thing.
I got up and went around to her side, sliding in beside her, moving my arm around her shoulders, letting my hand fall close to her tiny little breast.
She grinned nervously. "You don't waste any time."
"Why should I?"
I put my other hand under her chin, pulling her face around to mine. My lips touched hers, held for a moment. I kept my eyes open, watching her. She hungered for that kiss, and I felt guilty as all hell as I pulled back from her.
I was playing with her. I was using her. I mentally damned myself and yet, at they same time, I seemed powerless to prevent myself from doing what I was doing. I needed a woman; this was a woman.
We sat and talked and drank and, a little later, I ordered hamburgers.
There was little doubt that she would go with me. She seemed so grateful to be with me that it shocked me. Her drinks got to her and she told me how she had dreamed about me in her younger days. She had had a crush on me.
It was an odd feeling, sitting there, rehashing a happy youth, discovering that someone had loved me from afar.
But I didn't give a damn. I thought to myself that I had given of myself to everyone around me for so long that now it was time that I took a little.
We kissed from time to time. She was enjoying it and I was forcing myself to enjoy it. She was no Sherry or Leah, that was for sure. I tried closing my eyes and imagining that she was Sherry. But that didn't work.
The drinking was finally getting to me. I felt woozy and unsure of myself.
We had been there for a couple of hours and I had about decided that it was time to ask the ultimate question when I thought I heard the familiar sound of Martin Higgins' roaring laughter. I looked around and saw him standing at the bar, his arm wrapped possessively around the girl beside him. I blinked my eyes, looking again, unable to believe what I was seeing. The girl with him was Sherry!
I sat there, stunned, unable to comprehend this turn of events. I hadn't thought she would turn to someone like Higgins. I knew what she was and yet, even in my wildest imaginings, I couldn't picture her with him.
But there she was.
She was wearing a colorful summer dress, sleeveless, and the same high-heeled pumps she had worn to the party.
As I sat there and watched, I could see Higgins' big and horny hands caressing her buttocks as he talked to Murray. It was vulgar and obscene.
Blind anger took hold of me.
Higgins yelled, "Let's have some music in this dead dump. I'm an old man and I wanna dance with this pretty young thing beside me." He laughed obscenely.
Sherry whirled away from the bar, swinging around so that her dress swirled high above her knees. Her bare thighs showed clearly and agonizingly to every man in the place. She was wearing her hair loose and it swung out behind her.
She stopped suddenly, both hands raised in front of her, staring in my direction. Something like a ghost of a smile crossed her mouth and she began swaying slowly and sensuously back and forth. Someone had started the juke box again and she danced by herself, swinging herself with abandon, coming closer and closer to me.
A voice yelled a raucous obscenity. It almost seemed like a fertility dance and I felt the lust rising within me, almost uncontrollable. Her movements were more than suggestions; they were almost the real thing.
Ruthie, her hand on my arm, asked, "What is it, Johnny?"
I ignored her, my eyes searching the figure of Sherry, devouring her. I knew, then, that I had to have her, that I was going to have her, come hell or high water.
Higgins was following her around the dance floor, a big and clumsy figure vainly trying to catch her with his huge arms. She ducked neatly away from him, laughing at him, making a fool of him, enjoying herself. He seemed oblivious of this, interested only in getting his arms around her.
She whirled near my booth, leaning against the table, bending low so that her breasts pushed tautly against her dress; I could see the imprint of her nipples against the fabric and, foolishly, I reached for her. She jumped back, laughing at me as she had laughed at Higgins.
"Look who's here," she called to Higgins, who had come up behind her, huffing and puffing, red in the face.
His eyes narrowed as he looked down at me. He licked his lips, bending slightly forward. I could see that he wasn't exactly sure how to play it, not with me there.
"Come on, sweetie, dance with me," Sherry said to him, encircling his thick neck with her arms. She pushed herself against him, forcing him backward.
He stumbled around on the dance floor, both arms locked around her, his mouth pushed into her hair.
It was horrible.
You could tell that she was only teasing him, yet that the teasing might erupt at any moment, that he could take only so much.
I felt that she was doing it for my benefit.
I rose and almost ran to the middle of the floor, jerking him away from her. He stumbled backward, then crouched low, ready and willing for trouble. We stared at each other, two animals in heat over the same bitch, each hating the other, each wanting to maim and hurt the other.
"Keep your dirty hands off her!" I said to him.
Someone laughed. I could see, out of the corner of one eye, Murray hustling around from behind the bar, the ball bat held menacingly in one hand.
Higgins growled something deep within his throat. He waved an arm at me, then suddenly straightened up and backed away.
"You got more guts than sense, Johnny boy," he said in a low, tight voice.
Someone's hand was on my arm, pulling at me. It was Ruthie and there was fear in her face, fear and incomprehension.
"It's okay," I said to her, not exactly sure what I meant by that, yet feeling sorry for her, a stranger thrown into our den of passion and mistrust.
"Come on, Johnny," Ruthie said.
I was only half-aware of Higgins and Murray off to one side, talking and gesticulating together. They were a likely pair. I could imagine what their conversation would consist of, how many different ways they were cutting me up.
I was beginning to feel the full effects of the past twenty-four hours. Everything seemed to whirl in front of my eyes. Sherry moved up beside me, half-holding me upright, "Take it easy, baby," she whispered.
I called her a dirty name.
She only laughed at me.
Ruthie said, "What's going on here?" in that thin, puzzled, little-girl voice of hers. "Get lost, sister!" Sherry barked at her. "Don't get involved, Ruthie," I told her. Higgins came up behind me. He pulled at Sherry, urging her into the booth with him. I slumped down on the other side next to Ruthie. We made quite a foursome. Yes.
I was in a daze. I felt as if I were walking in my sleep, as if none of this could actually be happening. I know that I gripped the table with my hands, trying to convince myself that it was real, that I was not asleep. I could hear voices buzzing all around me, the sounds of the music coming from the juke box, the thin whine of Ruthie saying something of which I could make no sense.
I blinked my eyes rapidly. To hell with everything.
Sherry was sitting across from me, huddled up against the big form of Higgins. She was smiling at me coyly, knowingly, running her tongue along her lips, laughing at something suddenly as Higgins whispered into her ear.
Could she be laughing at me?
"We're leaving," I said, looking directly at Sherry.
Higgins turned his face to me. He was so huge that he was crowded in on the other side, as if he had been w-edged in there by some gigantic machine. His wide mouth had spittle in one corner and one of his hands lay on top of the table, twitching slightly. The knuckles were big and bony. They would hurt. Oh, how they would hurt.
"Johnny boy," he said in a threatening voice. "You know me. You know how I am in a fight. I can only take so much from a kid like you. Then I get mad."
I ignored him. I was still looking at Sherry. I closed and opened my eyes, hoping she would somehow disappear in the interim.
But she stayed where she was.
"You don't belong here," I said to her.
"That's a hot one," she said.
"You heard me."
"You're like your old man, giving orders all the time."
"You're coming with me, Sherry," I said.
"Now listen, kid," Higgins put in, "I'm tired of-"
Sherry put her ringers over Higgins' mouth. "Let him have his fun," she said. "Let him act all growed up."
Higgins took her hand and put his big, blubbery lips against it, kissing it, nibbling at it. Sherry giggled, said something in a low, intimate voice.
I could take no more. I crawled out on my side, reaching for her as I did so. I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her after me. I could hear Ruthie's confused voice screaming after me and Higgins' loud roar of anger.
I didn't stop.
I was outside in the parking lot before I realized that I was still pulling Sherry along with me, that she had been laughing all the time.
"What's so damned funny?" I asked her.
She didn't bother to answer me.
I couldn't remember where I had parked my car. It took me a few minutes to find it and then, as I was opening the door and half-shoving Sherry inside, Higgins came up behind me.
His big hand grabbed my collar, spun me around. He shoved hard with the other hand, knocking me up against the side of the car. The jar hurt in the middle of my back and I lashed out wildly, missing him completely.
He laughed at me. "Come on, little boy," he yelled.
Sherry somehow had gotten out of the car, was weaving around between us, yelling at us both, I slumped back against the car, the fight gone from me, shaking my head, feeling the pain and the humiliation of my actions. I wanted to sit down and bury my head in my hands and pretend that none of this had happened.
I could hear Sherry's voice, pleading now, a new kind of sound coming from her. It seemed strange and out of place.
The next thing I knew the night was deathly silent and I was standing at the rear of my car, watching the headlights of another car creeping along the highway.
Sherry said soothingly, "It's okay now, Johnny. He's gone."
"You're a coldhearted bitch," I told her.
"Thanks a lot," she said drily. "Is that any way to talk to me after I got him to leave you alone?"
"I could have taken care of myself," I lied.
"That's a good one," she retorted sarcastically.
"Sherry," I said, turning to her, gripping one of her bare arms, feeling her flesh twist beneath my fingers, "what in hell kind of woman are you?"
"I'm a woman, Johnny. That's all," she replied.
"That's no answer."
"Isn't it?"
I could dimly hear the music coming from inside. I suddenly thought of Ruthie, pale and alone and frightened by life. I had run from her at the first available moment, run from that pthetic creature, adding to her unhappiness. Yet now I was here with this wonderfully sensuous woman who was my father's wife.
Somewhere a neon light blinked on and off, on and off, casting Sherry in a pale orange glow, giving her features an eerie, out-of-this-world appearance.
She came to me and put her arms around my neck, pushing her body against mine. Her lips traced a pattern across my cheek, found my lips. The kiss was full of promises, agonizingly long and wonderful. I could feel it all the way through me. I let my hands slide down her back, felt the taut readiness of her buttocks.
She was willing then. She wanted it, I wanted it.
What the hell?
She pulled her mouth from mine, her tongue flicking out at the last minute to tease along my lips.
She laughed. "I'm a woman," she said again.
"I don't know anything," I said senselessly.
A car careened into the parking lot, its horn blaring loudly against the night. Someone yelled an obscene curse.
I took Sherry's arm and led her around the car, opening the door for her, getting in after her. I sat there for a moment, letting everything tumble down into its proper place. My insides were crawling with lust for this woman, and yet my mind kept telling me how dead wrong it was to feel this way.
Morals. What good were they?
She snuggled up beside me, lighting a cigarette, putting it between my lips. I inhaled deeply. The smoke crowded around us, engulfing us. I imagined I could taste her lips on the cigarette.
"I need some excitement, Johnny," she said tightly.
"We all do."
"I couldn't stand another night at that stupid, silly farm. I'm going bats out there."
"You must've known what it would be like."
"I thought I did." She was silent for a moment. "I liked that kiss. I'd like more."
"Did you like the one Higgins gave you, too?" I asked, unable to keep the jealousy out of my tone, hating myself for asking the question.
What right had I to ask it? She wasn't my woman.
"He's a slobberer. I can't stand him."
"You were with him."
"What else was I going to do? Sit out there by myself and mope around that lonely house? That's not my idea of having a good time."
"What is your-" I started to ask her, and then stopped. I knew what she would answer, and I didn't want to hear it.
She chuckled happily. It was a sound of victory; she was so positive she was winning. "It's a hot night. God, it's a hot night, baby."
"Don't call me that!"
"Ah, sweetie," she said and leaned over, kissing me on the cheek, "don't be so damned stuffy. Loosen up a bit It won't kill you none."
I placed my hands very carefully on the steering wheel. They were moist and hot. Her hand came across to rub against my stomach, a gentle, soothing kind of motion that seemed full of vibrant suggestions.
"We're going home," I snapped at her, pushing her hand away from me.
"We could take a swim," she said hopefully. "We talked about it once. Remember?"
"I remember."
"It'd be nice. Just the two of us, swimming around in the water, cooling off, playing around. I like to play that way, sweetie."
"Cut it out, Sherry."
I switched on the ignition, started the engine. I backed around and roared out of the parking lot, amid a spattering of gravel.
We drove in silence for a while. I could feel her beside me, hear the gentle sound of her breathing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the rise and fall of her breasts, and I remembered the look of them. I remembered the way she had poured the beer over them.
She moved against me again, one hand resting on the inside of my thigh. The hand moved up and down gently and I thought I was going to go right through the roof of the car. Never in my life had I felt such desire for a woman.
I lifted my foot from the gas pedal, turning to look at her. She laughed and, reaching across, turned off the ignition key.
We seemed to float along for some distance and then I turned off the road and came to a stop along the dirt shoulder.
No traffic came by. We were alone. The night was dark and hot and the sweat trickled down inside my shirt.
I kept my hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead, afraid to turn and look at her, afraid even to move. I kept telling myself that she was my father's wife. The phrase rang through my mind. Visions of Sherry and my father danced through my head.
I wanted her. Oh, God, how I wanted her!
And yet I could not hide the fact of who she was, of what she was....
"Kiss me a little, baby," she whispered. "That won't hurt nothing."
I closed my eyes. Her mouth was against my cheek. I could feel her hot breath as it followed a trail up and up, and then the feel of her teeth nibbling against the lobe of my ear.
To hell with it all!
I whirled, unable to resist any longer. I was only human, regardless of what she was. She fell into my arms with a deep, contented sigh, and our mouths met in mutual lust. Her tongue was hot and probing, sending tiny needles of passion throughout my body. I ached for her. I was unable to think of anything other than the presence of this desirable creature beside me.
Our mouths parted, finally, and we both slumped back for a moment, breathing hard, surprised at the depth of our want. My lungs ached for breath. Her fingers came over to unbutton my shirt, go inside. I reached across, ripping her dress right down the front, not caring about anything then but the sight of her breasts. She was not wearing a brassiere and her lovely breasts fell free, the nipples hard and pointed.
"Take 'em, baby," she whispered urgently. "Kiss 'em and love 'em!"
Her hands went around behind my head, pulling my face down. My lips went around one of her nipples. She murmured low in her throat, wiggling beneath me. It was wonderful and exciting and intoxicating and I lost myself in the passion of the moment.
I have no idea how long we went on like this. It was like being drunk, suspended in time. I was conscious only of a physical sensation beyond anything I had experienced before. It seemed almost as if the world had stopped its spinning long enough for us to get off, and we were whirling through a universe filled with deep, suffocating sensations.
Finally, I realized that her mouth was against mine, enveloping it, and that her hands were busily engaged.
We had no time for talk, nothing but the exploration of each other. Hers was a wonderfully exciting body and I let my hands run over it, discover it. The excitement tingled throughout my whole body.
After a long interval of erotic play we leaned back against the seat cushions, half-exhausted. The final moment, the final exaltation of the union of two seeking bodies had not yet arrived and we both realized that there was nothing left but that. We were gaining breath and energy for that last plunge into total ecstasy.
"This is the way I love it," she murmured. "Long and sweet. Darn it, sweetie, you're good!"
That's what I had wanted to hear. All the teasing, all the little innuendoes were gone now; I was a man and she knew it.
I turned my head on the seat, looking at her. She was without a stitch of clothing, lounging back, just waiting. There was a tiny drop of blood on her lower Up and, as she returned my look, I could see the wonder in her eyes, the last shining moment before that final victory.
"And now?" she whispered urgently.
"And now!" I almost screamed at her.
I felt it right through my middle. Never in my life had I wanted anything quite so much.
She lay back, her lush body in an attitude of complete surrender, a smile of anticipatory satisfaction on her mouth.
"Come on, baby!" she said, the urgency growing in her voice.
I started for her, my body melting into hers, feeling myself lost in that curious vacuum of final desire, knowing the ultimate satisfaction....
It was at that precise moment that a car came speeding along the highway, its headlights picking us out, suspending us in a bright glare of illumination for a fraction of a moment.
I could see her so clearly, ready and willing and waiting, the supreme woman, the victorious woman. The look on her face told me that she was getting from me what she wanted from me, what she had demanded from me right along, that no man was strong enough to resist her, not even her husband's son.
I pulled back. The headlights passed on.
I could not get the picture of her face out of my mind. And then, with a sudden, shocking clarity, I could imagine my father's voice, telling me what I was doing, that this was his woman, that she did not belong to me, could not belong to me....
The enormity of what I was about to do struck me.
"Damn you! she cried out in anguish. "Hurry, baby!"
"I can't!" I screamed at her.
I drew back, as far as I could get from her.
She made some kind of a noise deep in her throat, reminding me of an animal lost and strayed.
"No!" I whispered, more to myself than to her. "No!"
"You bastard!" she screamed.
"You're my father's," I told her and realized that I was speaking to myself, for my own benefit. "What the hell difference does that make?"
"No," I said again.
Her hands were reaching for me; they caught me, pulled at me, tugging me toward her naked, yielding body. I tore away from her, pushing her away.
I could not allow myself to do this. I could not allow myself to sink to the level of the animal she was. Whatever else I was, whatever else I had done or would do, I was still my father's son and I would have to remember that, above everything else.
She sat there and swore at me for a full five minutes. She called me every dirty name in the book, and then some.
And then she said, "Gimme a cigarette."
My hands were shaking as I took out the pack, gave her a cigarette and took one for myself. Her naked body beside me was like a sharp thrust of pain right through my middle. I tried to control my hands, couldn't, and she struck the match, holding the light for both of us.
"I'm damned if I've ever seen anyone like you," she murmured.
"It's over," I said. "Just be still. Get dressed."
"Dressed?" she asked incredulously. "Why, damn you, you ripped it off me. I've got no dress left."
"I'm ... sorry."
"Sorry! You're like a little frightened boy, afraid of what he's gonna find out about himself."
"I said it was over."
"Sure, sure. I heard you," she said bitingly. "Damn you to hell!"
"I'm damning myself for letting it go this far."
"Oh, sweet Jesus!" she said angrily.
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I was throbbing with unslaked passion. I was angry at myself and I was angry at her and I was angry at the world.
Nothing seemed right.
Her hand came over against my thigh.
"I want it, baby," she whispered. "I want it bad."
I looked down at her hand, remembering the mobility of it before, the wonder of its touch.
I knew that I could stay there no longer.
I started the car and drove quickly away.
It was like a wild nightmare, the trip home. She sat naked beside me, swearing at me, mouthing obscene vulgarities. She seemed almost to have gone out of her mind.
I could imagine beating her and yet, thinking about it, I thought that she might enjoy that. She deserved a beating and, I suppose, so did I.
My father wasn't home yet when we got there. It was the first good thing that had happened to me in days.
I jumped out of the car and ran away toward the fields, hearing the shrillness of her screams until I was too far away to hear anything.
I fell to the ground and rolled over on my back. I stared up at the blackness of the sky and thought that I was at the bottom of a deep, dark hole, out of which there was no possible way for me ever to get out.
I stayed out there a long time. I think I might have fallen asleep for a few minutes; I'm not sure.
Later, when I returned to the house, I saw my father's car. I was thankful that he was home. I knew now that I would not have to face her again this night.
I went to my own room and undressed and lay on the bed, trying not to remember the closeness with which our bodies had clung together. She was a constant and continual mental torment to me, driving herself further and further into the deep recesses of my mind; there seemed little that I could do about it.
My body tingled where her hands had explored. My mouth was sore from the bruising contact with her mouth.
I was laying there when I heard the sudden and unmistakable sound of her laughter coming through the thin partition of wall separating our bedrooms. I could hear my father's voice, deep and demanding, though I couldn't make out the words.
I lay there and listened to their sounds and drove myself a little further out of my mind, knowing what the sounds meant, knowing exactly what was going on so close to me.
In a way, I felt responsible. I had been the one to bring her to the point of this. It was I who should have been in there with her.
I finally turned and tossed myself into troubled sleep. The last thing I thought of was the taste of her breasts....
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I went through my chores the following morning almost automatically, not fully realizing what I was doing. It was as if someone were leading me around, pulling the right strings at the right moment; I was only going through the motions.
That's one thing about a farm: the chores won't wait; they have to be done.
I was again wondering whether or not I could stay on the farm as long as Sherry was there. What had happened the previous night could happen again, only I realized that I could not go on resisting her; I had been on the edge of possessing her last night, and the next time....
I had seen Higgins' truck come and go while I was working. I marveled at the audacity of the man, how he could possibly face my father after what he had tried to do to Sherry last night. Yet, knowing what I knew of my own self, of my own weakness where Sherry was concerned, I guess I couldn't blame him. She was one of those women who drive men out of their minds, twist and bedevil them into being things they really aren't.
She was doing that to me.
I was cleaning out the stalls, hard, back-breaking work, when my father came out from the house.
His mouth was set angrily and his hands were clutched tightly into fists. His eyes were bloodshot and, even at this time of morning, I could detect the odor of whiskey about him.
I felt sorry for him and yet, at the same time, I envied him. The memory of the noises in the night were still fresh within my mind and I could not deny that I wished that I had been a part of those noises.
At his age, satisfying Sherry would be a chore.
"I could use some-" I started to say.
"Martin Higgins was just here!" he snapped at me angrily, stopping a foot or so away, standing there as if he wanted to swing out at me, crush me before him.
"I saw his truck."
"Do you have anythin' to say to me?" There was an accusation in his eyes, angry and unhidden.
I could only guess that he had found out about Higgins taking Sherry out the night before and that, through some perverse twist of nature, he was blaming me for what had happened.
"I'm not your wife's keeper," I said. "If you want her to stay home, that's your problem."
I had been using a pitchfork and now I leaned it up against the side of the stall, taking a cigarette and lighting it. I did not like the way he was looking at me. His hands kept twitching against his thighs, as if he were having a hard time controlling them.
"I did not know I could father such as you," he said.
"I don't understand you. You can't blame-"
"Johnny, what you've been doin' is foul and disgustin'. I can think of no other way to describe it."
"Dad, I'm not sure I understand you."
"Damn you!" he screamed at me suddenly.
I guess I should have been prepared, but I wasn't. His right fist came around suddenly, smacking against my mouth, driving me backward into the stall. I stumbled and fell to a sitting position. The anger and the frustration boiled up within me, and I jumped to my feet, hands clenched. I took a step toward him, then stopped. I could not strike him, regardless of what he would do to me.
He was my father.
"Are you denyin' what happened last night?" he asked.
Could he possibly know about us? The thought rang through me.
"I still don't know what you're talking about."
He struck me again on the side of the face. I fell against the side of the stall, tripping over the pitchfork, almost falling flat. I could taste blood within my mouth.
"You were out with her! Goddamn such as you, boy!" he screamed at me, beyond himself with rage.
I backed away from him, rolling along the side of the stall. His eyes nickered for a moment in the direction of the pitchfork and I wondered if he would go that far. Panic touched me coldly. I was trapped where I was; I could do nothing, other than fight back against him, something which I knew was impossible.
"I wasn't out with Sherry," I told him, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
"Damn you, I know!"
It came to me then, suddenly, the why of Higgins' visit that morning. The wily old bastard had come and accused me of being out with Sherry. He was pointing the first finger, and my father was believing him.
"Please, Dad," I begged him, "take it easy now."
"I could...." and his eyes traveled to the pitchfork once again. He shook his head, took a step backward, fighting for control of himself. "How could you do such a thing?"
"I didn't take her out, Dad. For God's sake, believe me, will you?" I asked in desperation. "I don't know what Higgins told you, but we can solve this thing very easily."
"How's that?" He was puzzled.
"We'll ask Sherry," I told him.
He grunted, shaking his head, looking at me as if I had gone completely out of my mind. "You damned young fool," he snarled at me, "What?"
"You didn't think she'd cover up for you?"
I could hardly believe my ears. "Cover up for me?"
I asked incredulously. I stepped forward and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Come on, right now. Let's go ask her what she was doing last night, where she went and-"
He shook me off like a dog shaking off water.
"She told me!"
It was as if someone had struck me a solid blow to the stomach. I was suspended in motion, my mouth open, my eyes wide. I could not bring myself to believe that she would deliberately tell him what we had done the previous night. Yet, knowing her, perhaps she was getting her revenge in this way. I could still hear her voice screaming at me during the ride to the farm, the threats and the taunts, the accusations of what she would do.
I knew she was capable of doing such a thing. She had done it, obviously, and now I was caught in the middle. She undoubtedly had invented other things, had painted a pretty picture for my father. Yet, I couldn't imagine that she would tell him what we had done in the ear-that would be going too far.
And, I asked myself, why had she waited until this morning to tell him?
My father seemed to be reading my mind because he said, "Higgins came and told me, the friend of mine he is. And I went to her and she didn't deny it."
"Higgins told you first?"
He nodded.
"What did he tell you?"
His eyes narrowed again. "He said that he saw you and Sherry at Murray's roadhouse last night, drinkin' and dancin' and actin' like a coupla fools."
"You believe that?"
"Sherry don't deny it."
"You know what Sherry is," I said. 'We both know. You can't close your eyes to that, Dad. I tell you that-"
He leaped at me, catching me by the collar with one hand, swinging me around, crashing me into the side of the stall. The slats jarred against my shoulders, sending a shock all through my body.
Holding me like that, he smashed his other fist into my face again and again. When he let loose of me, I slumped down in the corner, head bowed, tasting the blood within my mouth. .
"Get up and fight!" he yelled at me.
I shook my head.
"Come on!"
"No," I said through swollen lips, "I can't fight you, Dad. I can't."
"You stay away from her then! She's mine!"
Looking up at him, I could see the doubt written so very clearly in his eyes. He wasn't sure of himself. He wasn't sure of his hold on Sherry; he never would be. He knew what she was doing to him and he also knew that he could not hold her for very long. A better offer would come along. She would leave one of these days. He was a desperate man, hanging on to something he wanted more than he wanted anything else in this life, including his self-respect.
I was to be the brunt of his frustrations.
He stood towering above me, weaving as though he were about to fall on top of me.
I squatted there, wiping the blood from my mouth with the backs of my hands.
I knew the picture we made, and my blood boiled because of Sherry. It was so easy to blame her for this.
Finally, he whirled around and stomped away, his anger still not dissipated.
I wondered if he would take some more of his anger out against her. I doubted it. I could recall her threatening him with the knife. Whatever else she was, I knew she could take care of herself under any circumstances. She had the resilience to bounce back.
There was only one thing for me to do: to get away from the farm, as fast as I could and as far as I could.
I couldn't stay. Not now.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I had gone through the motions of finishing the morning chores, determined that I would give them that much time alone together. If they were going to bicker and fight about last night, I didn't want to be drawn into it.
It was almost noon when I went up to the house. The sun was once again baking the already hot earth. It was one of those stifling days, not a breath of air moving. Everything seemed to have stopped in mid-motion. The animals were not moving; I felt as if I were being forced along, as if each step might be my last.
I had convinced myself that it would be foolish for me to stay around here. The farm was my father's; Sherry was my father's. Nothing belonged to me. There was nothing to hold me here but the bittersweet memories of a happy youth, and I could not live on memories.
Inside the house it was that curious shade of day-dark when someone has pulled all the blinds. It was like a morgue.
Breakfast dishes were still piled on the table in the kitchen. I went to the faucet for a drink of water. The water was tepid, tasteless. I could see a cigarette floating in the remains of some coffee in the bottom of a cup. There was a stench in the house, a smell of uncleanliness, of wantonness, of decay. The Hogans, I thought, were dying out. There would be nothing left when Sherry finally decided to leave. A sharp pain of anguish went through me as I looked around. Where once this had been a happy home, full of laughter and good times, there remained now only the ghosts of distrust and anger and lust.
I felt sick to my stomach.
I went on into my room, dimly wondering where Sherry and my father were. I had not noticed his car out front. Perhaps they had gone into town. I hoped so. I did not want any farewells. I wouldn't even leave a note.
I wanted nothing from either of them, only to be left alone with my own torments and frustrations.
Should I see Leah again? But what purpose would that serve? We were finished. There was still love for her within me, something that would never leave me. But I had made my bed, and now I would have to sleep in it.
I stripped down to my shorts, trying to cool off, and sat on the edge of the bed, smoking a cigarette, watching the smoke curl up and disappear into nothingness, just the way I was doing. All my youthful dreams, everything....
I got up and got the two pieces of luggage that I owned from the closet and put them on the bed. I ran my hands over the smoothness of the leather, saw my initials stamped on the side in gold letters. My mother had given them to me as a present when I had gone away to the university.
How long ago had that been?
An eternity, or so it seemed.
I was about half-finished with my packing, when I heard the movement behind me. I had not heard a car drive up and, as I turned, I wasn't sure what to expect.
Sherry stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, an unlighted cigarette dangling from one corner of her mouth.
She was barefooted and I could see a thin crust of dirt around her ankles, as if she had been walking in the dust outside. My eyes traveled up the length of her legs. She was wearing white shorts and a halter and had her arms folded across her middle, so that her breasts stood out even more than usual.
"Where do you think you're going?" she asked me insolently.
"That's none of your business." I didn't want to argue with her, not now. I just wanted to get out of there.
"My, my," she sort of whimpered. "Are you acting like a little boy again today, or the man you're supposed to be?"
"Where's-" I started.
"Your father isn't here," she interrupted me. "He got a call from the bank and went into town." She smiled enticingly. "We're alone," she said, and added: "Just like last night, Johnny baby."
I felt foolish, sliding there in my shorts, watching as her eyes swept over me, taking me in; after last night, she would know the contours of my body. I could not hide myself. I did not want to hide myself. If she wanted to act like the tramp she was, to hell with her.
I shoved some socks into a corner of the suitcase, trying to ignore her.
But I was too conscious of her standing there, staring at me. I tried not to think of her, tried not to see the glory and the wonder of those long legs, tried not to remember how she could be.
"Are you running away?" she asked me finally.
"I'm leaving, if that's what you want to know."
She laughed. "Fine, good, great. Now I won't have that damned moping face of yours around here any more."
"Go to hell!"
"Ah, now, that's no way to be, baby."
She was playing with me and I could feel the burning anger rising up within me once again. She had this knack of getting under my skin, more so than anyone I'd ever known. A mere look from her could send me off in either anger or lust, depending; I wasn't sure that they were too far apart as far as she was concerned.
I did my best to ignore her. I busied myself with the packing at hand, keeping my back to her as much as possible.
I had just straightened up from closing one of the suitcases when I heard the patter of her feet coming across the floor behind me. I held my breath, not turning.
I could feel her behind me, only inches away. Something flashed by my side and I saw the halter she had been wearing land on the bed.
She laughed, an inviting, sensuous kind of laugh that tore right through me. I knew she was there, waiting for me to turn and look at her and it took every ounce of will power I had not to do as she wished.
But I couldn't resist what she did next.
She came up behind me, pushing her full, warm breasts against my naked back. I could feel the nipples like two hot points of fire burning through my skin. Her arms came around my middle, holding me, and her hips pushed themselves forward in mock simulation of the real thing. She began kissing my back, running her mouth over it.
"Just once," she whispered, "just one time, baby."
I yelled some unintelligible reply.
I could not help myself. I was beyond any thought but the lust that was within me. I could think of nothing but her, her body, everything about her....
As I whirled to her, she took a step backward and I caught a glimpse of her completely naked body, her opened mouth, the tongue flicking along her lower lip, the shocking whiteness of her bared teeth as she threw back her head and screamed an obscene command at me.
I couldn't resist her, and keep my sanity. I did as she wished, as she commanded.
I swept her up in my arms, crushing her body against mine. She was wild and wiggling, an uncontrollable thing of desire. Her fingers dug into my naked back, scraping at the skin, and her mouth and tongue seemed to be punishing my own mouth and tongue for their long neglect. It was as if we were determined to mold our two bodies into one.
I threw her on the bed.
The last thing I saw as I crouched over her and yielded myself to her waiting and wanting womanhood was the wild look in her eyes.
The next thing I knew, the room was spinning crazily before my eyes and we were like two animals, fighting against each other. It was not sex as such; it was a battle for survival, a struggle for life. It was like nothing before in my life.
She was a woman, pure and simple and uncontrollable-a woman yearning for man, and I was the man.
I was sinking, going, going, going....
The world exploded before my eyes, a shattering of mixed colors. She screamed and I answered her scream with one of my own.
Everything came to a sudden, shocking, shattering end. My whole being was racked as if I had been lifted up by unseen hands and thrown against an unyielding wall....
* * *
I lay quietly on my back, my eyes closed, feeling her next to me. Her hand lay still on my stomach. She giggled.
I wanted to move, yet I couldn't. I doubted if I would ever be able to move again.
"Yummy-yum, man," she whispered happily.
I couldn't say anything. I could only lie there and feel the remorse and the guilt and the shame within me, realizing what I had done.
It had been the greatest experience of my life.
But she was my father's wife. And I had taken her.
Yet, even then, knowing that, I knew that I would want her again, and again, and again. It was as if I had finally discovered what it was really like between a man and a woman, as if everything and everyone that had come before this had been only a preliminary, a learning process to make me ready for her;
I hated her. God, how I hated her!
I opened my eyes and twisted around, sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling the shock of our experience right down the middle of my spine.
She climbed around so that she was sitting beside me. She hooked one leg over mine, put an arm around my shoulders, resting her head against me.
"Again?" she whispered.
"Get out!" I screamed at her.
She only laughed at me.
I threw her away from me. She stumbled backward and sat down, legs sprawled, on the floor. She looked up at me and smiled, and I could see the conquering, victorious look in her eyes.
We both knew what it would be like from then on.
She had had me, and I had loved it, and I would not be able to resist her in the future. It was as simple as that.
She got to her feet, running her hands down her thighs. There was a bruise on her left breast and I wondered if I was responsible for it. Could I have done that in my passion?
"You like it, don't you, baby?" she asked knowingly.
I didn't answer her.
"You're good, baby. You're the best,"
"Get out of my sight!"
She only smiled at me.
The silence grew between us and, finally, she went around picking up her discarded clothing and went to the door. She paused there, turning to look at me.
"You can go ahead with your packing now," she said.
I didn't bother answering her.
She left me alone.
I have no idea how long I sat there. I know that sometime later I got up and dressed myself. I moved around the room as if in a daze.
I realized, then, that I couldn't leave. Having had her, having the knowledge of what she was like, I was already thinking and planning the next time, savoring the thought. The shame within me was not strong enough to stand up against the wonder of my body in union with hers. She was in my blood now. I had had the first sample.
I began unpacking. Each article I removed from the suitcases and put away seemed to add to my personal shame. I knew, now, that I could force myself to face my father, that I could lie to him, cheat against him, do anything to get her.
I wasn't very proud of myself.
I was almost finished when she returned to my room. She had dressed herself in a pale-colored blouse and a simple skirt and was wearing sandals on her feet. Her face looked freshly scrubbed and it was the first time I had seen her without benefit of make-up. She looked years younger and I wondered if she was actually as old as I was.
She was smoking a cigarette when she came into the room. She stopped a few feet from me and surveyed the almost empty suitcases, a small smile of triumph playing with the corners of her mouth.
"I changed my mind," I said stupidly.
"So I see."
"A man has the right to do that,"
"Of course," she agreed.
I realized that we had never really had a moment of peace together. We were always snapping and clawing at each other.
I could thing of nothing to say to her. Already, I was wanting her again. My eyes sought hers, read the taunting knowledge therein. I had dug this hole and crawled in, and now I would have to live in it.
She shrugged and sat down on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs, giving me a brief show of what I already had possessed.
I took a cigarette, lighted it, and sat in a chair across from her. There seemed to be a strange, tranquil truce between us, as if we both realized for the first time just what we had done, and both know it would soon happen again.
I stared fully into her face. She looked so different without make-up; she seemed almost a child, until I recalled that body, the way she could use it. That would take practice, a lot of it.
"Tell me," I said slowly, "just why did you marry my father?"
Her eyes opened wide in surprise. She started to laugh, then stopped, peering at me intently.
"You really want to know, don't you?"
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."
"I suppose not." She held the cigarette up in front of her, let the ash fall to the floor. "I've bounced around a lot, Johnny," she went on. "Life's not easy for someone like me. I was born into nothing. I've been fighting men since ... hell, call it a lifetime. One man after another. Georgie's not so bad. He's old and he's got his his faults, but I needed an out and he was around."
"Just like that?" I asked tautly.
"Just like that." She grinned, dripping her cigarette to the floor, grinding it out with her heel. "You wouldn't understand about me, about someone like me. How could you?" She waved her arms in the air, looking around the room. "You've had it soft. Your old man's done for you, all your life. You never had to worry. Maybe you're not the richest guy in the world, but I'll bet my last penny you never had to worry where your next meal was coming from.
"I have," she continued. "George came to this club where I was ... singing, doing a little dancing." She looked at me defiantly. "I had me a man then, but he was a no-good bum. I was married once before and I should've learned my lesson, but I guess I didn't. This guy-his name don't matter-was going to make something of me. Yeah, sure." Her lips curled disdainfully and her contempt for the world was easy to see. "He put me in these two-bit clubs, singing every damn night, letting the boobs gawk at me, paw me. That wasn't what I wanted."
"What did you want?" My voice sounded husky.
She shrugged. "Who knows?"
"What've you got now?"
She smiled and she was once again the Sherry I had known before, evil and cunning, hiding behind the mask, letting nothing stand in her way.
"I've got an old man with enough money to keep me in what I want," she said triumphantly.
"Is that all?"
"Johnny baby," she murmured huskily, "you know better than that. I've got you too, haven't I? When your old man wears down and I need a little young blood like this afternoon, I can always-"
"Shut your damned, filthy mouth!" I yelled.
"The truth hurts, huh?"
"God, I hate you!"
"Maybe. Maybe you do." She rose slowly, running her hands beneath her breasts, pushing them up. "But I've got something you like and we both know it. You're not leaving, are you? I know why. It's because of me, isn't it, Johnny baby?"
I couldn't answer her. I could only sit there and hate her and acknowledge the truth of what she was saying.
She left me like that, deep in my personal hell.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
There was nothing else I could do but follow the road to ruin. I could not face my father, regardless of what I had thought before. I took to sloughing off my work at the farm, running away from all my responsibilities, just as he had done previously.
I stayed away all day long the following two days, unable to bring myself to be there with the two of them. As soon as the sun went down, my mind inevitably would turn to thoughts of her, the memory of our loving that afternoon, the wonder of it.
I went to Murray's twice, getting drunk both nights. I could not feel shame for what I was doing to myself. The ultimate shame was already within me, would always be there. Whatever came next would be only an anticlimax; nothing could compare with what I had already done.
The third night after my episode with Sherry, I was in Murray's, nursing a lonely drink, wondering how I could keep myself from sinking further. I knew that my father was suspicious of my actions, yet I could not talk to him, could not do any explaining.
Murray seemed to be enjoying my sorrow. He would sit behind the bar and watch happily as I drank. I didn't give a damn about him, about anything.
It was this night that I saw Leah for the first time since the party at the farm. I still had that special feeling for her, call it love if you will. But now I felt dirty and degraded, not fit for her.
However, the sight of her as she entered the roadhouse brought back all the pleasant memories of our love. She looked so fresh and so beautiful, so alive, that I wanted to reach out for her, to take some of that freshness and vitality into my own deadened soul.
She was with Eddie Mack and another couple. I wondered what they could be doing in a place like Murray's. I certainly never would have brought her here. I didn't like the fact that she was here; she was above this place.
I had to smile at myself; there was little I could do about what she did with her life now.
I was in the corner and they didn't see me as they crossed the floor and took a booth against the side wall. The juke box was blaring forth with its usual racket and a few couples were pushing each other around on the dance floor.
I heard Leah's laughter, the easy sound of it, and the sudden pang of jealousy swept right through me. How could she sit there and be happy without me?
I rose to my feet and discovered that I was still reasonably sober, for which I was thankful. I wound my way across to the booth where she was sitting with the others.
She looked up as I approached and surprise shocked her face. She shook her head, almost as if she couldn't believe that it was me. Walking toward her, I longed for her, I wanted her in my arms. I wanted things to be as they had been; I wanted out of my tortured dreams, away from the tormenting creature that was Sherry, and back with Leah. My Leah.
I said, "Hello, Leah," in a quiet voice.
Eddie Mack had both hands on the top of the table. His lips curled back as he said, "The conquering hero. Is this your hangout now, Hogan?"
Leah had not said anything. There was a crimson flush creeping up her face. She was embarrassed and uneasy.
"I'd like to dance with you," I said to her, ignoring Eddie.
"Like hell!" Eddie snapped. "She's with me."
Leah's arm touched his arm gently, but her eyes were looking up at me, taking me in. I knew the picture I must present, unshaven and shoddy. But I, hopefully thought that I could read a little of the old feeling in those eyes.
Perhaps it was only wishful thinking; I'm not sure. "Eddie, please," she said in that melodious voice of hers.
The sound of her voice was like the memory of a page from some half-forgotten book. It was sweet and kind and jingly, all at once, and I knew that I had to talk to her.
I couldn't lose her. Regardless of everything else, I still loved her.
"I'll dance with you, Johnny," she said.
Eddie gave her a dirty look, but moved from the booth so that she could slide out. She stood beside me, tall and graceful, and the love for her flooded through me, tempered by the bitter knowledge of what I had done to my own life.
How could I ask her to forgive me? How could I make amends with myself?
We moved out to the dance floor. My arm slipped easily around her waist and she nestled against me as we danced in time to the music. It was wonderful. It was like coming home again after a long and fruitless journey.
"I've missed you," I whispered in her ear. "Have you?"
She pulled her face back, staring into my eyes, trying to read what was within me. There was a sadness in her face that had not been there before, an awareness that life could bring sorrow as well as happiness. I was responsible for that sadness and I wanted to erase it.
This was the woman I loved. This was the woman with whom I wanted to share my life. Yet, being with her, feeling her so close, knowing of my love for her, I still had visions of Sherry's naked and yielding body, the violence of our passion together.
It seemed incredible to me that I could be so close to Leah and still be thinking of Sherry. There was neither rhyme nor reason to it. That I loved Leah was without doubt; that I craved Sherry was also without doubt.
The music stopped and we stood next to each other, none of the old warmth and gaiety between us. There were so many things I wanted to say to her, so many apologies to be made.
"One more dance?" I asked her.
She hesitated, and in that hesitation I read hope.
"You can't just ... cut things in half, like we're trying to do," I told her.
Her hand came up, gently touched my cheek.
"What's happening to you, Johnny?" she asked tenderly.
"I wish I knew."
The music came on again. She turned to look back at Eddie, sitting angrily in the booth. My arm went around her and, before she could refuse, I was leading her in another dance.
"Johnny," she said in my ear, "you ... you've changed so much. You haven't been taking care of yourself."
"Why should I? I've thought of you so many times. I can't imagine life without you, Leah," I said and, in saying it, I tried hard to believe it. I needed something tangible, something on which to hang my meager hopes, something to help me fight against the hopelessness that was within my soul.
Her eyes focused sharply as she pulled back her head and stared at me. "Johnny, don't blame me for what's happening to you. At least be man enough to accept the responsibility. You and I both know what's happened. I suppose, in a way, that some of the fault is mine, but only a little of it. You've been angry at me and disappointed in me for a long time because I wouldn't-sleep with you. My morals are different, that's all. You must realize that."
I muttered a simple obscene phrase.
She stopped dancing and pulled away from me, standing with her hands at her sides, staring at me angrily.
"When you grow up, when you become a man and can accept responsibility for your actions, then perhaps we can pick up where we left off," she said. "Until then, I would appreciate it if you stayed away from me."
"And you'll go with him!" I said in a loud voice, nodding my head in Eddie's direction.
"I'll go with whomever I please," she answered tartly.
"Leah, don't do this to us."
"I've had my say, Johnny."
"Damn you. Damn you to hell."
She slapped me then, right across the mouth, and turned and stomped angrily back to the booth.
I knew everyone was watching me. I stood helplessly in the middle of the floor. I could not take this. She was my girl. She should be with me. She should be big enough and mature enough to understand my needs and my desires. I went after her.
Eddie was standing up, waiting for me. I pushed him aside and he fell backward, then came up at me, catching me in the pit of the stomach with a solid blow. I doubled over, searching for breath, not even looking at him. I had eyes only for Leah.
"Johnny," she said pleadingly, "don't do any more. Please. Just let it be, Johnny."
"You're mine, Leah!" I screamed at her, beyond myself, not caring about anything but convincing her of that one fact.
Eddie grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back. I brought a foot down heavily on his instep and he howled in pain, loosening his hold on me. I swung an elbow around, catching him in the face, knocking him sprawling to the floor.
It was then that I saw Murray. He was coming toward me, a curiously happy grin on his face, balancing the ball bat in his right hand. He'd been waiting for this moment for a long time. Now I'd given him an excuse, and that was all he needed. I backed into the table, hands high.
Murray stopped, peering at me. "I been waitin' for this, Hogan," he snarled. "I'm gonna get you and I'm gonna get you good. You been causin' too much trouble here."
Leah screamed something unintelligible.
I made a sudden dive for Murray's legs. He stepped neatly aside, his knee catching me on the side of the head. I stumbled and skidded across the floor, bumping into a table, overturning it.
When I turned and rose to face them, Leah was standing in front of Murray and Eddie, gesticulating wildly with her hands, talking to them rapidly.
I knew she was pleading with them for my sake. I brushed myself off as well as I could and walked slowly past them and out the front door.
The night air seemed suddenly cold and bitter. I gulped in huge quantities and felt myself getting sick. I felt nauseous and everything swam before my eyes. I was only vaguely aware of someone coming up beside me.
"Johnny," Leah's voice said, "please don't do this to yourself. Please don't."
"Leave me alone."
"Yes, I'm going to do that," she said. "But I want you to know that I'm disgusted with you, and ashamed of you. Johnny, I loved you. Maybe I still do. I can't stand to see you ruining yourself this way."
"It's my life," I answered to sharply. "I can do what I want with it."
"Is she worth it?"
I turned slowly, startled by her question. Leah seemed almost pathetic, standing there, wanting to help me, trying desperately to help me. I understood that, yet I could not accept her help; I could not accept anything from her. And, perversely, I wanted to hurt her, strike back at her.
"She's a woman, Leah," I said slowly, letting the words twist themselves into her. "That's more than you are."
The shocked look on her face brought a pang of anguish to my insides.
"Go home, Johnny," she said, "go home and see her, see your father's wife. Wallow in your self-pity. Let yourself go; let yourself become what you're headed for. don't care, Johnny. I don't care. Get drunk. Sleep with her. Do what you want!"
She was screaming by the time she ended, and then she whirled around and ran back inside. And I was alone.
* * *
There was only a single light on in the house when I got home. I stumbled around, half-drunk, trying to rid myself of the words Leah had screamed at me.
I knew their truth, and that hurt.
Yet, even knowing that, I realized that I still wanted Sherry. In spite of everything I still desired her. I wanted that sleek, naked, wanton body beneath mine again, that mouth clinging to mine, the feel of her against me, the smell of her....
Someone moved somewhere in the house. I heard the sounds of running water. Soft music came from someplace. I followed the sounds, discovered that they came from the bathroom next to my father's bedroom.
I knew who would be in there. I knew and yet I could not keep myself from putting my hand on the knob, turning it, pushing the door open.
Sherry lay stretched out in the tub, soaking, her head resting against the head of tthe tub. She smiled coyly at me as I entered. A portable radio stood on the floor, within reach of the tub.
I stood framed in the doorway, staring at her. It was almost like a dream come true, the sight of her like that. Somehow, it seemed even more intimate than anything we had yet gone through.
"I've been waiting for you," she said.
"I'm here."
She rose out of the suds like some gigantic, wonderful, pagan goddess. My blood pounded in my veins. She was, in that instant, the most completely enticing woman I'd ever seen. She stood in the tub dripping water and suds, wiping her breasts with the palms of her hands.
Dry me off," she commanded, stepping from the tub onto the bathmat.
I could only obey her. I reached for the towel and threw it around her shoulders and felt my fingers digging through to her flesh. She leaned back against me, her eyes closed, humming softly in time with the music. Her body gyrated slowly, sensuously.
I swept one arm under her legs, picking her up. Her mouth found mine and we kissed all the way out into the hall. Her body was still moistly damp as I threw her on the bed. Her hands were ripping at my clothes, tearing them from me in shreds. Her eyes remained closed until she had stripped me completely, then they opened and she screamed in delight and lay back, waiting.
It was even more violent than the first time we had possessed each other. It was as if she had been storing up her passions for a long time and now they were finally coming to the surface. She was like a wild, uncontrollable animal, screaming and yelling, punishing me as well as herself.
The whole room kept spinning before my eyes, crazily, and her hands and her body and her mouth all seemed melted into one living, probing, conscious thing, bent on driving me further into the depths of the unknown, to my destruction.
We struggled and fought and loved and I was positive that the world had come to an end, that there would never again be anything like this....
It was the end....
* * *
My back ached. My head throbbed. My lips were swollen and sore from the bruising pressure of her lips against them.
It was only then that I discovered where I was. We had, somehow or other, stumbled into my father's room by mistake.
I felt cold and numb all over. I rolled over and fell to the floor. I crawled on my hands and knees, searching for the remnants of my clothing. This was the ultimate shame.
A sudden light blinded me. Turning, I saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, a look of triumph and sensual satisfaction in her eyes.
She said, bluntly, "You look damned silly down there."
"I don't care how I look."
But I did get to my feet. I circled the room, picking up my clothing, unable to stem the rising flow of disgust and revulsion that coursed through me.
I left her and went into my own room, switching on the light, wondering why my father continually left us alone like this. It was almost as if, in some perverse, unconscious way, he were willing for us to have each other, demanding it to happen.
I had just finished dressing when she came in. She had put on a housecoat, but it didn't manage to cover her, and she stood watching me slyly.
I knew then that it was all over. I could take no further degradation. I was at the end of my rope. I imagined that I could read this in her face, in the manner in which she was looking at me. She had coolly and systematically set about conquering me, and she had succeeded. As long as I stayed on the farm, it would be the same, an endless struggle against myself, against the torment that would rage within me where she was concerned. I would want her, I would lust for her, and I would be unable to help myself.
"Johnny baby," she said, confidently, "you're the best."
"There must be a long line for comparison," I said.
She laughed. "Are you jealous?"
"Shouldn't I be?" I felt strangely calm, as if I were standing to one side, observing this scene without any emotion whatsoever.
"Don't be silly," she said a little angrily.
"I'm not going to be, not any longer," I said.
She frowned, coming across to me and putting her hands on my shoulders, looking into my eyes. I could see so easily where my life with her could lead. She had already ruined me. She could make me crawl and beg.
"Sweetie," she whispered, "I've been thinking...."
"About what?"
"You and me. We don't belong here on this stinking farm. We need life, excitement, more fun out of life."
"You mean you would go away with me?" I asked incredulously.
"Of course I would. You know that."
"What about my father?"
"What about him?"
"I have no money, Sherry, nothing."
Her hands rubbed my cheeks. Her eyes, as they looked into mine, were cunning and crafty. She knew what she was doing, and she was enjoying it.
"We couldn't leave without money," she said slyly. "You know better than that."
"But I don't-"
"Your father has enough, more than enough."
"How could I get it?" I asked.
"Don't be a little boy, Johnny baby," she said. "There are ways."
"Such as?"
She pulled back from me, walking around the room, her eyes thoughtful, pensive.
"I'm sure," she said finally, turning to face me again, "that we could think of something."
"I'll think about it."
"You will?" She sounded almost surprised. "When, baby, when?"
"Later. Not now. I'm tired now, Sherry. It's been a long day and I'm tired."
She grinned happily, a child with a new toy, something new to plan and scheme about. She sort of skipped over to me, kissed me playfully on the cheek and then quickly went out of the room.
I stood and listened to the sounds of her happy singing as she went down the hallway. I hated her. I hated every inch of her. I could see it all now, so very clearly, the whole picture.
There was no choice. There was nothing I could do but run. I could not stay and fight her. I was helpless against her wiles, against that body of hers, against everything that she was and that she would make of me.
It was almost with relief that I turned arid began packing once more. A burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I knew that I would never be rid of her, yet I also knew that, in leaving, I was making the first step back up the ladder of my self-respect.
As I left the house, I heard her turn up the volume on her radio. I smiled to myself, standing in the dark outside, remembering the good times I had had here, the wonderful dreams I had dreamed here.
What had they said to me, all of them? That I should grow up? Perhaps I still could.
I stood there for a long while, listening to the music, and to the beat of my heart. She had changed my life abruptly, changed me from a carefree and happy youth into a shamed and degraded man. Perhaps, in a way, there was something in this to be thankful for.
Yet, even as I got into my car, one part of me was trying to force me back inside, into her arms. I knew where that road would lead. Her hooks would go in deep, and, sooner or later, I would find myself listening to her about my father, about what we could do with his money.
It made no difference to me which direction I took. I had a little money with me, enough to get by on for a few days.
It was almost like a flight to freedom. I drove without thinking. I wanted to put as many miles as possible between Sherry and me. I couldn't trust myself; I knew my own weakness as far as she was concerned. But even while driving, I remembered the touch of her hands, the magnificence of having possessed her fully and completely. It was an experience that I would never forget.
I had heard some men say that the army was good for them, that they wouldn't like to go through it again and yet they were thankful for the experience.
Perhaps that was the way I felt about Sherry.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I awoke with the sun streaming through an opened window. I could hear the sounds of birds chattering happily. A big diesel truck roared by making its own peculiar kind of noise. Somewhere not too far away children were playing, making the shrieks and cries that all children make.
I lay in a strange bed in a strange world.
The room was small and cluttered with too much furniture. Two maple dressers were crowded side by side against the far wall. An upholstered rocking chair was turned over on its side. My suitcase lay open on the floor beside the bed.
I searched my memory, and then recalled that I had left the farm the previous night. It was like being awakened in the middle of a dream, searching your mind for the beginning and the end. The beginning comes slowly, very slowly, back into focus, and you search and search for the ending and know that it will never come.
I got up and went into the bathroom and took a careful look at myself in the mirror. A three-day beard marred my features. My eyes were swollen and bloodshot; there was dried blood caked on my lower Up and the beginnings of a bruise on my left cheekbone.
How far could a man sink?
I had had my father's wife and now I was running away. I had no thought of anyone in this world but myself. I had placed my own self above everything else, had allowed that self to push and prod its way forward, destroying as it went.
What now?
The tile in the shower was cracked and there was a split in the shower curtain. But I stripped down and turned on the cold water full force and let it beat down on my head, hoping it would wash some inner part of myself clean. I came out and dried myself off and spent some time shaving the stubble away, trying to make myself presentable.
A new life. It was difficult to imagine.
My whole existence had been centered about the farm. Even while away at the university, there had never been any thought of another life. I loved the soil and I loved the work. It was a hard life, working from dawn to sunset each day, yet it was deeply rewarding in its own ways. Now that was all past.
I dressed myself carefully and slowly, realizing that I really had nothing to do with myself for the remainder of the day. Vague thoughts of continuing my journey floated through my mind and were discarded. I needed a day of rest, in complete solitude-a day to think and meditate about where I would go from here.
I sat and smoked a cigarette, feeling the day's first heat beginning to creep into the tiny room. I had no hunger. I tried to focus my thoughts oh some specific purpose, something tangible on which to hang my self-pity and self-disgust. I tried to find someone to blame for my predicament.
I ran down the list of names. Sherry ... Leah ... my father ... myself....
I suppose, logically, that we were all to blame, each in his own way.
I was still sitting there when I heard the knock on the door. Surprised, I didn't get up to answer it until it came again, more urgently. Going to the door, I opened it and discovered my father standing outside in the bright light of the hallway.
We looked at each other silently for a moment, weighing each other, and then, without warning, his right fist came up to smash into my mouth. I reeled back into the room, stumbling over that old rocker, barking a shin.
My father came after me wordlessly. His second blow caught me in the temple and the next smashed into my nose. I could feel the blood flowing as I crawled along on the floor, trying desperately to get away from him. He still hadn't spoken a word. I could see his face set bitterly, his mouth clamped shut, as he came for me again.
I rolled to my feet and caught him in a football tackle, driving him against the wall. His fists rained down on my back as I held him pinned against the wall, my face buried against his chest.
And suddenly, all the torment, all the frustration, all the anger of the past few weeks rose up within me.
I could blame him. I could take it out on him.
I brought a knee up viciously into his groin. He grunted with pain, a shocked look coming to his eyes. I moved back from him, measured him, jabbed twice with my left straight into his mouth. The blood pumped forth, and then I shot a right high on his cheek. He twisted along the wall, his hands up to defend himself. I pursued him relentlessly. Each blow I struck brought a strange and perverse satisfaction to me.
I wanted to beat him until he couldn't stand. I wanted to see him hurt and powerless, prostrate on the floor.
My fists kept pumping mercilessly. He tried to fight back, but his defense was powerless against my insane fury. I pumped my hands forward and back, enjoying myself.
I screamed with delight. I could see his face a mass of blood and broken skin, his eyes deadening in that face, and still I kept on throwing punches. He hung against the wall as if transfixed there.
Finally, I stepped back, to try to catch my breath. His body hung there a moment, then slowly slid down the wall, using it as a brace for his back, until he was seated on the floor. I stood above him and looked down at him. His lips were puffed and swollen; blood was trickling from the comer of his mouth. One ear was split open. His right eye was half-closed. As I watched him, he slowly lifted his hands, cup-like, beneath his mouth, and spit out a tooth. His head was bowed, studying the tooth, and then he threw it aside and tilted his head to look up at me.
"You're better'n I thought you was," he said between swollen lips.
Everything suddenly began whirling in front of my eyes. I realized what I had been doing. Full understanding hit me with knock-out force, like a blow to the solar plexis.
I had been beating my father to death with my fists! I could have killed him!
I backed away from him, away from those staring, accusing eyes. I was horrified at myself, at what I had so nearly done.
He grinned, and it was horrible to watch. There was a gaping, bloody hole in the front of his mouth where the lost tooth had been. It was like death grinning at me, death waiting and anxious.
Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet. I backed further away. I didn't want him near me. I didn't want to be reminded. I wanted to turn and flee, to keep on running, and yet something held my legs powerless.
He came slowly toward me, his hands hanging at his sides, that grin still on his face. I stood paralyzed. When he was close enough, he swung, and then he kept on swinging. His fists were like pistons driving into my face and stomach, forcing me back, back, back.
We ended up in the bathroom. I stumbled there and fell to the floor. I couldn't defend myself; I no longer wanted to defend myself. He could kill me if he wanted to; I didn't care.
He sprawled on top of me, straddling me, pinning me down on my back. His fists kept coming. It seemed to me that there was nothing else in the world but the continual, relentless punishment of those fists. I blacked out for a moment. When I came to, he was still sitting on top of me, staring down at me. He laughed, and struck me again. I blacked out once more.
This time, when I regained consciousness, he wasn't there. I rolled over on my side. There was blood on the floor beside me. I put my fingers in it, shaking my head. I tried to get up, fell back again. My head was spinning dizzily. Nausea swept over me and I vomited there on the floor.
I heard his voice from the other room: "Are you comin' out of there or not?"
I tried to get to my feet. Again I slipped and fell. Damn him, I thought. Damn everything.
I crawled on my hands and knees along the floor, out the door and into the other room.
He was sitting, exhausted, on the edge of the unmade bed, his head bowed, his hands hanging between his knees. There was blood on his knuckles and blood on his face, and yet, as I looked up at him, I could see a gentle sadness in his eyes that had not been there before.
"Get up," he said huskily. "Walk like a man."
My fingers held onto the edge of the dresser. I pulled myself to my feet, leaning against the dresser for support. The nausea came over me again, but this time I kept it down.
I took a step from the dresser. It was like stepping off the edge of the world. I fell flat on my face.
He laughed at me.
"Damn you," I murmured to him.
"That's right," he agreed.
I didn't understand him.
"Get up," he said again.
"I can't."
"Do you want an old man to help you?"
I shook my head. I crawled back to the dresser again, once more pulled myself to my feet. The room spun crazily before my eyes. There were three of him sitting on the bed, all of them grinning idiotically at me.
Slowly, things began to come into focus.
"You're tougher than I thought, Johnny," my father said.-.
"Who gives a damn?"
"Go ahead. Feel sorry for yourself."
I stepped away from the dresser. I swayed like a drunken sailor, but I kept my feet. I walked slowly across to the opposite wall, rested there a moment, and then walked back.
I felt as if I had won a great victory.
"Okay," he said, "now we've almost killed each other, do you want to finish it?"
"I couldn't." I managed to smile.
"Sit down, Johnny, before you fall down again."
"I can stand."
"And prove what?"
He was right. I set the rocker upright and half-fell into it. We sat there for a moment, staring at each other, each realizing the viciousness with which we had fought, each slightly ashamed of it.
"Can you listen?" he asked me.
"I can listen," I replied.
"Sherry told me," my father said slowly, his voice strange, out-of-key. "I know the way she told it was a lie. But I also know you had her, Johnny, and that was the reason for the beating. I had to get that out of my system.
"I knew you would be running away and I just drove along until I saw your car. I don't suppose-" and my father looked at me carefully, intently-"that I should blame you. I couldn't resist her, even knowing what she was, so why should you?
"But it's over now, Johnny, over and done with. I threw her out. I don't give a damn now. Whatever happens to her, it's her own fault. And yet I can't really blame her. I can only blame myself for being an old fool." He smiled. "We're all entitled to at least one big mistake in our lives. Mine just came a little late in life."
He looked down at his hands, at the blood on them, and shook his head sadly. "Come on home, son. Come on home where you belong."
I tried to think of something to say, something with which to salve our mutually hurt feelings. But there seemed nothing for me to say. I could only sit there and listen again to his words going through my memory.
But inside myself, for the first time, I realized what had been happening to me, exactly whose fault this whole mess had been. The responsibility was mine. I faced it, knowing that I would have to live with my mistake for the rest of my life.
We took turns in the bathroom, repairing the damage we had inflicted upon each other.
It was almost as if a curtain had been raised between us, almost as if we could, for the first time, understand each other.
My father put his hand on my shoulder. "God, Johnny," he said, "you look like you had been through the mill."
I had to laugh, looking at his own broken and smashed face. "You don't look so hot yourself," I told him.
"No," he said slowly, "I guess not." His face was dead serious. "But for the first time in a long while, I feel like my own man again. That's important."
"I guess-I guess I feel like a man, too, for the first time in my life," I said.
He punched me playfully in the chest. "Remind me never to get in another fight with you," he said laughingly. "Now come on, there's work that's been pilin' up at the farm."
He stopped suddenly, shaking his head in bewilderment. "Damn me," he said, "I clean forgot somethin'."
"What?"
"I'm not alone, Johnny."
My heart suddenly beat faster.
"Leah came to the farm this mornin'," he went on, "just as I was leavin'. She was lookin' for you. We had a little talk. She's a damned fine girl, Johnny. She wanted to come along when I told her I was goin' lookin' for you."
"You mean-"
"I mean she's been sittin' out in the car all this time," he said happily. "I guess it won't be too much of a strain if I ask you to take her back in your car, will it?"
He was smiling as he went out the door.
Confused, the feeling of guilt for what I had done still strong within me, I stood waiting. I could hear her footsteps in the hall outside, their hesitancy as she approached the door, which my father had left open.
"Hello, Johnny," she said simply as she entered the room.
"Hello, Leah."
She stood with her hands folded in front of her, looking into my face, carefully studying me, gauging me. "I didn't expect-" I started. "You didn't expect me?" she interrupted. "No."
"Well, I'm here. I came."
I wanted to hold her in my arms, to cuddle her against my chest, to love her and desire her.
"Are you surprised?" she asked.
"I love you," was all I could say.
"And I love you," she whispered, running into my arms.
I held her close. The emotion within me welled up unbearably. I felt like bursting. I was so damned grateful.
"Just hold me a while," she said.
We stood locked in each other's arms, listening to the noises of the day outside, in the tiny, dirty little room where my father and I had fought so viciously.
"Do you know?" I asked her finally, pulling back so that we were staring into each other's faces.
"It hasn't been spelled out for me. I don't want it spelled out for me, Johnny. I can imagine the torment you've gone through. I know what it's been like for me. Don't ever try to explain it to me.
"I've seen the change in you, Johnny. Perhaps some of it was my own fault. We should have been married before this. We should have been sharing each other every night. I know only that I need you, Johnny. There can be no other person in this world for me."
"I've grown up," I said to her.
"I know you have. Maybe I've grown a little, too," she said.
Her lips brushed mine, coolly.
"There'll be nights for us, Johnny, my darling," she whispered, "many, many nights. We'll be alone, just the two of us and it will be like there is nothing else in this whole wide world but Johnny and Leah."
