In their book, Sex and Society, Kenneth Walker and Peter Fletcher write: "The development of sexuality in both sexes follows a well-defined course dictated by the impulse to convert ill-defined hunger into love by the discovery of the appropriate environmental counterpart. This search begins in the self with the self as object, and the phase is marked by narcissistic reveries. When these fail to bring satisfaction the field of investigation is widened further so as to include with it the opposite sex." Happily, athletic coach Roy Warden had extended his scope as much as possible, before a better job offer took him to Spring Vale, a town filled with people who knew how to make money and girls who just knew how ... He never knew what scope was until he learned what his duties at the high school included his principal course was to be advanced lust.
CHAPTER ONE
"Gee, Roy," Hortense Gustafson said, her face flushing slightly, "I just wish you wouldn't stare at them like that."
"Mmmmmm," Warden agreed, nodding his head solemnly, his eyes never leaving her tits. "I can't help it," he sighed. "They intrigue me." He reached across the table, and gently patted one huge breast, encased in what seemed like a steel-lined bra, covered by a thin, sleeveless black sweater.
Hortense giggled. "Oh, Roy," she said, shyly. She looked down at his hand, moving ticklishly about on her breast. She made no effort to stop the hand; instead she pressed forward against it. "Oooh," she squeaked, "that feels good."
Warden's mind led down only one trail, now. Touching her through all those cumbersome clothes would no longer do. The ache to see her, touch her ample, warm flesh, caress her rose-tipped boobs was overpowering him, as it had done so many times before. "It could feel better," he grated, his throat throbbing with each word. He reached to the base of her sweater, and tried to tug it upward.
"Don't do that," Hortense said, pettishly. Warden's mind boggled. Was she refusing him now, on this last night? "You'll stretch the sweater," she cooed, brushing his hand gently away, and tugging the sweater up herself. She eased one side up, then the other, and now her midriff was bare, the pale flesh, flat and taut, rippling over her ribs. Carefully, she eased the sweater up, up, and over that bountiful, jutting shelf.
Warden's eyes blinked rapidly. He had never become accustomed to the eventual unveiling of her treasures, each time they'd met after their first date. It was as always, a breath-seizing panorama of flesh, bulging the sides of her bra, which wasn't steel-lined, he saw now, appreciating the firmness of her. As she raised her arms to shuck off the sweater, white waves of flesh swelled, and rolled toward each other, colliding, and easing over the top of their filmy, net prison.
The sweater was off now, but Hortense seemed in no hurry to remove her bra. Warden hoped his nails weren't leaving claw marks on the table top. He was aware of a sudden, extreme discomfort, sitting as he was, but he knew better than to shift position. His blinking settled into a fixed stare, and he hardly dared raise his eyes to her face.
"I wish they weren't so big," Hortense said, her hands manipulating them, causing them to almost spill out of her bra. "Everybody's always staring at me, like you are, hon."
The sound of her voice jerked his eyes from her unsettled treasures to her face. Her mouth was pursed, as though she were deep in thought, but her words had been a lot lighter in tone. "You're just teasing now," Warden croaked, "and you know it. Now, why don't you ... "
"Honeee," Hortense interrupted, the pettish tone returning, as before, "I feel awful silly being the only one without clothes on. After all, it'd be fairer if we kind of took our clothes off together. Then I wouldn't feel so embarrassed." She lowered her eyes, but she couldn't suppress a small giggle. Her hand flew to her mouth to suppress it, and that caused her breasts to roil over again.
Warden edged his chair away from the table with difficulty. Skit, why do I respond so fast! he thought. He stood up carefully, unbuttoning his shirt too quickly for nonchalance, but not caring. Self-consciously, he turned his hips away from her, not wanting her to notice the unseemly bulge bringing him so much discomfort. Ahhh, hell, it didn't work, he thought, watching her eyes rove over his now bared chest, and then further down, where they stopped, and widened. "Okay, now I've got my shirt off," he said brusquely, wishing she wouldn't stare, like that. "Now what?"
Hortense slid her chair back, and rose, slowly, gracefully. She came around from behind the table, each step tightening her skirt against her rounded thighs, each step causing delightful new formations within the confines of her brassiere. She stepped closer to him. and stopped in front of him. "Unhook me." she said "It hurts my arm when I bend it back like that." She gestured behind her, and then let her arms down to her sides.
Her voice was like a siren going off in Warden's head. He needed no second invitation. He stepped toward her, lurched, flinched, and then thumped against her, his hands moving eagerly to her back. He fumbled with the hooks. Three oj them, he thought savagely. One, there, boy this damn thing is tight. Two, I wouldn't like to get my hand caught in between there when she bends over, ahh, three and look out.
Her shoulders seemed to snap back, freed of the weight of the bra straps. Her breasts tumbled out of the bra, against his bare chest, threatening to blanket him. Then she moved her arms upward, her hands reaching for his belt, and her breasts became soft, pliant knives, stabbing his chest with wondrous softness and fullness.
She expertly undid his belt buckle, and flipped the button open. Her fingers ran the zipper down speedily, grazing his rod, and moving back up to the sides of the trousers, starting to slide them down over his hips. He made similar progress with her skirt. Their exertions were reflected in their heavier breathing. Warden was almost panting, so many delightful sensations attacked his mind at once. Otherwise, no word was spoken.
They held each others' arms for support while they kicked themselves out of their shoes, each concentrating on those shoes, the most important thing. Those shoes. And then, slowly and haltingly, like awaking on a new mom, they discovered, at a moment, the nakedness of each other. They stood slightly apart, their eyes roving over each other, the white sections of their bodies, where bathing suits had been, glaring out, now, against the deep tans of the fading summer's sun.
These precious few moments seemed endless, each ritualistically feasting on the other, while powerful forces began to surge, and quieted desires began to key up to fever pitch. Then they drove themselves against each other, their lips crashing against each other with small grunts of passion, mouths opening, tongues darting, seeking questioningly, and finding, twining above, under, around, while hands with their own wills savored the delights of soft and tender or coarse and rock-hard flesh.
His knees grew weak, and began to buckle, and he tore his lips from hers, his breath laboring for recovery. She slid her hand between her thrusting hip and his, edging it down over his belly, further down, until she had caressingly collected him in her cupped hand. His knees straightened, involuntarily, and he surrendered to her inquisitive hand, knowing she would not hurt him. He stretched his fingers wide, surrounding one of her breasts, feeling the stiffened nipple against his palm, struggling vainly to capture all of her in one hand.
He stepped back clumsily, in a primitive waltz of desire, groping for the soft comfort of the bunk bed. The exposed beams of the cabin whirled dizzily before his half-open eyes, feeling both of her hands on him now, each moving with a separate part, each unbearably smooth, and tiny, and tantalizing. His free hand slid down her back to her firm buttocks, and pressed against them, feeling the muscles quiver, guiding her against him as he inched closer to the bed.
"Roy, Roy," Hortense began murmuring his name over and over, like a passion-filled incantation. Her lips nuzzled against his neck, her teeth nipped at his shoulder. "Be careful, darling," she whispered now, "it's right behind you."
His leg thumped against the bed board, and he spun her around, slowly, both hands against her back now, lowering her, holding her, letting her fall back onto the bed. She settled against the bed, and reached out for him again, taking him, tugging at him, insistently. "Move over!" he rasped, impatiently. "Oh, hey, not so hard!" he groaned, hoarsely, flopping down beside her on the bed, led by her insistent hand.
She led him over her legs, and he was compelled to follow. Every move was an effort, throbbing against her hand, hovering over her now, his legs flailing without purchase or direction. Her face came closer to him, and he was at once entrapped in a fountain of passion, enveloping him in moist warmth and velvet while he floated on a sea of soft, pliant flesh, cushioning his chest.
He dared not break the overwhelming pleasure by moving, until he was moved, warm flesh pressing him back, and easing him forward until this new sensation rose over all the others, and he responded jerkily, at first, and then with more powerful surges until the tingling feeling crept down his back, under her heels prodding there, and deeper into him, ever forward, growing in his mind as a pinpoint of light that became larger and larger until the brightness filled his mind and exploded like a sunburst.
Awareness of separate parts of his body began to trickle into his mind, dimming the brilliant light. First his back, where the driving, rounded heels had ceased their pummeling. Then the belly, damp, and almost hot against wet and hot flesh. The hands, unraveling from clenched hair, and the arms loosening from tightly held shoulders. The legs, like jelly, almost uncontrollable, lifting him feebly up, and over, and the deep panting, echoed, becoming subdued, as did the echo.
He hoisted himself up on one elbow, and gazed at her, flat on her back, her eyes staring at the ceiling, her legs loosely sprawled. Her breasts, flattened, and tumbling against her upper arms, her ribs moving with her breath, her belly flat, and sunken. He reached over, and aimlessly ran his forefinger around her nipples, down her belly, and back up to her breasts. "I don't think I'll ever be able to forget," he said, half-aloud, hoping she wouldn't hear, but knowing she had to.
She lay still for a moment, and then sat up suddenly, her knees drawing up, her breasts filling and ballooning outward, and forward, quivering ponderously. Her eyes were wide, and her voice had a catch in it as she asked, "What do you mean?" Her hand traveled to his shoulder, and gripped it as her eyes found his, and locked onto them.
"I'm going away," he said simply, wishing he could break from her stare, but compelled to look at her.
Her eyes held firm, moving quickly over his face, but her face dissolved to a mournful mask. "You're going away?" she echoed, with disbelief in her voice.
"Yes," Warden said.
"What? Why? When? Where?" The questions tumbled out of her mouth, her hands in tiny fists, pressing against her cheeks.
"I should have told you," Warden said. "Maybe I was too selfish. I wanted it to end this way. So I could always remember you. Now you can damn me, if you want to."
"Oh, Roy," Hortense began, and then sobbing overtook her voice, and she reined in her despair after a moment, to continue, "I never thought it would, I mean I always thought ... " A fresh wave of tears spilled Over her cheeks.
Warden stood up from the bed, and picked up his pants from the floor. He climbed into them gingerly, watching Hortense. He felt more dignified with his pants on. He slid into his shoes, and threw his shirt on. He felt secure, now, against her extended sobbing. He walked back to the bed, and waited for her crying to ease off. Finally, she smeared her eyes dry, and let her hands fall in her lap as she gazed up balefully at him. "I'm sorry," he said, not really knowing if he meant it.
"I'm sorry, too," Hortense answered. "I should never have gone so far. I I think I fell in love with you." She said it as though it were the height of lunacy.
"You shouldn't have done that," he blurted, and then realized how it sounded. like telling her she shouldn't have had another ice cream soda.
"I know," she said softly. She eased her legs off the bed, until her feet touched the floor. "This is the second time." She looked up at him, sadly. "Tell me something, Roy," she said. "Am I that hard to be with, to stay with? I mean, I give it everything I've got. Everything." She looked down at her nude body, and her hands moved against her breasts. She let them alone, then, and looked back at Warden. "Is it so hard?" she asked again.
"Oh, hon, it's not that at all," he said. "I couldn't ever hope to marry you. Your father owns the dairy, and I'm just a lousy athletic instructor. A gym teacher," he said, snorting derisively. "I couldn't give you any-kind of life."
"You never asked me about it," Hortense said in a little-girl voice.
"I didn't think I ever could. But this job came, although I applied for it so long ago. I forgot about it. A high school down state. Their athletic director is retiring. My application was next in line. It means so much more money. I'd have been a fool to turn it down." Hortense rose from the bed, and padded over to her clothes. She slipped on her panties, and stepped into her skirt. Warden watched with bemusement. It felt like a curtain was closing. The play was ending, and never again would he see this lovely, natural, unspoiled farm girl this way. It was a truly saddening thought. She got into her bra, with some effort, managing to hook it herself. "I guess that didn't leave much room for me," she said, slipping her sweater on carelessly, sliding it quickly down over her bra.
"At the time, I didn't think about it," Warden said, watching her comb her hair. "I just fired off the letter saying, 'hell, yes, I'll take it.' I guess that's the worst part. I never did think about it. Until tonight. Out here, in this cabin, with you. And now, being here with you with what we just shared I can't think about it."
"Well, cheer up." Hortense said, with feigned lightness. "You won't have to think about it, soon. You'll be packing, and leaving Oh, Roy, please take me home before I come unwrapped again." She stifled a sniffle
He locked the cabin, and slid the key under the mat with silent thanks to Fred Morris, who'd let him use it as a lovers' rendezvous for so long. He walked Hortense down the oak-lined dirt road, the leaves just beginning to turn in the cool fall air. He opened the door of the beat-up Chev, and closed it after her. The car wheezed to life, and he backed it around, glancing at Hortense, and giving one long, last look at the cabin, wanting to etch it in his mind.
The drive back to Hortense's father's farm was made in silence. Hortense sat stiffly near the door, and Warden tried not to think of anything. He glanced at her when he felt she was looking at him, but she stared straight ahead, her fingers working nervously with each other in her lap. He approached the farm, slowed and stopped by the long driveway leading to the house. "Don't want to wake up your old man," he said, explaining why he wasn't driving in.
She didn't move to leave the car. Then he remembered. He got out, walked around and opened her door. She slid out of the car, her skirt riding up. She pulled it down, hastily. The show was over. All over. She tilted her face up to his and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Please don't forget me for a little while," she said, and then turned and walked quickly away, her head down.
"I'D write," he called after her. She didn't turn around, and she didn't answer. A few yards into the driveway, she broke into a run. Then she was gone.
It was a lousy trip, most of it. In an effort to conserve waning funds, he stayed off of the toll roads. More correctly, he feared for the Chev's life, and his, at any speed past fifty-five. So he drove through lots of small towns, and every town he drove through reminded him inanely of Hortense. When he said the name to himself, he blanched. He'd never lost that habit, ever since he'd met her. Hortense. A helluva name to hang on a sweet kid like that.
But it wasn't the name. It was her. The baleful way she'd looked at him. The almost total lack of resistance with which she'd accepted his leaving. Had he meant nothing to her, or too much? He said her name aloud a few times, waiting for a reaction, a tightening in his belly, a quickening of his heartbeat. Nothing. Nothing happened. He considered it for twenty miles. Then it was her body, he concluded.
That beautiful body. like a Wagnerian Isolde. like the German girls he'd known and loved when he was stationed there. So long ago. So far away. As the miles between Hortense and himself widened, a curiously blissful feeling crept over him. And Hortense, like all the others, became so long ago, and so far away.
He stopped at a diner for coffee, and then got back into the car. He checked the gas, oil, speedometer, his watch, and the roadmap. Another hundred miles Three more hours of back roads. He threw caution to the winds, and picked up the toll road fifteen miles further down the line. He checked the toll card against the map. Springville. No, that wasn't it. Spring Vale. Yes, there. Less than a dollar, and eighty odd miles. And it had its own exit. He eased the Chev onto the toll road, and cajoled sixty out of it for the rest of the trip. He tried to ignore the smoke from his exhaust in the rear view mirror.
He arrived in Spring Vale as school was letting out. He stopped and asked a cop directions to the high school. The cop eyed his smokescreen with an unforgiving gaze, then directed him to the school. Implicit in what the cop didn't say was the fact that smoky-automobiles were not looked upon with tolerance in Spring Vale.
Warden followed the cop's directions, and found the school. It was on a main road, set well back, and it sprawled. It seemed newly constructed, and was immaculately clean. The grounds were well cared for. the cars in the parking lot were late model, and the students he saw were turned out in the latest styles. The whole thing looked like money. It looked like a bond issue had been floated, and the taxpayers had done themselves proud.
He wandered through the halls, nearly empty, now, looking for the principal's office. A student, noting his distress, guided him. The student was a very pretty young lady, and babbled cheerfully on about her father being the principal, or some such thing. He didn't notice her because he didn't want to notice her. There was the principal to meet, lodging to secure, a smoky car to be fixed, and he was tired. The pretty young lady halted in front of a door that said PRINCIPAL. "The principal's in there," she burbled.
"I'd imagined he would be," Warden answered, relieved that her chattering had stopped.
"I've got to be running along," the girl said. "See you again." She flitted down the hall, and Warden heaved a sigh of relief as he stepped into the office. It was a waiting room, actually. A secretary and some sullen-looking youngsters peopled the room. The secretary looked up and smiled. She was a handsome woman, not old, he noted, but warm and friendly. The smile alone seemed almost worth the trip.
"My name is Warden, Roy Warden," he said, stepping toward her desk.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Pembroke's been expecting you. Come with me, please?"
She stepped to the principal's office door, and knocked, softly. Warden noted her long legs, well-formed body, and handsome profile. He laid aside his idle thoughts as he was ushered into Pembroke's office.
Pembroke was standing behind his desk. He came around it, and grasped Warden's hand, firmly. "Mr. Warden? Glad to meet you. Glad you could get here Have a seat."
The greeting was certainly cordial enough. Pembroke's secretary was still smiling. It looked like it was going to be a good job. "Glad to be here," he said, meaning it.
He sat, and listened, while Pembroke gave him a brief resume of the school and the town. "So you can see, we're looking for you to bring us some winners," he finished, with a chuckle.
"I hope so, too," Warden responded. From what he'd seen of the school, he knew that winning was more than just sport. It was a command. This school was a monument to a winning team. Nothing less would be tolerated.
"Mrs. Watkins, my secretary, will show you to your office. I imagine you'd like to get settled in. There'll be plenty of time for talk later. I hope you'll enjoy your stay, and that it will be a long and rewarding one. And remember, my door is always open to faculty and students alike."
As Mrs. Watkins ushered him out of the office, he was musing how long it had taken Pembroke to polish up that speech. He was wondering, too, about the smile Mrs. Watkins had given Pembroke. He followed Mrs. Watkins down the hall, deciding he was too tired to read anything into smiles, or babbling, pretty young ladies, or the frosty stares of the municipal policemen.
The walk seemed endless, but he was fortified by the scenic view of Mrs. Watkins' undulating body moving before him. The legs were long, and the carriage much sleeker than at first glance, he mused. What the hell, I wouldn't blame Pembroke, he thought.
Mrs. Watkins slowed before an office door. "Here we are." she said, with that smile again.
Warden looked at the door. ATHLETIC DIRECTOR, it said, and underneath that, where other letters had been before, was the legend, R. WARDEN. I have to admire their confidence, he thought. Mrs. Watkins unlocked the office door, and handed him the key. "It's yours, now," she said. "I know you'll just want to look around, so I'll leave you. Oh, by the way, Miss Norris has the office next to yours. She's in charge of girls' athletics, but she'll be under you."
"Yes. Thank you for your time and trouble," he said, a lopsided grin edging across his face as he thought of Mrs. Watkins' unintentional double entrendre.
"You're welcome, I'm sure," Mrs. Watkins said. "Well see you in the morning, then." She walked down the hall. Who's 'we'? Warden mused. Stop it, he told himself. Just because the other school was as active as a rabbit hutch, don't...
"Hi, there," a voice said. He turned, and looked. "I'm Miss Norris," the woman said. "You must be Mr. Warden. We've been expecting you."
Miss Norris was blonde. Miss Norris had a cute face, with a pert nose. Miss Norris was long :f leg, firm of thigh, and ample of tit, if one could believe girls' gym suits. "Hi," he answered, "that's me. I guess everyone's been expecting me." He gestured at the door with his name on it before he'd even arrived.
Miss Norris laughed. "Spring Vale doesn't often take no for an answer," she said.
"Well, come in with me, and let us look at my palace together," he said, with a grin.
"Be right with you," Miss Norris answered. "Let me lock up, first."
He stood by his office, and watched her. She was remarkably lovely. Those gym shorts accentuated the fine line of her thighs, tapering down to lithe calves, and trim ankles, covered by white athletic socks. Her gym blouse was full-blown, and he imagined that it couldn't all be air. Mrs. Watkins' phrase drifted back to him. Miss Norris will be under you. He watched her walk toward him, her blonde hair bouncing, a smile on her lips.
I hope so, he thought.
CHAPTER TWO
"You know, Stace, it's damn hard with a kid like that," Warden was saying. "He's got more talent, probably, than the rest of the squad put together. Trouble is, he knows it, and the rest of the squad does, too. There's no cohesion. Jusi Stu Smith, superstar, and ten other guys waiting for him to fall on his face."
"I know," Stacey said, nodding sympathetically. "It was like that last year, too. Of course, old man Aldrich catered to him. They must have had some kind of pact. He always played his heart out for Aldrich."
"Ah," Warden snorted, "I don't go for that crap. The team's a unit, and he's one player. If he flubs it, second-string quarterback goes in, that's all. I don't know how they won the county championship last year, if Smith carried on then like he's carrying on now."
"Oh, he didn't," Stacey answered, "in public. But Aldrich spent so much time with him in this office. I could only hear the muffled voices, but those two'd be in here for ever an hour, sometimes, and the rest of the team, out there on the field."
Warden nodded his head in disbelief, then checked the wall clock. "Talk about spending time in this office," he said, "I guess we'd better get out there and mold the young minds and bodies of America." He stood up from the swivel chair, watching Stacey uncross her legs, those lovely legs, and ease out of her chair. His remark had made her giggle.
"Honestly, Roy," she said between giggles, "if only those dedicated teachers upstairs could hear you, sometimes." She started for the door.
Warden stepped between her and the door. "Look," he said, quickly, "I know we've only known each other a few weeks, but I'd really like you to have dinner with me tonight."
Stacey's expression changed from surprise, to contemplation, to delight. "I think that could be arranged," she said, lightly. "What did you have in mind?"
You wouldn't be alone with me in this office if you knew that, baby, he thought. Aloud, he said, "You know the territory. We'll think of something." He glanced at his watch. "C'mon, teacher," he said, taking her arm lightly, "we're late."
They walked through the parking lot, her stride matching his. It felt good to have her by his side, even walking down to the stadium. She was class, she had a sense of humor, a great body, she was everything he'd found in separate parts, before. He resisted an impulse to take her hand. After all, it was only two weeks. And she had agreed to dinner.
"Well, there they are," he said to Stacey, as they hit the grass ramp leading into the stadium. 'See how they gambol and play."
"From here, it looks more like flirting," Stacey said.
Warden glanced at her, and then followed her gaze out to the field. There was Smith and a blonde cheerleader, chatting idly, while the rest of both squads worked out. "That figures," he grunted.
"No, it doesn't," Stacey said slowly, her brow knitted. "I just don't see Patti carrying on like that."
"Well, let's break it up and crack the whip, shall we?" Warden asked, leading off, onto the field. Stacey caught up with him. "I'll get my crowd into line," she said. "Phone me, later. I'll give you directions to my apartment."
"Right," Warden called after her, astonished at how her long, superbly shaped legs ate up the ground. He directed his attention toward his squad, noting that they had spotted him by now. They broke into a rash of disjointed calisthenics, all except Dixon, the assistant coach. He remained on the bench on his duff, reading what looked like a man's magazine. He signaled the players not to tip Dixon off, as he stole up upon him.
He walked up behind Dixon softly, reached over his shoulder, and tore the magazine from his hands. Dixon froze, then spun around, his mouth agape.
"What the hell do you think this is, Dixon? A library? Or a practice session?" Warden grated.
"I, uh, I was waiting for you, Coach," Dixon stammered.
Warden bent his face close to Dixon's. "Catch all of this, 'cause I'm only running it through once," he said softly, but with a menacing tone. "If I'm late, and I can see now I'd better not plan on it, you take those clowns and you run them through their paces! You don't let them make mudpies, and you don't let them shoot the bull about the homecoming dance. You give them some physical direction, because you're a physical athletics director, aren't you? Well, aren't you?" Warden stood before Dixon, his hands belligerently on his hips.
"Yessir!" Dixon said, leaping up from the bench.
"You take the 'B' Squad," Warden interrupted. Dixon turned to leave, clumsily fumbling for his whistle. "Dixon!" Warden barked. Dixon froze. "Don't blow that damn thing. You'll wake them up." He thumbed briefly through Dixon's magazine. "One more thing. Here's your magazine. You carry it with you through this whole practice drill. And don't let it fall open on the ground. Or they could accuse you of malingering and corrupting the morals of youth." He softened the harshness of his words with a crooked grin. Dixon returned the grin, sheepishly.
Warden blew his whistle. The twenty-odd young men ceased their clumsy attempts at body building, and gathered around him. He motioned Dixon over. "Coach Dixon, here, will take the 'B' Squad over there," he said, gesturing vaguely to the other side of the field. From the other end of the field a chorus of feminine voices wafted over them. The boys turned their heads, absorbed in the frenetic antics of the cheer-leading squad.
"Gentlemen!" Warden hollered. Fifty-six pairs of eyes swiveled back to him, attentive, and a little worried-looking. All except the eyes of Smith, which remained downfield. Warden fixed his stare on Smith, and the squad slowly turned their eyes away, following his stare. Smith stood with his arms folded, a vacant smile on his face, oblivious to the attention he was suddenly receiving.
"Ah, we must have one among us who isn't a gentleman," Warden remarked, loudly. The squad chuckled self-consciously. Warden moved toward Smith, the squad moving aside, forming a path of bodies, sweaty and husky, tense with anticipation. "Mr. Smith." Warden said. "Mr. Smith?" Again.
Smith's face shifted from amused contemplation to taut attention. "Sir?"
"Are you a gentleman, Mr. Smith?" Warden asked.
Smith's chin receded against his neck, and his eyes blinked rapidly. "Sir?"
"I asked if you were a gentleman, Mr. Smith," Warden repeated. "All these other gentlemen behind me were listening to me till their ears ached. But you weren't listening, Mr. Smith. Why weren't you listening, Mr. Smith? Did I say something to offend you? Is my sweatshirt dirty? Why, Mr. Smith?"
Smith stuttered an unintelligible answer.
"Never mind, Mr. Smith. I'm sure you had your reasons. Now, if you'd like to rejoin the group," he said, his voice rising, "maybe we can practice a little football today!"
He turned and stalked back to the center of the group. "Dixon," he snapped, "move 'em!" Dixon dog-trotted off with 'B' Squad. "All right, gentlemen," he said, after 'B' Squad had gone, "now we're all alone. Alone with the thought that the season will open in one week. One week. And some of us still have one foot in the water bucket. D'you know what that means?"
The squad stood silent, bewildered. A few mumbled.
"Louder!" He cupped his hand behind his ear.
"No!" they roared back at him.
"It means some of those lovely bodies of yours will get bruised," he said. "It means that we may lose the game. That would disappoint our mothers and sweethearts, wouldn't it?"
"Yes!" The squad began to blossom into smiles. They were enjoying it. Good, he thought. Unity. It sounds stupid, but this will help bring unity. They'll imitate me in the locker room, and they'll tell their buddies, and their girl friends, and maybe they'll even get a little closer and play together. The only nagging, disturbing thing was that Smith hadn't joined in their gleeful choruses.
"It would disappoint our faculty and the good people of our fair village, would it not?" he continued, beginning to enjoy it himself.
"Yes!" The howls of the squad drowned out the faint cheers drifting up from downfield. He glanced behind him and saw the cheerleaders and Stacey, standing, watching them.
"Now, then, gentlemen, let's practice some pass plays guaranteed to stupefy the opposition and thrill the crowd." He reached down by his feet, picked up a football, and spiraled it underhand to Smith. Having let his attention wander to the cheerleaders again, Smith was unprepared, and it thudded into his stomach and fell to the ground. He grunted and bent over, then straightened slowly. He looked flustered.
"That could happen next Saturday," Warden said, his tone curt, now. "So we're going to run these plays until you've named every blade of grass on this field. Until your bodies are creaking more than your pads. And maybe, with sincerity and a great deal of dedication, we may win next Saturday. Though I don't see how."
The 'A' Squad scrambled into position, facing the cheerleaders. Smith stepped into quarterback position, close behind the center. He chanted a string of numbers, triggering the hike. The ends scrambled down-field and cut over, crisscrossing each other. Smith cocked his arm, and the ball shot from his hand, arcing lightly. It overshot both intended receivers.
"Again!" The play was run off again, this time the ball dropping short.
"One nineteen," Warden said. The squad shifted positions. Smith received the ball, went back, feigning a pass. The right half-back rolled behind him, reaching for the ball. Smith let it tumble from his hands too soon, the half-back fumbled, and tripped, the ball dancing away.
Warden called a series of plays, all revolving around the quarterback, and each play was disjointed, or incomplete, or fumbled. Warden passed his hands across his eyes, leaving them there for a moment, pressing the tips of his fingers against those weary, unbelieving eyes. Then he blew a short, shrill blast on the whistle. The squad, haggard and stoop-shouldered, exchanging glances and, glaring at Smith, shuffled to him.
"All right, Smith, let's have it," Warden shot out. "Sir?"
"Your record's stuck, Smith. You've been giving me that 'sir' crap all afternoon. In between times, you've been trying to look up ihe skirts of those cheerleaders down there. Otherwise, your precision performance has managed to wreck every play, including the Statue of Liberty, which is a classic of simplicity." He paused for breath. The squad eyed each other, an occasional elbow being dug into an occasional rib.
"You, Parsons. What's the matter, Darnell got an itch on his rib? He's a big boy, now. Let him scratch it himself. Keep your elbows close, boy. Otherwise you'll fumble, or they'll steal your purse."
He looked at his watch. He looked behind him, thinking suddenly of Stacey. The cheerleading squad, and Stacey, had left the field. He hadn't even noticed. "Now, we're going to have to stop acting like a bunch of drunk clerics at the company picnic," he continued. "When you're not cracking the books, or eating, or sleeping, you're going to live this game. You're going to knock off the stupid mistakes, and don't think Smith is the only one who made them." The last remark, intended to soften Smith's embarrassment, apparently didn't, because his face remained frozen with rage. Warden glared at him for a moment and stared him down. "So shape up. Remember, one week! Hit the showers!"
He stood and watched the squad wander off toward the school. Dixon's group was leaving, too. He picked up his clipboard, which Dixon had thoughtfully brought with him, and walked toward Dixon.
"What do you think?" Dixon asked, walking by his side.
"Pathetic," Warden answered.
"I noticed," Dixon returned. "Your boy Smith may be on my squad before long."
"I don't know, Harry," Warden said, "I just don't know. He wasn't trying. He was just showing off."
The two men walked in silence until they reached the office. Dixon stopped outside. "Gotta go," he said. "That is, unless there's something else."
"Mmrn? Oh, no, Harry. You can go. And Harry?
Let me borrow that magazine when you're through with it?" Harry Dixon grinned, and walked down the hall.
Warden entered his office, deep in thought. Something he'd said back there on the field, walking with Dixon, was trying to connect up with something Stacey had said earlier. It circled around in his mind, failing to connect, both parts so tantalizingly close. He shrugged it off, and reached for the phone book. He found Stacey's number and dialed it. She answered and they exchanged pleasantries. He repeated the instructions for reaching her apartment and agreed to pick her up at seven-thirty.
It came to him in the shower. When the two links to Smith's difficulties connected, it became crystal clear. Clearer still, remembering the continual references to how his playing had excited the crowd in last year's school paper. 'Crowd pleaser', 'the crowd leapt to its feet'; it all spelled out adulation. The kid loved adulation, from any source. Adulation, or affection? He'd have to check with Stacey. It was another reason he could hardly wait to pick her up.
She was waiting on the steps of a modest, two-story house. She climbed into the ailing Chev, and returned his greeting warmly. "You live here, huh?" Warden's voice was less than reverent. He'd managed a brand new apartment on the other side of town, antiseptic in its austere furnishings, its aluminum-framed windows and air-conditioning, and neighbors he neither saw nor heard.
"It's cozy," Stacey answered. "Besides, Mrs. Rankin, she's my landlady, has a color television set. We sit and watch it and eat popcorn together. It's lots better than the movies. I snuggle up in my baby doll pj's, and she gets the corn popper going."
"Uh huh," Warden grunted, reeling under the diamond-studded monologue. Color television! Popcorn! Stop trying to hide your jealousy, he told himself Those baby doll pajamas sounded tempting. "Listen, Stace, there's a few things I wanted to ask you in the line of shop-talk. Then the evening's ours, okay?"
"Shoot," Stacey said, settling back in her end of the car seat.
"Okay. I guess you saw it, out there today. Smith was acting like a circus clown in front of that blonde cheerleader of yours, what's her name?"
"Patti Pembroke. Old man Pembroke's daughter."
"Yeah. The principal's kid. Funny. I remember she was the first person I met in Spring Vale, if you leave out a surly cop. She lent me aid and comfort."
"Oh?"
"You bet. I arrived like the walking wounded. She led me to her daddy's office."
"Oh." Stacey's tone, after the explanation, was changed.
"Anyway," he continued, his voice more serious, "is there any way at all you could hold your practice sessions with your girls in the tennis courts? I've got a reason."
"What?" The idea seemed less than fascinating to her. "Why?"
"I think I got Smith doped out. Something you said in the office this afternoon and something I was rambling on about with Dixon. Was Patti Pembroke on the squad last year? Did you have the squad last year?"
"Yes on both counts, Mr. District Attorney," Stacey answered, lightly. "I handled the varsity cheerleaders, like this year, but Patti made the squad. And her old man had nothing to do with it. The kid made it on her own," she added.
"I looked up Smith's performance record in the school paper," Warden said. "He made varsity last year, too, coincidentally. Now another question. Did you practice out there on the field with the team last year?"
"Yes. Before some wild-eyed maniac started mumbling about tennis courts, I'd hoped to always practice out there. It keeps the girls up, a little appreciative audience."
"I bet you looked great out there, with the wind and the rain in your hair," Warden commented, dryly. "Such devotion to the stadium," he said. "Anyway, try and think back about this one. Your sessions lasted an hour or so, right?"
"Yes, about that."
"And you said that it seemed ridiculous for Aldrich to have kept Smith in his office for an hour or so every afternoon, right?"
"You're saying that ... "
"Exactly. Crafty old devil, wasn't he? He got to Smith a lot faster. The kid's obviously hung up on attention, or adulation, call it what you want. I just wonder if it isn't a substitute for affection and attention. What's his home life like?"
"He lives with his aunt, I think. His parents died before I came here. I understand she's a very wealthy and very eccentric old lady," Stacey said.
"That plunk, plunk, plunk you just heard was all the pieces of the puzzle falling into place, m'dear. The kid craves attention. He shows off for Patti on weekdays, and the crowd on Saturday afternoons. But when he shows off for Patti too much, he blows the drill. And he still comes out like a rose on Saturday, unless the crowd just doesn't know any better. But if Patti weren't there ... "
"I see," Stacey said, nodding understanding to the unfinished remark.
"And I think we'd see a new Smith, along with the crowd. What do you think?"
"Which way are the tennis courts?" She'd surrendered.
"I'll swap info. You tell me which way to Angelo's and the best spaghetti in Spring Vale, it says here, and I'll lead you to the tennis courts. Under a full moon, of course," he added, in a mock sinister tone.
"Where do you get those zany remarks?" she asked, laughing.
"Which way is the sky falling?" he countered. "Onward to Angelo's," he said, feeling suddenly much lighter.
They enjoyed wading through two huge bowls of spaghetti, awash in a sea of tart, pungent sauce, and rinsed down with clear, red wine. Over coffee, he outlined his plans for the evening. "I thought we might go over to that cocktail lounge on Route 307," he announced. "Dixon tells me they have a wild combo over there. How he'd know, I couldn't say. He still considers a Mozart concerto pretty wild."
"It sounds swell, Roy, it really does," Stacey said without enthusiasm.
"What's the matter? A few drinks, some dancing. It's Friday night." Warden was disturbed by her reluctance.
"Oh, well, I might as well be the one to tell you, since Lighthorse Harry Dixon doesn't fear for his job," Stacey said, glumly.
"Tell me what? Are my shoe laces untied?"
"Stop being silly and listen. You see, Roy, the people in this town regard the teachers of their kids with awe and contempt, all at once. We're okay when we shoot dumb Johnny into the next grade. But don't live," she said, a bitter tone creeping into her voice. "Don't dance, and don't drink, even in private. Otherwise the Board will slap your wrist, and out goes the old tenure. Just keep passing dumb Johnny."
"You're kidding," Warden said, thinking she was making a silly excuse.
"I wish I was. Next time, pay attention to those furtive glances we received just because we had wine with our meal. You'll see."
Warden smacked the table with frustration. "I never believed all that crap when they told me. After that, it was little hick schools with strawberry festivals and hayrides. It never seemed to matter, a beer with the boys, some of them my own students." He lapsed into silence, fretting. Then he brightened a bit. "I don't suppose I could interest you in my place," he said cautiously.
She gave him a long, level look. "Would I be safe?" she asked, at length.
"Does a bear live in the woods?" She was weakening.
"Honestly, Roy," she said, laughing. She had surrendered, again.
"There's a little imp in me," he explained, solemnly, leaving enough money for the check and tip, and rising from the table. "He writes all my material. All he wants is room and board, which is me, and three squares, which isn't me. sometimes." He took her arm and guided her outside the restaurant and into the car.
"Boy, this is class," she said, surveying his quarters with obvious pleasure.
He walked over to the record player, and dropped on a few LP's. He looked at her, for the first time, really, since they'd met. She was, as he'd first noted, an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. Her eyes were green, and they seemed to glow against the frame of her silken blonde hair. Her silk blouse rose out and over her breasts, thrusting out like two promontories from the mainland. Her belly was flat, and her hips swelled provocatively under her thin skirt. When she moved, her thighs became outlined against the sheer material, so thin he could see the leg rim of her panties barely outlined against it. And her legs. What more was there to be said? He'd studied them for two weeks, his eyes running up them countless times, only to be stopped in pursuing their gracefulness by that ludicrous gym suit. The splendid proportion of them seemed even more enticing, covered now by a skirt more revealing than any she'd worn to work at school. He'd kept track.
"There's no rule against drinking, here, and no nosy, or noisy neighbors, either, so holler up," he said cheerfully, leaving the record player when it sent forth a cascade of melodic mood music.
"A collins would hit the spot," Stacey said. She'd seated herself on the couch and was bouncing on it gingerly, delighted with is springiness.
He came out of the kitchenette with drinks for the two of them. He handed her a drink and put his on an end table, while he dove underneath it, and rummaged around, coming up, eventually, with a dog-eared photo album. He sat down next to her on the couch. "My life story," he said. He placed the album on her lap, and the touch of her firm legs against the backs of his fingers sent tingling ripples of a deeper emotion through him.
She opened the album. His portrait, in Air Force blue, staff sergeant stripes, and all. "Gay, young devil," she remarked, sipping deeply on her drink.
"Once, yes," he said, slipping his arm ever so carefully around her waist. She didn't respond one way or another.
The album was thick, and he tilted it occasionally, to better look at a particular picture. In so doing, her skirt was inched up, almost imperceptably, but he did a lot of tilting. He kept freshening her drinks, and lightening his. After a calculated lapse of time, he dimmed one light. More time went by, and more drinks, and more music, and another lamp went out'. He watched, with rising interest, how her movements in turning the pages of the album became less coordinated. You're plying her with liquor, he told himself. I know, so shut up, he answered himself.
"She's a beautiful girl, Roy, she really is," Stacey said, her words slightly slurred, pressing her finger against the photo of a pretty German girl. "What's her name?"
"Her? Resi was her name. Short for Therese," he answered. He reached for her cheek and turned her face toward him. "But not half as beautiful as you," he said softly, leaning toward her and kissing her gently. He pressed his lips harder against hers, and she responded. Her arms crept around his shoulders, and she twisted her body against his, pressing against him. He felt the twin mounds of her tits jabbing at his chest, and there were suddenly so many clothes.
Gently, he undid the few buttons holding her blouse closed. She made soft, cooing noises, and then her blouse fell open, and there were those lush breasts, protected from his gaze by a flimsy brassiere. He stroked them and cupped them in his hands, feeling their weight, their soft firmness. He eased her forward, and quickly undid the clasp on her back, and the bra slipped forward, and her pale-tipped, conical breasts were bare before him.
He bent forward and held her breast in his hand, awakening the nipple with his lips, then his tongue Stacey squirmed against his ministrations, her skirt inching higher. It was nearly to her hips, now, and he slowly shoved the album from her lap, revealing creamy, rich thighs, their line and form blunted by pale blue panties.
His mind, charged with desire, drove him forward, his hand settling on her bare knee, and quickly sliding up the warmth of her leg, over her thigh, to its inner side, and upward, his fingers curling as they rubbed against a coarseness where her thighs ended. With great care, he inched his hand forward once more, his fingers straightening.
The elastic rim of her panties gave under his insistent prying. He was inside them, now, the flesh much warmer, smoother than her legs. His other hand left her breasts, where it had been scampering to and fro, caressing, squeezing lightly, and stroking her nipples. The hand descended to her thighs, between them, seeking to loosen their tautness, to inch them apart for access to the inner warmth of her. His mind throbbed with desire, a constant one-word litany piercing slowly the walls of driving emotion.
No no no no, like a distant drumbeat pounding against his head, becoming louder, louder, and the tempo changed, became more frantic as his hand pushed deeper and deeper. " No Roy no Roy no Roy No Roy NO ROY NO ROY!"
Her legs closed together, her hand extricating his with difficulty. Her body sagged forward, her breasts falling on his arm, her blonde hair spilling over the side of her face.
"No, Roy." Soft, quiet. Final. He sank back beside her, drenched with sweat, drained, his mind able to receive one dull, hopeless thought.
This time she had not surrendered.
CHAPTER THREE
There were several things that kept the room from being that of just an average high school boy. There were the usual pennants, and a radio, but the similarity ended there. Alongside the portable color television set there was a princess telephone, beige in color, the number on the dial unlisted in Spring Vale's telephone directory.
There was an unusual amount of shelving, and the contents of the shelves sat in the semi-gloom created by the light of a single photo flood lamp like silent sentinels, with foreign, and expensive names. By the dresser, there was a Rolleiflex, and next to it, a Zeiss-Ikon. Then a multi-tiered filing box, containing hundreds of thirty-five millimeter slides, all in color, and then a Yashica.
The rest of the shelf was a tidy, geometrically arranged conglomeration of lenses, and filters, flash attachments and light meters.
On the shelf below, photo albums were piled high, one atop another, all filled, all labeled. Beside the albums were trophies, some small, some large, all neatly spaced, all commemorating, chronologically, one feat of physical prowess after another. They shined brightly, even in the gloom, because they were constantly polished, and fondled, and set back in their symmetrical pattern, their bases lining, to the inch, the edge of the shelf.
There were twin beds, one looking more used than the other, and a dresser, with a single photo on it, of a man, and a woman, and a young boy, all smiling, standing in front of a long, black Packard. Beside the dresser was a table, on which rested an enlarger, and several packets of photographic paper. On a table next to the one holding the enlarger were trays filled with hypo, developer, and rinse water, tongs, a timer, and a stack of negatives, and recently developed photographs.
On the nightstand, near the more rumpled bed, was an alarm clock, a desk calendar with notes scribbled on it, and a framed photo of a lovely girl with blonde hair. It was a portrait photo, and across the bottom, there was an inked legend. It said 'To Stu with all my love', and the line below read 'your Patti'.
Stu Smith entered his room, his hair dripping wet, his lean body draped with an oversized towel. He closed the door behind him. and turned the key, softly. Then he let the towel drop. He padded across the room, nude, to the dresser, and fished out shorts and a T-shirt. He flopped them on the bed, stooped and picked up the towel, and rubbed his hair dry. He climbed into his underclothes, and went over to the file box. He slid the top drawer open, and took out a box of slides. He reached behind the file box, and picked up the brown, plastic viewer lying there. With viewer and slides in one hand, he took the flood lamp with the other, and walked back to the bed. He positioned the lamp, and sat on the bed.
He dropped a slide into the viewer, held it up to the lamp, and squinted into the peephole lens. He turned the lens until the picture came into focus. There was Patti, her back to him, in a wooded glade, removing her shorts. He took the slide out, and inserted another, glancing first at the small number on the corner of the slide, before he did so.
This slide showed Patti in profile, her shorts gone, her hands behind her back, unhooking her bra. The picture was sharp, but the image was small, having been taken from a distance. He took out the slide, and slid the next one in, with anticipation. Patti was still in profile, one foot raised to slide through the leg opening of her bathing suit. Her breasts and midriff, down to the thighs, were pale, in contrast to her tanned arms and legs, and paler still in the shade of the woods
The next slide showed her with her bathing suit up to the waist, ready to ease her arm through a shoulder strap. This photo, though shot from the same distance, revealed the perky pertness, and promising ripeness of her tits, tiny-tipped, in the colored slide. Stu sighed with appreciation, and set the viewer down on the bed, thinking now of Patti, and the pictures, taken a year ago last month.
He'd known her over a year, now. She was easily the most popular girl in school, and he modestly reflected on his own popularity. It was a natural thing for them to have finally come together, and he relished the envy in the eyes of his buddies when her name was mentioned. She was his girl. Everyone knew it. Everybody kept their hands off.
He delighted, too, in the inferences made by his buddies, remarks made slyly with exaggerated winks about the wonderful pleasures of 'gettin' some of that 'stuff, when her name was mentioned. He'd grin, and smile knowingly, and the envy would grow. What no one knew, and what irritated him, was that the slides he'd just looked at pretty well summed up their relationship. She had revealed herself to him unknowingly, in those pictures. It had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, driving by Lake Walsh. She'd changed in the woods, and he, behind the car, after he'd sneaked as close as he'd dared to shoot the pictures.
Otherwise, the fantasies alive in the minds of his buddies were as alive in his own mind, and as far from reality. Not that he hadn't tried. It had got tiresome, trying, and he was going to remedy that situation, tonight. She would be no exception. Not after Gail, and Teena, and Joan, and others too numberous to even remember. He had never gone this long without it, before, and tonight would be the end of just trying, and waiting.
Yes, it would be twice as delicious. He'd be breaking training. How would Warden like that? Hard-nose Warden. Smart guy Warden. He felt the anger beginning to churn in his belly. He hit the bed with his fist. I'll show you, Warden, he thought. Just like I showed you against C larks ton.
He thought about the game against Clarkston. Warden had kept pulling him out, criticizing, picking, embarrassing him, just like he did at practice. But the fans knew, and they shouted, and hollered, and he had to go back in, and win the game. The fans knew, he told himself.
He flopped back on the bed, Warden's face, etched in a permanent sneer, swimming before his eyes. He shut them tightly, but Warden's image would not disappear. "I hate you," he said, to the image, but the image remained, sneering. In the background, hazy and distorted, the image of Sam Aldrich appeared, with a benign, fatherly look, worried, now. Stu saw himself trying to dart around Warden's sneering face, trying to run through it, and then around it, Aldrich's ghostly hands stretched out in encouragement. Warden's face blocked him. He could not get by that sneering face. The distant sound of a crowd roaring filled his mind.
Far behind the fuzzy visage of kindly Sam Aldrich, two other faces bobbed into view, dimly recognizable. It was his father, and his mother, smiling, and waving, as they had on that day long ago, over two years ago, the last time he saw them alive, before the terrible plane crash. He tried to summon them closer in his mind, but they remained recessed, far behind Aldirch, smiling and waving, and then fading, their pale images disintegrating, disappearing. Come back, he called to them, in his mind. Don't go. Come back. The words were lost in the roar of the crowd.
He squeezed his eyes as hard as he could, and felt the moisture trickle from the corners of them, inching down his face, warm, and wet. He sat up, suddenly, and brushed away the warm wetness impatiently. He took up the viewer again, and held it up to the light. He was still squinting at it, trying to enter the picture, to stand next to Patti, to gently tug her bathing suit down, when his aunt called him for dinner.
"You look nice, tonight," Stu said to Patti, as they drove along.
"Thank you," Patti answered. "I didn't want to wear this dumb, old jacket, but Mom made me. She said it was too cold out." Patti sounded pensive.
"You certainly don't seem very happy to be out."
"It's not that," Patti said, quickly. "It's Mom. You know."
Stu said nothing, but he knew. He tried to recall the last time he'd seen Mrs. Pembroke, but couldn't. She almost never left the house. He remembered Patti saying that she was ill, a lot. And others in town said she sure was ill, all right. I'll in the head. But it was a very quiet rumor. After all, the Pembrokes had not lived that long in Spring Vale. No one really knew them.
But then again, Stu reflected, no one really wanted to know anyone else, in Spring Vale. He'd heard his father say that, so many times. It was principally a pretty rich town, and most people went about the business of making money with a dedication too singular to invite social relationships. The high school was their one, unifying temple of prestige. It had the latest in equipment, the most modern study techniques, and the best instructors available. like Pembroke. And Warden He decided to stop thinking about it.
"Has your Mom always been so sick?" he asked, casually.
"No," Patti answered. Stu glanced at her, and saw her frown. "Let's not talk about Mom," Patti said, rushing the words out. "Where are we going?" she asked.
Stu decided to let it go. She had her reasons, he told himself. "I thought we might go out by the lake." he said. "I can't afford to be seen around town with a date."
"Is Warden really that serious about training rules?" Patti asked.
"Oh, yes," Stu replied. "He's a real, dedicated monster."
"He seems nice and friendly, to me," Patti said.
"Well, he isn't what he seems. Besides, I'm not a pretty girl."
Patti giggled. "You sound as if you don't like him, much," she said.
Stu felt his hands growing tighter on the steering wheel. "I don't," he said, tersely. "I wish Aldrich had never left."
"Let's not talk about school, Stu. It's so boring."
"Is there anything you do want to talk about? Let's not talk about .this, let's not talk about that " he said, mimicking her voice with a biting edge.
"Oh, Stu, what's the matter with you, tonight? I didn't mean to make you mad," Patti said, moving closer to him.
"Hey, that makes all the difference," Stu said, lightly, sorry he'd blown off, trying to sound happy. He thought about the slides in his bedroom. Then it wasn't hard to be happy. "It's really great to be with you again," he said. He slipped an arm over her shoulder, and felt her cuddle next to him. I think it's going to be easy, he told himself.
"Wait a minute," Patti said. "Let me get out of this jacket. I knew it wasn't cold out." She wriggled herself out of the jacket, and Stu tried to help, with his free hand. She got the jacket off, and placed it on the seat, beside her. He glanced at her now, and then looked again.
She had grown. The slides he'd looked at in his room seemed to be someone else. Her breasts stood out proudly now, fulfilling the promise of those year-old pictures. The striped blouse she was wearing seemed to outline them more clearly, and he found it suddenly difficult to wait to get to the lake.
He eased his arm around her, again, feeling her shoulder firm and warm through the blouse. He let his hand dangle until it was approximately even with her breast. Very cautiously, he moved his fingers toward her breast, grazing it, then moving his fingers away. She didn't move. He touched her again, gently, and he felt her press closer to him.
He rounded a curve, and the lake came into view, the moonlight shimmering off the still, pale blue water. He parked the car in a picnic grove, and turned off the engine. He sat with her, looking at the lake, saying nothing, wondering whether to chance again the delightful sensation of brushing against her breast.
"Let's go out, and sit by the water," he suggested.
"All right," she said, relaxing her body against him. She was all tensed up, he thought. She knew what I was doing. She could feel it. She didn't know what to do about it. Maybe it isn't going to be easy, he thought now.
He took a blanket from the back seat, and they walked to the edge of the lake. He spread the blanket on the ground, and they sat down on it. He looked at the lake, and then looked at her to find she was studying him.
"See anything you like?" he asked her.
"I was just thinking about what you were saying before," Patti said. "About Mr. Warden."
"There you go, again," Stu said, curtly. "Why do you keep dragging him into it?"
"I'm not dragging him into anything, Stu Smith.
I never saw the mentioning of anything bother you as much as his name does," Patti said, snappishly.
"I simply don't want to talk about him," Stu said. "You were the one who didn't want to talk about school. You said that, yourself. Suddenly, up he pops. I don't need to hear about Mr. Warden. It's just you, and me, out here. We don't need him."
Patti was silent, for a time. "You're right," she sighed, finally. "Just you and me. It seems like such a long time since we've been together, alone."
"It has, Patti. It has," he said, softly, leaning toward her. She turned her face toward his, and he kissed her, gently. Then he kissed her again, harder this time, taking her in his arms, feeling her arms go about him.
"Stu, Stu, I missed you so much," Patti breathed in his ear. "Hold me, Stu. Hold me."
He held her tightly to him, feeling her tits firmly pressing against his chest. He stroked her back with his hands, until he brought one hand slowly around her ribs, and touched her breast. He left his hand still, for a moment. When she didn't stir, he moved it again, easing his body away from hers, bringing his hand between his chest and her breast. She still didn't stir. Instead, she whispered in his ear, "Kiss me, Stu, like you used to."
The words were like an electric charge coursing through him. He kissed her forcefully, and then inched his tongue out against her pursed lips. He felt her lips slacken, and her tongue inched out, shyly, to meet his. He grunted, as their tongues did their intimate dance of love, and his hand grasped her breast firmly now. feeling it fill his hand with warmth, and softness.
He eased her down to the blanket, and lay next to her, feeling the length of her body against his. He broke the kiss, finally, his breathing heavy, matching hers. "It's been a long time," he breathed. "Yes," she said, softly.
He reached for her blouse, and began unbuttoning it. Her hands flew to his, and held them, and she kissed him, holding his hands firmly. He stopped moving his hands, and waited. Gradually, under the strength of his feverish kiss, her hands released his, and he continued to unbutton her blouse, until it was open.
He eased his hand inside her loosely hanging blouse, touching the soft tenderness of her flattened belly. He felt her inhale as he touched her, and he moved his hand up until his thumb felt the taut edge of her bra. He eased his thumb up, over the tip of the bra, bringing his fingers along behind, until his thumb touched the flesh of her chest, and his hand cupped her breast. She inhaled again, more sharply, this time.
He stiffened his fingers, and attempted to slide them inside her bra. She moved with him, trying to help, and then gave a small cry of distress.
"What's the matter?" . "You pinched."
"I'm sorry," he said, not feeling sorry. Only an insistent need to feel the fullness of her. "Let me take it off, then," he said.
"I don't know," she said, hesitantly.
"I'm going to hurt you, this way," he said, trying not to be impatient.
"I don't know," she said, stronger this time. "Why do I have to take it off? What do you want to do?"
"I want to hold you, T want to kiss you, and feel you," he said, running the words together, no longer having time to answer questions that had obvious answers.
"I never did anything like this before, Stu," Patti said in a small voice. "I don't know. I just don't know."
"Well, I know," Stu said, impatience rising in him. He slipped his hand around her back, and tried to unclasp the bra with one hand. He slid his other hand under, and worked at it, unsuccessfully. He tugged her blouse loose from her skirt, ignoring her small moan of protest. She was like jelly, not resisting, but not helping.
He unclasped the bra, and pulled it away from her breasts, not caring that his eyes had widened, not caring that she was searching for his eyes with hers, searching for an answer with an imploring gaze that asked why, why was he doing this?
Her tits stood forth, proud, and firm, their shape unaltered by the absence of the bra. Her nipples were tiny, but taut, in the cool night air. He reached around, and took both breasts in his hand. He bent forward, and kissed their tips, then under the tips, and above the tips, and then he felt her hand behind his head, pressing his face to her.
"Wha wha are you doing? Oooooh, Stu, Stu, what are you doing?" she asked, over and over, each question coming more quickly than the last, her voice becoming almost squeaky.
He continued to kiss her breasts as he reached down to her skirt. He moved his hand under her skirt, and felt the muscles of her legs stiffen. As he moved his hand up her leg, his arm moved the skirt upward, until her thighs, pale, and soft in the moonlight, could be seen.
"Patti, Patti, you're beautiful," he grunted, his eyes feasting on her bared breasts and thighs.
She attempted to move, but he held her firmly, his hand stroking her thigh, moving upward, inch by inch, the skin warmer under his touch. As his hand moved, she pressed her legs more tightly together, moans of delight, and apprehension coming from her lips.
"Open your legs," he panted. "Please, Patti, please, open your legs, a little?" She did not move. He was so close, now. His temples were pounding, and it was too late to stop.
"No," she said, pleading. "No, Stu, don't do that. Don't, Stu. Nobody ever did that before. Don't touch me like that, Stu. I don't want to..."
She was not going to separate her legs, he knew. He was beyond caring. He inserted his hand between them, and twisted it, feeling them give against his strength. He moved his other hand to her legs, and pushed and pried them apart, feeling them close each time he relaxed his grip.
He fumbled with his slacks, grunting, panting, trying to hold on to her legs as she began squirming in his grip, trying to stand. He freed his belt, and shoved his slacks down with short, jerky motions, and then kicked them off, and away. The cool night air wafted against his bared buttocks, but he felt it only vaguely. There was a more insistent feeling, there, a rjsing, prodding feeling, throbbing, growing, demanding satisfaction.
"Ohhh," she moaned, her voice hollow, filled with fear. His eyes glanced to her face, saw her eyes fixed on him, her mouth wide, her tongue lolling, her eyes blinking and widening. "Ohhh," she moaned again. "Pleeeez, noooo, Stuuuie, I'm a ... I never ... I never..." She began shaking her head violently, left and right, twisting and squirming in his vice-like grasp.
He clawed up, up, under her skirt, flopping the material up, savagely, baring her hips, reaching for the top of her panties, and grasping it, pulling it down, awkwardly, releasing it, trying to roll her panties down over her hips. In her efforts to free herself from him, her body rolled and turned, and he managed to slide her panties down more easily.
"I don't want to hurt you, Patti, I don't want to hurt you." His mind fixed on the phrase, and he repeated it over and over, trying to make her hear, trying to make her understand.
He hoisted himself over her thrashing legs, loosely held together at the ankles by her panties, until she kicked them free. Her body tossed and heaved under him, and he pressed down onto her, feeling for her tufted pussy, guiding himself swiftly, surely there, coming closer, feeling her flesh against his.
Her loud wail exploded in his mind with the same impact of his startling, unforgiving discovery. What she had been trying to say, too shy or too frightened to admit was now admissible and irrevocable. She was no longer a virgin.
She had behaved very well, afterward, he thought, in the stillness of his room. There hadn't been too many tears, or bitter recriminations. In fact, she hadn't even been inclined to state the obvious. He had actually raped her, he knew, and was pleased, in a disjointed way, that she hadn't brought that up.
He didn't dwell long on the scene at the lake. It had been done, and it was over. It was that one remark she made on the way home that pricked his ego, and deflated him. He didn't even remember, now, the whole fact of it, because she had inserted Warden's name somewhere in it, and he had there and then resolved to show her something about her precious Mr. Warden.
He closed his eyes, imagining himself a hunter, stalking vicious prey. Warden was the prey, and he, Stu, stalked him with his faithful camera, as he had stalked, and eventually captured, Patti, on film. He would seek Warden out, that vicious beast, and capture him. Then he would develop the prints, and Warden's true character would be there for Patti to see.
It was a remarkable idea. He couldn't understand why he hadn't thought of it before. The infra-red flash gear would be ideal for the work ahead. It was simplicity itself. And Warden wouldn't even know he'd been had. But Patti would. She'd be able to see, with her own eyes, what her hero was really like.
He opened his eyes, and stood up, from the bed. He picked up the viewer, and lifted it to his eyes. He peered into the viewer, and saw Patti's partially naked form, again. He whistled softly, took the viewer, and put it on the dresser. He folded the box of slides together, and put them back in the file box.
He kicked off his shoes, and absently tried to figure where to hide his soiled slacks.
There's no doubt about it, he thought to himself. She certainly has grown.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hugh Pembroke sat in his study, reading the New York Times, as was his daily custom. His eyes were idly scanning the financial section, but his mind was far from economic reports and business graphs. His mind was more specifically on his wife, Melissa. It was a vast subject, Melissa, and he contemplated it often.
She was on another turn, he knew. The symptoms were all there, and had been building for a week. Whenever she became more reclusive than usual, when she started picking on Patti for a hundred little things, and ignoring the big things, and when she took to wearing that black negligee constantly, she was on a turn.
He always became melancholy, when she started a turn. Because they never came out well, in the end. They only sank her deeper into a self-created, delusion-filled morass of self-pity, and acrimonious feelings that threw a massive block between them for months, before it ebbed, and she returned to what was normal, for her.
He'd long since considered it a burden to bear. He had his career, in education, and he dedicated an unseemly amount of time to it. He preferred to avoid Melissa, rather than collide with her, when she went through her irrational periods. He could only guess at what Patti thought about it. He'd never been especially close to his daughter. Ironically, she'd always favored her mother, as she did in looks, and charm. Oh, Melissa could be charming, all right, when it suited her. In fact, she was paradoxically more charming when going through one of her turns, than at any other time.
When she felt charming, there was dinner by candlelight, with rare wines. There were long interludes in the master bedroom, later, when Patti was asleep, or away from the house. The interludes were thoroughly enjoyable, for Melissa had an astonishingly well-formed body, for her age, and she used it as a sorceress, conjuring up new delights for them to share.
For her age. He backed up, and crossed that out. She wasn't that old. It wasn't necessary to justify her quirks, or her performances with him by citing her age. Let's see. Patti was sixteen, or seventeen. They'd been married eighteen years. She was only a slip of a girl when he'd married her. So she was barely forty. Sometimes, she looked even younger.
And sometimes, she looked so much older. In the early years of their marriage, what he liked to call the golden years, they had moved about a good deal. He was jockeying for position in the world of education. He had the looks, the wit, the personality to rise into the administrative end of the field, which is just what he'd set his sights on when he left college. But then, he'd met Melissa, and he'd rested on his oars, for a time. Gradually, she came to help him, until her drive began to supercede his. The golden years were fading, already, and he'd thought he had the answers, then, but he knew, now, that they might have been excuses, but they weren't answers.
First, there was Patti. It was his eternal misfortune to have been away at a conference, when she was born. When he returned, Melissa was less than radiant over Patti's birth. She accused him of deserting her when she needed him most. It took him three years to learn that she'd spent an agonizing fourteen hours in labor, and had vowed, in those hours of darkness, never to have another child.
Then there was the incident in that little town outside of Boston. He'd taken a position of assistant principal. It gave him a chance to set into motion some of his educational theories, which many in that staid, New England community considered radical. It was a pretty little town, and the people were good, and honest, but too conservative. When the time came for the Principal to retire, he was passed over for the position, because of his revolutionary educational theories. The job, worse, went to a younger man than he.
Melissa took a terrible beating. She'd planned, and worked, and socialized, and all with the aim in mind of helping her husband win that position. When the decision had not gone his way, something had snapped inside her, and she had rarely been the same, since.
He'd tried laying it to her upbringing. She'd been a belle of the South, in the truest tradition of the phrase. She'd been catered to, over-protected and sheltered, even from the news of her father's bankruptcy after the war. She'd grown up in a vacuum, having it all her way, and life, particularly a life where the decisions did not fall her way, seemed to throw her too far off balance.
The deepness of his thought was interrupted by the presence of another person, in the study. Startled, he glanced up to see Melissa; standing before him, in her black negligee. The sight of her thus startled him even when he tried to prepare for it. Melissa wore the negligee, and dainty slippers, and that was all.
"Dinner will be ready, soon," she announced. "Have you seen Patti?" Her face brightened with the flash of a smile, and then clouded over, again.
"No, Melissa, I haven't. She rarely comes to my study. And Melissa? Please throw something over that negligee. It really isn't a dinner dress, dear. I'm afraid Patti doesn't quite know what to do."
"Patti? Have you seen Patti?"
"You just never mind, Melissa. Try and remember to dress for dinner, tonight." His eyes traveled briefly down her body, noting the full, pressing thrust of her tits against the flimsy material of the negligee. Her creamy skin seemed so pale when shaded by the diaphanous black silk. Her large nipples, normally pale, even seemed darker. He couldn't help marveling at the trimness of her figure, the flatness of her belly, the rich contours of her thighs, and the dimpled knees, and creamy calves, where the negligee ended. He felt desire rising in him, slowly, and was tempted to put aside the paper, and carry her off to the bedroom.
"I've got to find Patti," Melissa said, apparently unaware of his gaze. "That little bitch is driving me crazy." She said it without emotion, much as she would remark after the weather.
"Melissa!" Pembroke was shocked. "That's a terrible thing to say about Patti!"
"I'll find her," Melissa said, her eyes almost vacant, now.
She's been into those pills, again, Pembroke thought, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach. She never takes the right amount, and this is what happens. I should call the doctor, he thought quickly. I don't know how many she's taken this time, and she probably doesn't know, either, or doesn't care.
His thoughts were interrupted by the front door slamming. "Hi, everybody, I'm home," Patti's voice called, from the hall.
Melissa spun around, and strode from the study. Pembroke leaned forward in his chair, intent on what might happen next.
"Where have you been, you little tramp?" Melissa's voice had a rasping tone as she asked the question.
"Mother!"
Pembroke heard Patti's exclamation as he stood up, quickly, and walked out of the study. He arrived in the hall to see Patti's shocked look over Melissa's strange words.
"Melissa!" he exclaimed. "I ... "
Melissa's strident voice cut through his protestations. "I asked you where you were, you little tramp!"
Patti had her coat off, and was holding it in front of herself, shrinking away from her mother, casting pleading glances at Pembroke.
"Give me that," Melissa said, advancing toward Patti. Patti handed her the coat, extending her hand, hesitantly. Melissa snatched the coat away, and threw it on the floor, behind her. She reached out and grabbed Patti's blouse, and yanked. The blouse ripped open. Patti's eyes went wide, and she raised her arms to cover herself. Before she could do so, Melissa had reached out again, and Patti's slip ripped, and her bra was torn in the middle, exposing her breasts.
Pembroke stood rooted to the floor, aghast. "Daddy!" he heard Patti cry, and it galvanized him into action. He tried to reach Melissa, but she turned toward him, defiance in her eyes.
"Leave me alone," she hissed. Pembroke stopped short, not knowing, now, what to do. This was the worst she'd ever been. He glanced at Patti, cowering against the front door. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
"There!" Melissa cackled. "Take a look at your sinful body. Go on, look at it! Or must I make you look at it!" She stepped toward Patti, again.
"Mother, please! Please!" Patti whimpered, lowering her arms, jerkily, looking down at her bare breasts, her torn clothes.
"Now you can see yourself for what you are! I should beat you, you little tramp! Maybe that would teach you a lesson!" Melissa raised her hand to strike, and Pembroke moved instinctively, grabbing her wrist in mid-air. Patti scampered past him as he wrestled with Melissa. He glanced back to see her flying up the stairs, her body wracking with sobs, her tattered blouse flagging limply behind her.
Melissa ceased to struggle. She became calm, almost tranquil. She turned her face toward him, and looked at him with glassy eyes. "Why are you holding my wrist, Hugh?" she asked, in a monotone. "Come, we must eat dinner. Go and get Melanie, and tell her to come down to dinner."
Pembroke let go of Melissa, his mind boggling at what she'd just said. Oh, my God, he thought, this time it has gone toe jar. She thinks Patti is Melanie. He turned away, dumbly, and walked down the hall, and began climbing the stairs, his mind not wanting to grasp what he'd just seen and heard.
Melanie. She was Melissa's sister, younger by two years. And the official black sheep of the family. Melanie hadn't stood still for the pampering, and the catering, and all the gentility.. She'd carved out her own path, and had gone with several young men. The abortion her father had arranged for her had brought disgrace to their name, and their home, Melissa had told him, shortly after he'd met her. He remembered now that Melanie looked enough like Melissa to be her twin. And so did Patti.
So Melissa had snapped, he thought dully, plodding up the stairs. She'd confused Melanie with Patti, and had probably re-created a scene her mother had played out with Melanie, one sorrowful night, when Melanie came home late. I have to tell Patti. The poor kid. She did nothing to deserve that.
He rapped on Patti's door. There was no answer. He rapped again. "Who is it?" Patti asked, in a muffled, timid voice.
He tried the knob. The door was locked. "It's Dad,"
Through the door, he heard the sobbing begin, again. "No," Patti said. "Leave me alone."
"Patti, this is your father," Pembroke said, frustrated at having to talk to a door. "Now, let me in. I want to explain something to you."
"I don't care," Patti sobbed. "Leave me alone. Please, please, leave me alone!" The sobbing became hysterical.
He turned from Patti's door, and walked to the steps, descending them slowly. He reached the hall, and peered into the dining room. Melissa was seated at the table, and the food was there, ready to eat. He blanched, as he noticed the candles, two on each end of the table, flickering brightly. Melissa glanced over to him, framed in the archway. "Dinner's ready," she said, brightly. "Hurry, it'll get cold. And call Patti for me, will you, Hugh?"
Her words, her bright smile, the candles, all thudded sickeningly into his mind. He turned from the dining room, and walked into his study. He picked up his suit coat, and put it on, mechanically. He left the study, and went to the door. As he turned the knob, he heard Melissa call after him. "Hugh? Hugh?"
The night was clear, and crisp. It was a good night for a walk. He felt like walking. Walking far away from all the confusion, and hurt, and anguish. Walking away from his love for Melissa, which was being twisted, and smothered. He took a deep breath, and walked down the sidewalk, not looking back.
He was not used to walking. He glanced at his watch. Almost eleven o'clock. He was usually in bed, by then. It had been such a long walk, so much to think about. His feet ached. He'd turned the situation over in his mind, and had come up with hopelessness at every ending. Gradually, he forced his mind to turn away from the deep gloom surrounding him. He forced himself to think of school, to think of anything at all rather than dwell on Melissa's pitiful state, and Patti, shattered, sobbing in her room.
He could not think long of the work before him at his desk, at school, without thinking eventually of Laura Watkins. In his present state, it was a good and healing thought. Laura. The name romped soothingly through his besieged mind.
She'd come to work for him a week after he'd come to Spring Vale, so they'd started even, almost. She'd been there through every crisis, imperturbably calm, and reassuring, in her quiet way. She had become more than a secretary, really. She was a friend, a confidant, and he knew the closeness of their working together had let them know each other as well as a husband and wife ever could. Yet in the two years, and more, that he'd been in Spring Vale, never had he thought of making any advances in her direction, most probably because she'd never given him cause to, nor did she seem remotely inclined to do so. Their relationship seemed too practical, too functional to be confused by emotion.
Yet, she was a beautiful woman, in every sense of the word. She was most a woman who could sense his moods, he knew. When he was happy, she made her little, flat jokes. And when he was overcome with work, she pitched in, side by side, to help extricate him. When he came under fire from the board of education, she stood by him lending a strength he could not find in his own home, a solace his own wife was ill-equipped to afford.
Was it coincidence, or habit, then, to find himself on the street where she lived, he asked himself. More than once, he'd given her a ride home from work. Finding her house was not at all difficult. He tried to quiet his nagging conscience telling him he knew that her husband, a salesman, was off on another road trip. That didn't make any difference, he told himself. No difference, at all. There was a good reason to seek her out, this night, if only for a cup of coffee. The night air was becoming chilly, and he'd had no dinner, he told himself.
There was light coming from her living room window. He eased himself through the gate guarding her sidewalk, and walked up to the house. He stopped, halfway up the walk, and turned around, abandoning the idea as silly, and absurd, at this time of night, or any other time. But he turned around, again, and walked toward her door.
He punched the doorbell with his thumb. From inside, he could hear music playing. Then he heard her approaching the door, unlatching it, and then the door opened, and she peered out at him, the expression on her face changing from a frown to surprise.
"Hugh," she said. "Come in, come in." She opened the door wider, and he entered the house. "This is a surprise," she said, closing the door.
"I was out walking," he said. "That damned split-session schedule for the freshman class has me in a bind," he lied.
"I can understand that," Laura said. "It's a real sticky one, but I think we can lick it." She had come around in front of him, now. Her hair was bound up in a pink, net device. Her face, devoid of make-up, which she used only sparingly in the office, seemed to radiate loveliness. Her bathrobe was a pink, quilted affair, bulging prominently about the bust, pinched at the waist, and then flaring away to create a skirt effect. Her movements had caused the quilted material to flair, slightly, and he caught just a glimpse of her bare thighs.
She asked him into the living room, led him to an easy chair, and then flopped down on the couch, across from where he sat. That motion, too, caused her bathrobe to flair, but she didn't concern herself with it. She's so natural so unaffected, he thought remembering all the times her breasts had grazed his shoulder, or his arm, at the office, as they worked together. It just didn't seem to concern her.
"Could I get you something to drink?" she asked, fiddling with the pink net. "First, let me get this thing off. I must look a sight."
"You look lovely, as usual," Pembroke said, sincerely. "I'd love a cup of coffee, if it's not any trouble. I didn't mean to barge in on you, like this."
"No trouble, at all," Laura said, with a chipper tone. She bounced off the couch, and left the room.
"At least let me help," he said, standing up, and following her.
He stood in her kitchen, watching her flit to the stove, and turn the heat on under the teakettle. She walked over to a cabinet, and took out some instant coffee. "All I've got," she said, apologetically.
"That'll be fine, so long as it's hot," he said. "Getting a bit chilly out there. I didn't realize I'd been out so long." The warmth of the kitchen felt cozy, and she made the room warmer, and sweeter, with her presence.
She moved, again, to the stove, taking the hissing kettle away from the heat, and pouring into a cup, over the instant coffee. "I've some coffee cake, if you want some," she said, fixing him with her eyes.
"Just a small piece, thanks," he answered, remembering his hunger, now, and despising his innate politeness for wanting to accept only a small portion.
As she worked about the kitchen, putting the cream and sugar on the table, and getting the coffee cake cut, the top of her bathrobe was coming open, which didn't seem to embarrass her. It should have, because in one short glance he knew that she had nothing on under the robe. As she bent to cut the coffee cake, a milky white breast bulged into view.
Suddenly, the vision of her, and the closeness of her in this room collided with all the remembered, innocent intimacies they'd shared, working together for so long, and he could no longer contain himself. With no real will or desire to resist, he stepped toward her and placed his hands on her arms when she straightened
"I must tell you something," he heard himself blurting. "That business about the schedule, it's not true. I Ked to you about that. I was passing your house, and I wanted to see you. I felt I had to see you." There it was said.
She gazed at him calmly, her eyes traversing his face. "I know," she said, simply. "I mean, I know the schedule wasn't bothering you. I also know I'm a pretty good clairvoyant."
"I don't understand," he said, relieved at her acceptance of his confession.
"Oh, I was sitting here, alone, and lonely, thinking about you. I guess you got the message."
"I don't know about messages, or any of that sort of thing, Laura," he said, moving his hands away from her arms, behind her back, and gathering her to him. "I only know that you look wonderfully beautiful, and you'always have, and now I want to hold you in my arms, because you're warm, and good."
"Hugh," she said, softly, coming into his arms, circling him with her arms, her cheek pressing against his shoulder.
He moved his hands up and down her back, feeling the fullness of her bountiful breasts against his chest, the firmness of those thighs he'd barely glimpsed beginning to churn against his legs. "I had no idea," he said, his voice husky with emotion.
"No, I didn't either," she said, in a whisper, pressing harder against him.
"We've been fools," he said, enmeshed in new, wonderful sensations, barely able to talk. "I don't want to be a fool, any more."
Tenderly, she disengaged herself from his arms, and took his hand in hers. She led him through the living room, down a short hall, and into her bedroom. She led him up to the bed, and then released his hand. She moved to the side of the bed, and turned on a small lamp. Then she walked to the door, and closed it.
She stepped to the side of the bed again, and slowly undid the two or three buttons holding her robe together. She held the robe open, revealing ponderous tits, swollen against her chest, and a rounded belly, descending to thick, firm thighs. "See?" she asked. "I am not really so beautiful."
He felt his heart pounding, and his loins stirring with pulsating, driving beats of desire. He fumbled with his suit coat, and then stood frozen as she shrugged the robe from her shoulders, and let it fall softly to the floor. She stepped toward him, her breasts bobbing softly in the dim light, the shadows they created falling across her belly, making her seem like a cherub, larger than life. "Let me help, darling," she whispered.
She helped him, now, as she had helped him in so many ways before. She unfastened his belt, and slid down the zipper. She pressed his pants down clumsily, and he knew she hadn't done that many times before. She retreated from him then and sat on the bed, then lay back and lifted her legs up on it. She squirmed back, her huge breasts revolving and moving each in a different way. When her head reached the pillows at the head of the bed, she stopped, and turned to lay on her hip, watching him.
He tore his eyes from her voluptuous, bulging form, trying to see what he was doing to himself. It had never seemed so important to undress quickly, before, and he cursed himself inanely for not having practiced, more. He felt his sense of dignity, so cultivated through the years, abandon him, and he didn't care. The pants hit the floor with the suit coat, tie, and shirt.
He moved with feet like lead to the edge of the bed. All that had come before had been preliminary, and could have been stopped, and erased. Now, he was naked, as was she, and his body was close to hers. He eased himself onto the bed, feeling, and rejecting, a moment of absurdity, the realization of an undreamed dream coming true.
He reached for her breast gingerly, and she moved toward him, inching one long, firm leg over his, twining herself against him. Her slow movements, her hesitancy lent him comfort, soothing his feelings of being wrong, doing wrong. The warmth of her body pressing against him swept away all the feelings of guilt and dismay, and he applied himself toward loving her.
"When, darling, when," he heard her whisper, insistently.
"Soon, love, soon." he said, the words feeling natural, now.
"Hurry," she pleaded.
"Yes," he said.
He eased his frame over her hips, until he could look down his body at the length of hers under his. He saw her legs inch apart, and he settled his knees against the mattress, dropping his hips toward hers. He reached down to her, and felt her, soft, and pliant, stirring, moving, surging up to meet him.
Then it no longer mattered where he was, and why there was a why. The room seemed to soften into walls of melodic drifting, his whole body became adrift in a sea of undiscovered bliss, and ecstasy. He slid down the slopes of a deep valley, pressing, pushing forward to reach the bottom, the depths of the valley.
Closer he came, closer, and the lights were multicolored in the dim light and there was nothing now but the end of the trail into the valley, and he came to the end of it, with a soft sigh.
He lay next to her, then, listening to her soft, steady breathing, looking up at the ceiling. At length, he said, quietly, "I don't know." He didn't want to know. He didn't want to think.
"What?" she said, quietly.
"I don't know if it was the right thing."
"It was the right thing." Her tone was so simple, so final.
"Why couldn't we have known, before?"
"There never seemed to be time. There were so many other things."
"Yes." He paused, for a while. Then he asked, "Will this make a difference? Will you still work with me?"
There was a long silence, before she answered. "Yes. If you want me."
"You must know I want you. I didn't want to end it, tonight."
"Tonight was not the end," she said, rolling over, and running her hand across his bare chest. "It was the beginning."
CHAPTER FIVE
Fridays were bad days. two weeks before, ON A Friday night, she had gone with Stu Smith, out to Lake Walsh. When she closed her eyes, she saw the moon, shimmering on the water. And then she saw Stu Smith, rising above her, pinning her to the blanket, and she could still feel his hands on her body, his chest pressing against hers, and her mind echoed again her anguished cries, and she felt the pain, again, that slowly turned into an unknown pleasure, and she would have to open her eyes.
Last Friday night, her mother had gone berserk. She could recall, vividly, her mother's shrieks, and she remembered her father leaping to her aid, and diving between them, and herself scampering away from her mother, clutching her naked breasts as she tore up the stairs, an endless journey up to the security of her room, behind the locked door.
It was Friday night, again, and again, she was locked into the security of her room. Dinner was over, and she marveled, now, at her mother's behavior. She had stopped wearing that embarrassing black negligee. There was a bloom of health in her cheeks, and she'd been so warm and friendly, as though nothing had ever happened. It was hard to stop loving her and start hating her. But she had said so many terrible things. Did she know about Stu? She couldn't know. Even Kathy didn't know. Unless Stu told her, and she didn't think he'd do that
She eased herself off the bed, and walked to the closet door. She opened it, and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She undid the snaps holding her bathrobe together, and held it open, seeing her own body in white bra, and panties. She shucked off the robe, and stepped away from it, closer to the mirror. She looked at the mirror, then down at herself. She watched her tits rise gently with her breathing, and fall, then rise again. She looked down at her flat belly, seemingly slashed in half by the elastic waistband of the panties. Quickly, she unhooked her bra, and let it fall away, and then stepped out of her panties.
She raised her eyes to the mirror again, slowly. The calves, creamy, the knees dimpled when flexed, and the thighs swelling up to the almost colorless blonde triangle. Her eyes paused at her belly, and she took in her breath, watching her rib cage become apparent under the tautened skin. Then she raised her eyes to her breasts, the tiny nipples stiffened from the cool breeze coming through her window. She gazed at the image of her breasts in the mirror, with approval. So proud, and firm, each independent of the other, standing out, toward the mirror. She watched her hands come to her breasts, and cup them, move them. They hardly changed shape, they were so firm and hard, yet pliant.
Her rapt self-inspection continued. "I don't look any different," she told the mirror, softly. She stroked her hips, felt around to her buttocks, then rubbed her hands over her flat belly. She moved her hands down, her fingers straightened, pausing at the tufted pussy. Her hand inched through the coarseness, and she felt the tingling begin. I feel different, she told herself, proudly. I am a woman, now. My body has been taken. I am no longer self-contained, a complete self. A part of me is gone, no matter how.
Her hand inched between her thighs. II only he hadn't been so harsh, she thought. It must be beautiful when it's tender and gentle. It most be the most wonderful feeling in the whole world. Her hand hesitated at the edge of her intimate haven, unwilling, and unable to simulate entrance, as she had been entered so stridently.
Standing, thus, she let her mind float away, closing her eyes, feeling her hand against herself, and the soft breeze wafting against her body. Her hand became a man's hand, and she imagined herself in abandoned supplication, ready to obey his every whim. Who was this man, with short blonde hair and blue, piercing eyes, those eyes that saw through her while his mouth grinned crookedly? She knew who it was, but she didn't want to name him to herself. To give him a definite identity would destroy the illusion. Her mind flitted back to the day she first saw him, and she talked to him. She saw him on the stadium field, standing tall amongst the players, saw him advancing toward Stu, and felt the flutter in her chest, again, as his hand, his imagined, broad, rough hand, continued to press against her.
A gentle tapping at her door shattered her reverie. Mr. Warden, look out! she shouted to herself, then she opened her eyes, glimpsing the fading look of rapture on her face before it was replaced by a questioning expression. "Who is it?" she called, over her shoulder, and stooped to gather her robe and under things. She got the robe on, nastily, tucking the bra and panties in one large pocket.
"It's Dad," the voice said, muffled, through the door.
"Just a moment, Dad," she said, quickly buttoning her robe, and clutching it by her neck. She pushed the closet door shut, turned, and went to the door, and unlocked it. "Come in," she said, stepping back, still clutching her robe.
Her father entered her room. "I hope I didn't disturb you," he said, concern in his voice. His glance met hers only briefly, and then she saw him look away, as he had with Mother, all week.
"No," she said, quickly, remembering the moments before, and her fantasy.
"I wanted to see you," her father said, "and try and explain about last week." Again his eyes met hers, and again he glanced away, letting his breath out, slowly.
"About Mom?" Patti asked. She sighed. "I think I understand, Dad."
"I hope you do, Patti. We have to live with the fact that your mother's a very sick woman. I guess you know that."
"Yes, Dad. But why did she say all those bad things, to me?"
Her father's face filled with anguish. "We just have to be very patient, and very understanding," he said, his voice heavy. "I'm sure she didn't mean what she said. You know that."
"I know, Dad. Maybe she thinks being a cheerleader is doing what she said I was doing. Do you think so?" Patti asked.
"I don't know, Patti. I don't know." Another soft rush of breath. I I just wanted to try and explain it to you, so you wouldn't think badly of her. Try to understand, all right?"
She noted that her father was beginning to be uncomfortable. He must remember last week, too, she thought. My nakedness. He never saw me that way before. "Sure, Dad, don't worry," she said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "It'll be all right."
"Fine," her father said, sounding relieved. "Well, I'll let you get back to what you were doing, then." He opened her bedroom door, gave her a small wave, then closed the door, behind him.
She stood by the door, thinking of what her father had said. And she remembered what her mother had said to her. She left the door, and went back to her bed. She flopped down on it, hearing her mother's words. "You little tramp! You little TRAMP!" She shivered and looked down at her bare legs, where the robe had fallen open. Her own voice drifted back to her. "What do you want to do?" she was asking Stu, again, far away, and his voice answered, "I want to hold you, I want to kiss you, I want to feel you," and her hand slid into her robe, as his had done, and she touched her own breast, as he had done, and then his voice came back, saying, "Open your legs, please, Patti; open your legs a little," and she watched her bare legs move apart, with taunting grace, and her hand traveled beneath her robe, to where it had been before. Pm a woman now, Mr. Warden. Don't be afraid. I'll be good. I'm a woman and I know what it's like. I know how it feels. Come into me Mr. Warden. Here, put your hand here. Oh, that feels wonderful. Yes Mr. Warden, yes, whatever you say...
Her eyes fluttered shut, and she continued to talk to Mr. Warden as he came closer to her, and hovered above her, his broad shoulders blotting out the light, his piercing eyes searching hers, and she sank into the darkness of sleep.
Patti walked along through the parking lot, with Kathy Lawson, her best friend, confidant, and companion. She listened to Kathy's idle chatter, still thinking of last night, and her dream.
" ... and Joyce said she heard that Mr. Warden might not even start Stu in today's game," Kathy said.
Stu. I wonder what she'd say if she knew? Patti thought. She knows everything else about me. And I know all about her. But she seems like a schoolgirl, now. Then, she caught herself. She is. And so am I. But I'm different than she is, now. I'm a woman. "Is that so?" Patti answered, trying to keep up the conversation.
"I just think Mr. Warden's the most, don't you, Pat?" Kathy asked. "I mean, he's so tall, and those eyes. He looked at my once, and I must have melted, I swear." Kathy giggled.
He's nice, and all that, but he's kind of strong on you. I don't mean he's a kid, really," she said, apparently realizing how the sentences had followed each other, "but ... "
"That's all right, Kath. I know what you mean." Patti smiled at Kathy, and Kathy beamed.
They walked down the wide, grass ramp, into the stadium, and onto the field. The stands were already-filling, and Patti spotted Mr. Warden talking with Miss Norris. As they approached the two teachers, Patti overheard Miss Norris say, "Here come two of the best in the county, right now." Patti looked at Kathy, and Kathy smiled back. It makes her feel good, too, she thought.
She saw Mr. Warden turn his head, and glance at her. His eyes met hers, and he smiled. She returned his smile, feeling she'd been touched by him, as it had been last night. "I can't argue with that, Stace," he said to Miss Norris. Patti glowed.
"Hi," she said, lightly. "Looks like a wonderful day for the game."
"Yep," Mr. Warden agreed. Miss Norris nodded her head. Patti wanted to reach out and touch Mr. Warden, he was so close. He looked so big, and so muscular, up close. Kathy was right. Stu did look like a kid. She felt her chest fluttering, and she hoped he didn't notice her eyes roaming furtively over his body.
"Well, I better check on the boys," Warden said. "Excuse me, Stace, girls," he said, and put his hand gently on Patti's shoulder, as he eased by her. She felt the shoulder burn, where his hand had been, and her eyes followed him away. She turned her head back, and found Miss Norris looking at her.
"Let's join the other girls," Miss Norris said, her eyes twinkling, "and see if we can get some of these cheers organized, that we've been working so hard on, okay?" She turned, and walked down toward the cheerleaders' bench. Patti couldn't resist flinging one last glance over her shoulder. He was talking to Stu. He smiled at me, she thought happily.
The game was played, and she followed the routine automatically. Whenever she could, she glanced down at Mr. Warden, sitting, then standing, then pacing, conferring with substitutes. The crowd was roaring, and following her exhortations to cheer the team on. She leaped higher than she ever had, her short skirt flouncing. The bulky sweater made her chest bulge, and she noticed several fans staring at her, appreciatively. She didn't care. Her mind wasn't on the fans, or the game. It was already hard at work on a plan, any kind of plan, to be with Mr. Warden. Alone, and together.
The timer's pistol went off, signifying the end of the game, and the crowd went wild. Spring Vale had won, again, and the players were huddling around Stu, clapping him on the back, and spanking his buttocks, cheerfully, attempting to hoist him on their shoulders. She saw Mr. Warden walk out to the team, and say a few words. The boys reacted happily, a few of the team tossing their helmets in the air.
Patti watched the other girls hopping up and down, excitedly, and she joined in the celebration. "It was a great game," Kathy shouted in her ear. She smiled and clutched Kathy to her, and then danced around some more, beginning to feel foolish, now. She was, after all, a woman. Maybe even Miss Norris wasn't a real woman.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned, and looked into the face of Stu Smith. She froze, and felt suddenly chilled. Without realizing it, her eyes sought out, and found Mr. Warden, some yards away. He'll protect me, she thought. She felt Stu's hand tighten on her shoulder. She looked at him, again.
"Coach says training's off for tonight," Stu said, with a somber tone. "How about it?"
"Are you asking for a date?" Patti asked him, coolly.
"Aw, Patti, don't be that way. Sure I am asking for a date. Why not?"
"You ought to know," Patti said.
"You don't have to be so serious about it," Stu said. "I notice you're still looking at Warden. I guess that's the only thing that hasn't changed," he said, grimly.
"What do you mean?" Patti asked, guardedly.
"It was just about all you could talk of, even afterward," he finished, his tone softening as he glanced around to be sure he hadn't been overheard.
Patti felt a flush creeping into her cheeks. "I'm surprised you could remember that," she said, angry, and confused. She vaguely remembered making a remark about Mr. Warden, but she couldn't remember what she'd said, exactly. She'd been distraught, but she was proud that she hadn't cried, and carried on.
"I remember everything about that night," Stu hissed. "Now do you want to go out with me tonight, or what?"
"I don't think so, Stu. It might begin all over again," she said, quietly.
"Ahhh, I told you on the way home I didn't want to have it go on that way. I just lost control, that's all."
"And I lost something, too," Patti reminded him. "That's why I have a lot to think about. I don't want to be hurt again, until I'm certain."
"Is there somebody else?"
"No."
"You're my girl, aren't you?"
"I don't know, Stu. Maybe I will be, with enough time." She looked down at the chalked sideline he was digging at, with his cleats, then back up to his face. "Anyway, thanks for asking." She walked around him, and quickly across the football field. Halfway across, she glanced back. He was still digging at the chalk line with his cleats, his helmet cradled in his arm, his head bowed.
It took two days to think about it. Then two more days to dream about it, and imagine how it would be. On the fifth day, she lost her nerve, and only recovered it at night, before bedtime, as she stood again in front of the mirror, and became absorbed in a ritual of self-contemplation, and another flight of imagine. On the sixth day, she was convinced that it wouldn't work.
She was grateful, through the week, that her mother had remained on an even keel. She had resumed a cordial relationship with her mother, but it was no longer the same as it once had been. She had revered her mother, had gone to her instead of her father whenever crises, large or small, had come into her life. Then her mother had grown ill. They had moved around, some more. New towns, strange towns, strange faces. As Mother became more ill, Father plunged into his work.
She'd hardly seen Dad all week. He came home one night, and went out. The next night, he closeted himself in his study, giving her a terse good night. The third night, there was some sort of meeting. And so it had gone. His relationship with Mother seemed to have changed, too. Since that night. And since the night he'd come to see her, in her room, and tried, incompletely, to explain Mother's actions.
But this was Friday, the seventh day. There was no time left for Mother, and her illness, or Father, and his burdensome existence. Or Stu, as curt and unfriendly as he'd been with her, and as warm, and open as he'd been with Kathy, these last six days. This, the seventh day, she would prove her womanhood to herself. She would go to him, whom Stu despised so deeply and offer herself to him. And when he saw her beauty, he would take her, gently, and tenderly, like a man.
She slipped her bulky cheerleader's sweater over her bra. Instead of the tights she wore under her skirt, she put on panties. And she slipped into sandal flats, instead of white wool socks, and saddle oxfords. So much less to take off when he wants me, she thought, feeling her heart pound.
She went downstairs, then, and got on her coat. She told her mother she was going to practice in the gym, and was relieved when her mother didn't question the lie, or the alterations in her outfit, not noticing the different shoes.
Mr. Dixon had unwittingly given her Mr. Warden's address. Of course, she'd steered the conversation around to homes, and apartments, and the like, and Mr. Dixon was a voluble man, no doubt thinking he was impressing her. When she found out what she needed to know, she'd broken off the conversation, rather abruptly, she remembered.
It was a long walk, and she'd considered that, too.
It left her enough room, and time to change her mind, which she'd steeled herself against doing, wanting desperately to find herself in Mr. Warden's arms, to confirm her womanhood, to spite Stu Smith. He thought love was the brutal possession of a woman. Mr. Warden would teach her how wonderful it could be. She quickened her steps, suppressing a desire to shout that soon she would be loved by a man. A real man.
She rang his buzzer. There was no answer. She rang it again. Still no answer. I, I he doesn't answer this ring, she thought, her heart sinking, I'll leave. She buzzed and heard nothing. She turned to go, crestfallen, a great emptiness inside her, when she heard the knob turn, and the door inched open. "What izzit?" Mr. Warden's voice asked, sleepily.
She walked back to the door, and said, "It's Patti. Patti Pembroke. Can I come in?"
The door opened wider, and Mr. Warden's head popped out. "Who? Patti? Sure, c'mon in."
She walked through the door, past him. He closed the door, yawning, and rubbed his eyes. "Whattsa matter?" he asked, yawning again. "Ohh, excuse me. I was just taking a nap," he explained.
Patti looked at him with unconcealed adoration, which he didn't notice, she knew. His feet were bare, and he had on rumpled slacks, and a T-shirt that seemed to make his broad shoulders endless in span. She unbuttoned her coat, and took it off, without being asked. "I wanted to see you. I have an idea for a new cheering routine," she lied.
Mr. Warden scratched his ribs, and blinked. "Why didn't you go to see Miss Norris? I don't have anything to do with that stuff." He stifled another yawn.
"I thought I ought to get clearance through you, Mr. Warden," Patti lied, again.
"Well, all right. Have a seat over there. I'D be right with you. I'm going to get a cup of coffee. Would you like something? Coffee? Or a soda?"
"No, thanks," Patti said, "I'm fine." She meant it.
It was ideal. He disappeared into the kitchenette, and she quickly scooped the sweater up, over her head. She unsnapped the skirt, and slipped it off. She stepped out of her shoes, and then sat clown on the couch, and leaned back, languidly.
He came out of the kitchenette, in a moment, looking at his coffee, as he stirred it. Then he glanced up at Patti. "What the hell!" he grunted. The saucer, cup, and spoon hit the floor with a crash, the spoon tinkling amid the broken glass. "Oop!" he yelped, as the coffee splattered over his bare feet. He jigged backward, a mixed expression of pain and astonishment on his face.
Patti hopped off the couch, feeling her tits jiggle in the bra. "Let me help," she said.
"Stay right there!" he commanded, and limped over to a chair. He regarded his feet for a moment, then reached down, and blotted them with a handkerchief he'd taken from his pocket. "It's not so bad," he said, half-aloud. Then he looked over to Patti.
"I'm so sorry," she said, concerned. "I hope you didn't burn yourself." She leaned over to look, her breasts resting gently against her knees, feeling them swell up within her bra.
"Look, I don't know what kind of game this is, young lady, but you'd better put your clothes on," he said, sternly.
"I don't want to," Patti said, demurely
"Well, you're going to have to," he said
"Please don't make me," she said. "I know it looks crazy, and you're angry, but I want you to understand. I think I love you."
"You what?"
"Oh, please, Mr. Warden, don't be angry with me. I can't help it. I want to be with you," she finished, lamely. It wasn't going as she'd imagined it. Why did he drop the coffee? That was spoiling everything.
"Patti. Miss Pembroke," he said, choking to remain calm, "I'm afraid I don't understand, and I really don't want to. I don't think you know what you're doing. Now, I'm willing to forget any of this has happened, if you'll just get dressed, and leave."
Patti gazed at him. His eyes were bluer, now, in his anger. And they were looking at her, moving up her legs, resting on her bra, and then studying her face. She stood up, slowly, from the couch. She reached down, and picked up her sweater. She saw him sigh with relief. She held the sweater in front of her, nipped her chin down, to hold it up, and her hands flew to her back, and undid the bra. The straps slipped off her shoulders, and she let the sweater drop, taking the bra with it.
His eyes widened. He tried to stand up, then slouched back in his chair. She moved toward him, her small steps making her tits waver slightly to each side. "I want you to hold me," she said, forcing her voice up, so he could hear her. Her eyes couldn't leave his, but his eyes broke from hers, and moved to her breasts.
"You're out of your mind!" he blurted. But his eyes did not leave her breasts.
She moved toward him, until she was practically standing between his knees. She moved her hands up to her breasts, then, and cupped them, and bent, slightly, toward him. "Take them," she said. "Do whatever you want with them."
He swallowed, hard, and pressed himself back in his chair, grasping the arms tightly, his fingers working. "Don't," he said. "Get away." It lacked conviction.
She straightened, and let go of her breasts. She smiled. Now it is better, she thought. Now it is over. Now he will take me, hold me and love me. With short motions, she slid her panties down, over her hips, and left them there. "I'm going to take them off," she said, her voice quavering.
"Don't," he said, his voice husky now. She noted his breathing becoming deeper.
She inched the panties down, further, until she could feel the elastic running through the coarseness of her tufted snatch. She tried to step forward, collided with his foot, teetered, and fell against him. He raised his hands, protectively, and caught her shoulders.
She turned her body, and twisted sharply, her feet skidding off the floor, her panties ripping with a sharp, rasping sound. Her ass landed against his thighs, her legs flailing against empty air.
Instinctively, his hands grabbed for her, to cushion her fall. He seized her breasts as she jerked her hands backward, hitting his taut, hard belly, and careening off against the back of the chair. Then she settled.
It had all happened in a moment. She felt his hands clenching her breasts, the nipples taut against his palms, the long fingers covering her breasts. She felt him squeeze, tentatively, probingly, and then his fingers moved in a different way, coming together, and caressing her. She relaxed in surrender to his titillating hands, and then she felt him heave, and she slid off his vanishing lap, as he stood, and landed on the floor, feeling the elastic waistband of her panties snap, with a sting.
He towered over her now, his hands clenching, and unclenching. "I told you not to," he said, to her. You didn't listen. Now you'll have to find out the hard way!"
He bent down, quickly, his large hands seizing her ankles. He flipped her over on her belly, exposing her reddened, small, rounded buttocks. His hand descended across them with a sharp crack, then another, and still another. Then he flipped her ankles again, and she was on her back, then on her hip, her buttocks burning like fire from his hand.
She was too hurt, and too furious to cry. She sat on the floor, her legs sprawling, her hands trying feebly to support herself, and cover her breasts from his eyes at the same time.
He sank to his knees beside her, and bent to her face, and kissed her gently on the lips. His hand moved to her thigh, and rested there. "Now then," he said, "be a good girl."
She tried. And she was.
CHAPTER SIX
It was blue, all about him. not the dark blue OF twilight, but a light blue, a powder blue, matching the covers of the giant bed on which he lay. Out there, beyond the bed, blue mists were swirling gently up from someplace far below. There seemed to be no floor or ceiling, just the blue, eddying mists.
A voice called his name. He turned his head very slowly in the direction of the sound, knowing it was Patti, trying to see her through the mists. She appeared, then, floating toward him, her naked body brushing through the mist. "Where have you been?" he asked her, his voice echoing into the mist, and rolling back, eerily.
She came closer to the huge bed, now, and he moved to make room for her. She stretched out her arms, and called his name again. She raised her knee, and placed it on the bed, and it sank into the powder blue bedding. She rolled over lazily, her body shimmering pale against the light blue mist, and she said, "I love you, I want to be with you." Her voice echoed eerily, too, fading away, and then coming back to his ears.
"I told you to go away but I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it," his voice echoed. He reached out for her, and she came to him, her skin soft to his touch.
"I could not go away," she answered, her voice moving over him, around him, behind him; everywhere. "You were good, and gentle, I knew it would be that way; you were kind when I asked you not to hurt me."
"You were so young, and fresh, and warm, and soft. Come closer to me, I won't hurt you. I'll be gentle." He enveloped her in his arms, sensing her, but not feeling her.
"No no no no," another voice said, and he raised his head from Patti's scented breast to see Stacey driving languidly through the mists, her hair flying behind her, her long, athletic legs pumping. "No Roy, no!" she said, her voice insistent, her arms held out, her hands moving, telling him to stop.
"It's too late," he called to her moving his hand down Patti's belly, down to her soft mound.
He sensed Stacey's hand on his, as Patti's legs closed together. Stacey moved his hand away from Patti, and Patti's body sagged forward, her breasts swelling, falling on his arm, her blonde hair spilling over the side of her face. "No, Roy," Stacey's voice said, soft, quiet, final.
"It's too late," he answered. "It is done. It is already done." He cast his eyes down, away from Stacey, and Patti moved away from him, drifting slowly away, her voice wafting toward him, her face filled with tenderness.
"Don't feel that way," her voice echoed, softly. "I wanted you to do it. I wanted you to do it it it..."
The blueness began to fade, and Patti's body was disappearing with the mists, only her insistent, ringing voice falling on his ear. He shook his head from the left to the right, feeling textured softness against his cheeks, seeking Stacey out, but she was gone. Only Patti's ringing voice remained, growing louder as she slowly dissolved.
His eyes exploded open, the jarring ringing clanging in his ear, drowning out everything else. His eyes saw the pale ceiling swimming before them. He blinked, and instinctively threw his hand out to the side of the bed, and pressed the button inward, and the ringing of the , alarm clock stopped, only to be replaced by a soft, hissing sound, punctuated by sharp smatterings of wet sound. He turned his head to the window, and watched, dully, as the raindrops smacked against it, and then coursed down the glass, in myriad rivulets.
Rain. He propped himself up on his elbows, wakefulness gradually entering his sleep-drugged mind. His gaze drifted from the window, and fell on a blotch of white cloth, by his chair. He blinked at it, and then groaned softly, and sank back on the bed as it all came rushing back to him. Last night. And Patti. And her torn panties.
He closed his eyes tightly, remembering last night all too well. Why had she done it? He pondered the question for the hundredth time, and still received no answer. She had been so willing, and so, so virginal. So young and virginal. That was the word. Fragments of their conversation still reverberated around in his mind.
"I told you not to. You didn't listen. Now you'll have to find out the hard way! Now, then, be a good girl."
"I will, Mr. Warden, I will. Just hold me. Touch me. Take me." Her voice had been so soft.
"Patti, stop throwing yourself at me! You're going to force me to do something I don't want to do!" He'd meant it to be harsh, but he hadn't felt harsh when he'd said it. She'd already directed his hands to her body, and was moving them about with her own, until he could no longer resist touching her swelling, proud young tits, and the softness of her belly.
Then the room was tilting, crazily, and he'd gone out of his mind with desire. There was only the young, fresh warmth and softness of her, so pliant, so willing, and he rose above her, accepting her clumsy surrender, feeling her nails pinching the flesh on his arms, and shoulders.
"You were good, and gentle," she'd said, afterward, her face radiant. "I knew it would be that way." She'd dressed slowly, seeming to savor the clothes sliding onto her body as she'd savored his touch. She'd prodded her torn panties with her toe, and giggled. Then she'd become solemn, and said, "You were kind when I asked you not to hurt me."
He'd dropped his eyes from hers, then, and mumbled, "I'm sorry, Patti. I know it's too late, that it's already done, but I want you to know that I'm sorry."
"Don't feel that way," she'd' said, then. "I wanted you to do it." When he'd looked up, she was gone, the door closing softly behind her. And her panties had lay on the floor where they lay now, a silent, rumpled reminder of last night.
He kicked off the covers, and slid out of bed,' trying to push last night out of his mind. He padded over to the panties, looking so small, and incongruous, now. He picked them up, feeling the resilient silken material crumpling in his hand. He went into the bathroom, and dropped them in the waste basket. Then he got them out of it, and dropped them into his clothes hamper, burying them with a sweatshirt.
He consulted his watch. It was almost ten o'clock. There would be plenty of time for a light breakfast. He was supposed to pick up Stacey, and drive her to the game. But there would be no game, now. Which meant that he could spend most of the day with her, if she were willing. She'd never said anything, one way or another, about that untoward evening when she'd finally-stemmed the tide of his advances. It meant she was a good kid. Hortense had been a good kid, too, but she'd been either too naive, or too emotional. Not the kind to spend a lifetime with. But Stacey? She was different. He picked up the phone, and dialed her number.
She sounded fresh, and cheerful, and he good-naturedly accepted her offer of a rowboat from which to watch the game. It made him feel good, in a way he'd never felt before, when she accepted his offer to pick her up and drive out to the school to post the cancellation notice, then spend the rest of the day, together Suddenly, the pleasurable, but worrisome events of the previous night were not so large in his mind. If he got to school early, he thought, he could post the notice, and not even see Patti. It would be better that way. At least she'd have the weekend to catch up with herself. He hummed a tuneless little melody, as he prepared himself for the shower.
Stacey looked good, even in the gray, rainy gloom. She was beginning to look better every time he saw her. He held the umbrella over her, as they dashed down the steps of her boarding house, and ran for the car. He held the door for her while she piled in, and then ran around the car, folding the umbrella, and dodging raindrops.
"You ought to teach your backfield boys some of that kind of running," Stacey said, as he got in.
"I've taught them just about all I know," Warden answered. "All they have to do is use it, now. And today is going to make next week's practice sessions awful grim, I guess." He fiddled with the windshield wipers, and finally got them going. He pulled away from the curb. He wiped the windshield with a rag, until the tired defroster started working.
"I see where your quarterback seems to be developing his talents in making lateral passes," Stacey said.
"Who? Smith? I always told you, Stace, the kid's got a lot of talent. Why, he ... "
"That's not what I mean," Stacey interrupted. "He seems to have gone from Patti Pembroke to Kathy Lawson."
"You pay attention to that kid stuff?" Warden asked. Yet her remark had lent sudden, sharp insight into Patti's behavior, last night.
"No, not really," Stacey said, laughing. "Except that pretty little Patti keeps a keen eye on you, these days, it seems."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Warden asked.
"I guess it means she's got a crush on you, that's all. She moons around the tennis court until she catches a glimpse of you heading for the stadium. Then she's ready to work."
"How lucky can I get!" Warden exclaimed. "The principal's daughter is warm for my form. Maybe I'll get a raise?" He tried to sound light, but she had just said that last night. I think I love you, Patti had said. That beautiful little body of yours is leading her right into a stupid schoolgirl infatuation with me, he thought. And this is not the time to get mixed up in that kind of thing. Not with Stacey, so close and wonderful, it isn't. He resolved to head Patti off before it went any further.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
"Hmmm? Oh, I was just thinking about what we're going to do, today," he lied. "Roy?"
"Yes, love of my life, speak. Unloose those golden tones from those ruby lips," Warden intoned.
"Oh, stop it. There you go again. I was going to ask you if you might reconsider getting the girls out of exile. From the tennis courts, I mean. Considering that Patti's so taken with you," Stacey finished, a very feminine note in her voice.
"I think I'm being taken, right now;" Warden said. But which way, and by whom? he thought idly.
Stacey climbed the carpeted stairs softly, still smiling at Warden's behavior, moments ago.
"To show you that my intentions are honorable, I'm going to hold my hands behind my back," he'd said.
"What for?" she'd asked.
"So I can kiss you good night."
"What makes you think you deserve one?" Stacey had asked, then.
"It's the least you can do," he'd said.
"It's all I'm going to do," she'd said, and had given him a light kiss on the lips. But he hadn't kept his promise, and that was what she was smiling at, now. He'd become so crestfallen when she'd quickly disentangled herself. Seeing him thus, she'd patted him on the head, and told him to cheer up.
As he was going down the walk, he'd turned, with his finger in his mouth. "I'll be good, Teach, honest, I will," he'd said, and then he was in the car before she could answer.
The smile of simple delight changed to a pursed-lipped mask of contemplation, as she quietly inserted her key in the locked door, and opened it. Roy Warden was a good deal to contemplate, she thought, and a good starting point was the unusually good feeling his arms around her had given her.
She flicked on a lamp, and took off her jacket. She walked into the kitchen, and warmed herself a glass of milk, and then fished out some cookies, from the cabinet, and carried them, with the milk, back into the living room.
Her thoughts returned to Warden. He's so different, she mused, biting into a cookie. She felt glad that he was different. He was the first man she'd met, who was. Even though he'd only had one thing on his mind, like the rest of them, at least he'd taken no for an answer. It was more than Sam Baldwin had done.
She ate another cookie, not caring for the way her thinking was turning. It was usually like this, after a date. The loneliness of a little room. In college, it had been the dorm, while her more popular roommate came in much later. And now, in Spring Vale, the same loneliness, and the rehash of the night. The coldness, almost rudeness with which she'd treated most of her escorts. There were no young male bachelors in Spring Vale who bothered to call her, any more.
She finished her milk, and put the glass down. She stood up, flicked off the lamp, and walked through darkness as black as her thoughts, to the bedroom. She slipped out of her blouse, and slacks, and looked down at herself, with disdain. "Thanks, Sam. Thanks a lot," she said, softly, derisively.
She tiptoed into the bathroom, avoiding the one floorboard marked with a small, white 'X'. It creaked, when stepped on, and usually woke Mrs. Rankin. Though Mrs. Rankin was usually the soul of grace, she was inclined to be something of a busybody, and that didn't help, either.
She faced herself in the small mirror that served as a door to the medicine cabinet. She studied her face. It was a pretty face, and she had the modesty to accept it at that, nothing more. When she stood close to the mirror, and braced her hands on the sink, she could see most of her body, slanting away from the mirror. She removed her bra, and panties, and examined herself in the mirror, knowing what she would see, and hating it, yet attracted to it. She studied her breasts, objectively, moved her arm under them, causing them to well up, and thrust out. She pushed herself away from the mirror, then, and stalked out of the bathroom.
She climbed into her baby doll pajamas hurriedly, not wishing to see her own nudeness any more. Her body had brought her too much loneliness, and heartache, already. She touched her breast quickly, experimentally, and flinched. See, she said to herself, it's a reflex action. It shouldn't be. Not all the time. And it hadn't been, she remembered now, with Roy.
She climbed into bed, and steeled herself against the darkness, and what the absence of light would bring to her eyes, open as she lay in the darkness of her lonely room. She knew it was coming, as it had come on the night when she'd been to Roy's apartment. The dark ceiling would become a screen, and a face would appear. It would not be an ugly face, just an ugly memory. The face would become embodied with a voice. And the voice would recreate a scene in words the voice had never said. The face and voice of Sam Baldwin...
The June sun was warm, but not yet filled with the searing heat of summer. It felt good on her shoulders. She wriggled her toes in the sand, and watched Keith, and Jack chasing Sam, who was being cornered from the other side of the beach by Jean and Ella. Sam was making a good deal of noise. It's just like him, she thought.
In a few more weeks, she'd have two years of school under her belt. Then, a lazy summer vacation, and back to school, to start on her elective, physical education. The two years had seemed to fly. These are the golden years, she thought, often. Soon the joys of college days will be over, and I'll be out working, and living. But I'll never forget these wonderful days.
She was telling herself that when her reverie was interrupted by Sam, pounding up the beach, and skidding to a halt in front of her, followed close behind by the rest of the gang. She twisted away to avoid the flying sand.
"Hey," Sam said, "do that again."
Stacey looked up at him. "Do what?" she asked.
"Turn like that, again. Boy, when you do that, I can see clear down to your socks, from here." He winked at her, and guffawed.
Stacey looked up at him, and her hands flew to the top of her swimsuit. "Oh, Sam, honestly," she said, feeling the flush creep into her cheeks.
Jean and Ella sank down in the sand beside her. "You played it smart," Jean said. "Running up and down that beach is just plain silly on a day like this."
"Yeah, Stace," Ella said. She leaned over, and said, confidentially, "gee, it's tough, comin' into it just when we had the picnic planned."
Stacey laughed. "You think I have my ... " she laughed again, unable to finish.
"Well, don't you?" Ella asked.
"No, that's over a week old," Stacey said, enjoying the small confidence.
"Then you're really playing it smart, sitting here like this, 'cause Sam's been griping all afternoon about you being a wallflower. I guess he figures you're sort of, uh, incapacitated."
"What if I was?" Stacey asked, indignantly. "It wouldn't matter."
"You know Sam," Jean said. "Always the life of the party. Want's his girl to be a real swinger."
"Looks like he's about to start swingin', now," Ella said. Stacey followed her glance. Sam and Keith were carrying a massive cooler down to the beach, while Jack lent moral support by reaching in and plucking out a frosted can of beer.
Stacey watched the boys set the cooler down in the shade. She contemplated Jean's remark. She was fond of Sam, in a friendly way. He was one of the most popular young men on the campus, and she felt that Jean and Ella were jealous over her good fortune in snaring him for the picnic date. But she didn't want him to think she was a party pooper. She stood up, and ambled over to where the boys were, having been joined by Jean and Ella.
"It's about time," Stacey said, lightly. "Do you have some of that panther punch for me?"
Sam brightened, visibly. "Why sure, honey," he said, pulling out a can. "Here, let me open it," he said. He sliced the opener into opposite sides of the can with an expert flick of the wrist.
"You do that like a real pro," Keith remarked, fumbling with his can of beer.
"Lots of practice," Sam said, solemnly, then opened a beer for himself.
The afternoon seemed to vanish into can of foaming brew, and the tinkling of its discarded remains. Stacey was beginning to feel light-headed, and suggested that the girls break out the food.
"Food," Sam sneered, "is for jellyfish. Have another beer!"
She drank the beer Sam offered her, and then had another can. The sun was setting on the lake, now. and it seemed to be one of the most beautiful things she'd ever seen, and she said so. Jean and Ella concurred.
The boys built a small fire, and the group huddled around. The evening air was not chill, but it was no longer as warm as the afternoon. The fire felt good. Stacey noticed Jean and Ella beginning to nuzzle up to Keith and Jack. The fire crackled, and it all seemed terribly romantic, especially after one more can of beer.
By now, the moon was doing pirouettes on the water, and the waves of the lake seemed to be slipping in several different directions. Keith and Jean had wandered off, and a little while later, Jack and Ella disappeared, too. Stacey felt her eyelids beginning to droop when she felt Sam tap her shoulder.
"C'mere," he said, reaching down for her hand. "I wanna show you something." He led her through a patch of woods with great care, until she saw a small opening ahead. She drew even with him. "Looka that," he said, and sniggered.
Stacey looked, in horror. Keith and Jean were lying together, on the forest floor. A short distance away, Jack and Ella were similarly postured. The moonlight, filtering through the leaves, outlined the pale nakedness of their bodies.
"Wha?" Stacey gasped. "They're ... "
"They sure are," Sam said, appreciatively. Stacey felt his hand tighten on hers. "Looka old Keith go," he said.
Keith was indeed "going". Jean was pinioned securely beneath him, her hands flailing at his back. Keith began to dive and plunge more frenetically, while Stacey watched, unable to tear her stunned gaze from the lustful foursome. As she watched, Keith's body seemed to jerk, spasmodically. Even before the spasms had subsided, he had rolled away from Jean, leaving her still body, her legs sprawling grotesquely. "Beatcha!" Keith shouted, at Jack.
Jack stopped for an instant, then resumed his methodical plunging. "Damn," he said, in a muffled voice.
"Ah, c'mon, Jack, they had a head start," Ella said. She dug her heels into his buttocks.
"Well, let's go," Sam said, his voice knifing through her numb mind.
"What do you mean?" she asked, stammering. He tugged at her wrist, and she drew back.
"Just what the hell do you think I mean?" Sam said, his voice becoming harsh.
"No, Sam, no," Stacey protested, trying to break free of his grasp.
"Whattsa matter, Sam? Having trouble?" Keith called, and snickered, sinking back down to Jean, and tickling her between her thighs.
"You and your bright ideas," Sam snorted. "I coulda told ya she was a goody-goody. You think you know everything!"
"But Sam," Keith said, over his shoulder, becoming engrossed with Jean again, "Looka the body on the kid. She's a natural!"
"Sam," Stacey said, "don't listen to him. I'm not that kind of girl. I don't know where he got that idea. I never did ... I ... SAM!"
She felt herself being hoisted into the air, and deposited roughly on the ground. Keith and Jean and Ella and Jack, all suddenly standing, now, whirled crazily past her eyes. She felt twigs and rocks scratching her back. Sam landed on top of her, taking her shoulder straps in his hands, and yanking them harshly from her shoulders. He clawed at the top of her swimsuit.
"Attaboy, Sam," Keith called.
"Jeanie! Ella! Help me! Don't stand there like that," Stacey panted, trying to free herself. The top of her swimsuit flopped down to her waist, and she ceased struggling to cup her naked breasts in her hands. She realized it was the worst thing she could have done.
Sam rolled her over, easily, and she let go of her breasts to resume struggling, but it was too late. She felt the zipper in the back of her suit begin to part, and there was nothing she could do to stop hirn. He was grunting, and panting like a madman.
She felt the suit being jerked savagely down, over her hips. She twisted, and kicked out at him, but he avoided her, easily. "Jeannie! Please!" she called frantically. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jean reach up and kiss Keith, and then Jean left Keith, and strolled across the cleared area to Jack, while Ella moved toward Keith.
Her suit was down to her thighs, now, and she attempted to double over, to hide herself. Sam rewarded her with a smart clout to the shoulder, which flattened her to the ground. She was rolled to the right, then to the left, and her suit was off. Sam hovered over her sliding his trunks down over his hips, and then exposing himself. He slipped out of his trunks, and plummeted down on her again, before she could roll away from under him.
Then she could hear his rasping breath in her ear, and his hands roamed coarsely over her body. "Please, Sam. Don't do it! Sam, don't do it. Anything but that. Sam! Touch me, Sam, kiss me, but not that!" she pleaded.
"Shuddup! You make me sick! Goddamn goody-goody. I'll show you! I'll show, uh, uh, ya ... ohhh. 'there ... ! "
She felt her belly explode, and a searing, driving pain went through her. Her breasts were already aching from having been cuffed, and pummeled, and wrenched. There was no surcease from the agony. She could not scream, she could not shout, her mouth was frozen open, while her body endured the savage thrusts of Sam
Baldwin, until she felt another sensation, and she twisted, and the scream came, and then another, and she twisted, and hit, and scratched, and kicked, and as Sam beat a clumsy, hasty retreat, her flailing leg caught him between his legs, and he grunted. His face whitened, and he clutched at himself, and fell to the earth, doubled over, his legs tucked up to his chest.
The tears trickled down her cheeks, as she lay in her lonely room, in the darkness. They were not tears of sadness, nor of self-pity, she knew. They were tears of gladness, for she had recreated the scene, and in the end, her body could feel only the tender hands of Roy Warden roaming insistently over her body, gently, tenderly.
The fear was gone. The terrible, frightful fear that left her gasping, and flinching, and running to hide, was gone. In its place, was a serenity, a sense of a promise to be fulfilled.
She stroked away the tears. In the darkness, she smiled, faintly, courageously. She spoke the name. "Roy." Then sleep came, in the darkness, no longer so lonely.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Melissa Pembroke hovered over the dining room table, giving the place settings one last check. The flowers made a particularly lovely centerpiece, she thought. They would look radiant, in the candlelight. The silver, her best service, gleamed.
She drifted into the kitchen, the sheer material of her black negligee wafting behind her. She delighted, momentarily, in the smooth press of the fabric against her naked body. She stopped, and looked down at herself, her mind on the evening ahead. Her hand grazed her breasts, firm, and full, under the black lace. She felt her large nipples tingle, as his hand would make them tingle, later, she thought.
She hummed, softly, as she peered into the oven at the beef roast. She prodded it with a fork, watching the juices bubble up. She turned the oven off. It will be nice and rare, the way he-likes it. It's his favorite. In her mind, she heard his compliments as he carved the roast, as he'd done so skillfully so many times. She saw Patti's face, filled with anticipation, waiting for the crusted, first slice of meat, which she had ritualistically received for so many years. Melissa Pembroke sighed. It would be a wonderful dinner. All of them together. like it used to be.
And later, when Patti was asleep, she would take his hand, and lead him gently up the stairs, her lips cooing little love words, making tender sounds, and he would place his hand on her buttocks, as they climbed the stairs, and she would hear his breathing become heavier, but not from the exertion of climbing the stairs.
Then they would be in their bedroom, together, alone. And she would remove the negligee, and stand before him. Then his eyes would widen as she began to undulate her torso, first the hips, weaving them to and fro, and then her breasts, feeling them sway ponderously, and she would move toward him. He would fumble with his clothes, an uncomfortable look on his face, as his eyes remained riveted to her body. She would feel it glow under his eyes, and then his hands would be upon her, and they would tumble onto the bed, and the loneliness would be over, and they would be one, again.
It would be perfect. He'd never know it had all been planned, from his favorite flowers in the centerpiece, to his favorite cut of meat, and dessert. Her mind balked at calling it a plan. It wasn't a plan, really, she told herself, as she mashed the potatoes, folding in a pat of butter, and a few tablespoons of milk. He liked them, that way. A wife did not have to scheme, and plan, to win the man to whom she had been married so long. No, she had decided, it wasn't a plan. It was going to be a second honeymoon, in miniature.
It would be good, she mused, to be together, and alone. She had begun to feel so much better, lately. She hoped he would notice that she was wearing the negligee not because she was sick, but because she wanted to show him her body, to draw him temptingly into her arms, where he belonged. Not off to some meeting, or out of the house, as he'd been so often, lately, but safe in the warmth, and softness of her arms, and body. That thought reminded her of something. Hastily, she went upstairs, and slipped into a black dressing gown.
She studied herself in the mirror, remembering how he'd asked her to dress for dinner. The dressing gown was diaphanous, too, but together with the negligee, it covered her lush body, yet hinted at what was underneath. I mustn't allow him to forget, she thought. Not tonight. But I mustn't anger him. She gave herself one last look, in the mirror. She pressed a stray hair into place, proud that there were no gray ones to mask, or hide. I feel so young tonight! You look so young tonight, he would say. And she would be proud.
As she stepped out into the hallway leading to the stairs, she heard the front door slam, and her heartbeat quickened. He's home, she thought, almost giddy with happiness, and relief.
"Hi, anybody. I'm home," Patti's voice called.
Melissa halted in her rush for the steps, hearing Patti's voice. Patti. My daughter. T must go down to her, and let her see me. she thought. I'll ask her how I look. "I'm up here, dear," she called, down the stairs.
"Okay, Mother," Patti's voice answered, fading.
She's gone into the kitchen to snoop, Melissa thought proudly. She can smell the roast. Oh, it's going to be such a happy evening. My daughter, and my husband around me. How much wonderful happiness we could have had, if I hadn't been so ill, she thought, gliding down the stairs.
Patti was indeed in the kitchen. "Don't eat the celery heart," Melissa said, noting Patti's surprised stiffening of posture as she heard the voice behind her. She used to do that when I caught her in the cookie jar, Melissa thought, so many fond memories coming easily to her mind, now.
Patti turned, saw her mother, and emitted a long, low whistle. "Mother," she said, "you look beautiful, tonight."
Melissa accepted the compliment. "Thank you, dear," she said. "Now, I'll need your help. You hold the platter under the roast, and I'll slide it out of the oven. Then you can get the carving knife out of the drawer. Your father will be home any minute."
Patti helped her mother with the roast. It was a pleasant thing, to be doing something with her, together, Melissa thought happily. She slid the roast onto the platter. "I've got it," Patti said.
Melissa watched Patti carry the roast into the dining room, studying her well-formed legs, the firm buttocks making her skirt move tantalizingly from side to side. She's the picture of me, Melissa mused. She even has my walk, and my temperament. I've been away from her such a long time.
The front door opened, and slammed, again. He's home, she thought, the giddy feeling returning. She rushed out of the kitchen, into the hall. She found him hanging up his coat. "Hello, Hugh," she said, softly, nearing him.
Pembroke looked at her. "Hello, Melissa," he said.
There is that coolness in his voice, Melissa thought, trying not to be disappointed by his reserve. "Another hard day?" she asked, lightly.
"No worse than usual," Pembroke answered. "Will dinner be ready, soon? I've got some papers I'd like to look over, if there's time."
The reserve was still there, but the considerate tone overriding it made her face brighten. "I tried to have it ready for you when you came home," she said. "But it can wait a few minutes, if you're going to be busy."
"No, no, that's all right," Pembroke said. "We'll eat now, then."
She hurried ahead of him, into the dining room. She wanted to see his face when he saw the table, the candlelight, and the flowers. And the roast. He came into the dining room, and she watched him stop, and his eyebrows rose for an instant. Then his face resumed its normal expression, of late, indicating neither pleasure nor displeasure, anger nor happiness. She felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach.
"Smells like by George, it is! Roast beef," Pembroke said, pleasantly, sitting down at the table.
The knot in her stomach faded away. He noticed, she thought. He knows. He'll be pleased. "I hope it's rare enough," she said. She sat down opposite him. Patti joined them, at the table.
She watched him carve the roast. He cut five slices, and left them on the platter. "Have you forgotten something, dear?" Melissa asked, noting Patti's look of anticipation.
Pembroke looked up, and frowned. "I don't think so," he said.
Melissa tried a small laugh, but it came out flat. "I think your daughter's waiting for something," she said. "Aren't you, dear?" she said to Patti.
"I get the first piece," Patti said.
"Oh. Yes, of course, Patti," Pembroke said.
"You forgot, Hugh," Melissa chided.
Pembroke fixed her with a level stare, that wilted her. She wanted to shrink, knowing already that she'd said the wrong thing. "There hasn't been much to remember," he said, in the same reserved voice. "Will you hand me your plate, please?"
She handed him the plate, trying to catch his eyes with hers, but unable to. Try to understand, she wanted to say. I'm sorry, she wanted to say. I just wanted to make you happy. I just wanted it to be like it was. Before.
The dinner drifted to a finish. Pembroke coolly acknowledged her attempts at small talk, or he ignored them. She watched him eat, methodically, his face giving no clues whether he was enjoying it, or not. He accepted his dessert and coffee, and finished them. The dull feeling in her stomach had returned, and was growing with each passing moment. She glanced at Patti, who was also absorbed in eating. It was largely a silent dinner, as so many of them had been, had she been well enough to notice.
Pembroke finished his coffee, and excused himself. "I'm going into the study," he said. "I want to look those papers over."
"Yes, dear," Melissa said, trying to smile, seeing that he didn't even look at her as he left the room. She returned to Patti. "Well," she said, "since your father's going to be busy for a while, perhaps I can give you a hand with the dishes."
"Oh, no, Mother, that's all right. You just go into the ,living room, and rest," Patti answered, her voice solicitous.
"But I'd really like to help, dear," Melissa said.
"That's all right, Mother," Patti said, a note of impatience creeping through her fixed smile. "I've done them so long alone, I've got used to it."
The remark came as a slap in the face would. Melissa sat, her palms outstretched on the table, her mind reeling from this last in a series of unmeant and unknowing blows to her good spirits.
This is what made me ill, she told herself. This mindless, unfeeling attitude of theirs. They don't care about me, either one of them. All I ever was around here, or any place else, was a wife and mother, only when I was needed. She got up from the table, and said to Patti, "As you wish, dear." She walked into the living room.
She leafed through a magazine, but her eyes were not seeing it. They were seeing back into the past. To that dreadful night, so many years ago, when Patti came into the world, through so many unending hours of pain. And Hugh. Where was he? Off to some conference, not caring, not wanting to be with her. So she'd brought Patti into the world alone, hoping that the pain would end. But it had only begun.
Patti was lucky to be alive, the doctors had told her. And she was lucky to be alive. There could be no more child-bearing, the doctors had told her. The words had rained down on her mind, leaving it stunned, and unable to function. Gradually, reality returned.
The fingers of her mind probed gently at the locked compartment, closed, and shuttered tight for so many years until now. She never thought of it, and knew that Hugh could not bring himself to think of it, either. It was never discussed, never mentioned, and it would have made things so much easier, so much simpler if it had not been locked away in her mind, and in his, she guessed.
The hysterectomy.
Melanie. That tramp. That slut. Happily married, now, her beloved younger sister, and mother of three children, after all her dalliances, and collisions in dark alleys, and rented rooms, and back seats of automobiles. Melanie, still intact, in body, and mind. A whole woman. Unpunished.
"Why?" She said the word aloud, then glanced up, grateful that she was alone. They left her alone. They made sure she could be alone. My husband. And my daughter. They are so thoughtful. She pressed her stomach in, with the heels of her hands. The pain did not stop. The dull ache in her head began to throb. She thought of her pills. Upstairs, in the bedroom. The pills. They would bring relief. Blessed relief from these bad thoughts. From all these bad years that would never be good. Never.
She was about to rise from the chair, when Patti came into the living room. She looked up at Patti. "Why didn't you let me help you, dear?" she asked.
"Mother," Patti said with exasperation, "you know we want you to rest. You did enough, fixing that scrumptious dinner."
Melissa ignored the compliment. Her mind had seized on Patti's remark. "We want you to rest," she'd said. That proved they were in it, together. All these years, she seemed so close to me, Melissa thought, looking at Patti. It was a lie, she told herself. Another lie, like Melanie.
"Mother," Patti said, "Kathy invited me to spend the night at her house. Can I?"
Melissa continued looking at Patti. She wants to leave me, she thought. She can't stand to be with me. I don't know any Kathy. It's another lie. "Kathy? Who is Kathy?" she asked Patti. I'll catch her in her feeble lie.
"Kathy Lawson. She's on the cheerleading squad with me," Patti said.
"Kathy Lawson." Melissa dwelled on the name, silently. Then, "Yes, you can go. Go on. Leave me alone. That's what you want to do, isn't it? Isn't it?" she repeated the question, unable to keep the shrillness from her voice.
"N-n-no, Mother," Patti answered, stammering. "I'll stay home, if you want me to. I thought ... "
"Go on, Melanie, just go on, get out of my sight. Leave me alone. D'you hear? Go on!" Melissa felt her body shaking with rage. Go on, damn you, she said, to herself. Go on, and leave me behind, to be punished.
"Thank you, Mother," Patti said, hesitantly, and left the room quickly. Moments later, Melissa heard the front door close. She sagged back in her chair. She's gone, she thought, dully. She remained sitting, alone in the living room, until another part of her mind told her insistently that she was alone, yes. Alone with her husband. Wasn't it what she wanted? Alone. She got up from the chair. I'll take my pills, she thought, a gaiety returning to her. Then I'll find my man. And we'll be together, again. We'll be one, again.
She almost danced up the stairs, her mind already imagining what she'd thought of earlier. Alone, in their haven of love, they'd share each other's bodies, and it would be like there had been no yesterdays. From tonight, there would only be tomorrows.
She breezed into their bedroom, intent on reaching the pill box, feeling the sweet relief of the pills already, before she had even taken them. Then she saw Hugh. She halted, and stared at him.
He had changed suits. He was adjusting his tie, in the mirror. Was he leaving? Yes. Yes, he was leaving, again! He would not stay with her, either. No. He would not leave. I'll show him, she thought, frantically. Then he won't leave. "Hugh?" she murmured, as she shucked off her black dressing gown.
Pembroke turned, and glanced at her. He turned his face back to the mirror, continuing to work with his tie. "What is it?" he asked, over his shoulder.
She saw the muscles in his shoulders, working under the white shirt. It stirred her. Provocatively, she slipped one strap of the negligee down, and drew her arm through it, exposing one breast, the pale, large nipple tautening, in freedom. "Look," she said.
Pembroke turned to her, again. His mouth slackened, and a look of disbelief crossed his face. He regained his composure. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"I want you to look at me," Melissa answered. She slipped the other strap off, and the bodice of her negligee plummeted to her waist, leaving both ripe breasts bared. "Look at me," she said, softly. "Take me," she murmured, her eyes half-closed.
"Melissa, I ... "
"Don't talk, darling, just come to me, and hold me, and make love to me, now."
Pembroke cleared his throat. "You're very pretty, Melissa. But I haven't time. I'm sorry," he said, his eyes shifting away from her body.
"You you haven't--time?" Melissa's tone was incredulous.
"I said I'm sorry," Pembroke snapped. "I didn't know you wanted-anyway, I have to go to a meeting. I'm going to be late," he said, glancing at his watch.
Melissa advanced toward him, shrugging the negligee down, over her hips, exposing her belly, its smallish mound barely noticeable, down further, past her thighs, seeing his eyes follow its downward progress, watching his fingers working at his sides. "You always had time for this before," Melissa purred, her hands stroking her body, as she came closer to him, and halted directly in front of him.
"Melissa," Pembroke said, stepping around her. He slipped into his suit coat.
Her gaze followed him. "You're really leaving?"
Pembroke halted, near the door, seeming to fumble for words. "I Melissa, let's uh, another time..."
"Yes," Melissa said, with a low, throaty chuckle that wound itself into a high pitched giggle, "another time. See if you can fit it into your schedule!"
"Melissa, don't say that. It isn't ... "
"You'd better go, Hugh. Go to your meeting. There's always been a meeting," Melissa said, her voice rising. "You could always go to a meeting. No one ever stopped you. Even when your daughter was born..."
"Melissa! Stop it! You'll make yourself ill, again!"
"Don't start worrying about me, now, Hugh! Just go to your meeting! Go! Go! Hurry, Hugh! Leave me alone!" She turned her back to him, feeling her knees weakening. She placed her hand on the dresser for support. The bedroom door closed softly, behind her.
He was gone. The room that was to be so vibrant and full of love was empty. The dream was empty, her mind was empty. Slowly, she turned away from the dresser and moved toward the pill box. There were those lovely pills in there. So many lovely pills in there. So many different boxes. She lifted the lid of the pill box. The many small boxes of pills began to move before her eyes. A few from this one, a few from that one, and some of those nice pink ones, for sleeping. How nice it would be to sleep. To sleep for a long time.
Her hands worked clumsily with the pills, gathering up a fistful. He didn't even touch me, she thought without feeling. He didn't hold my hand, or caress my breast. He left me. Alone. He didn't even try to kiss me.
She was plodding toward the bathroom, her mind reeling, the pills clenched in her hand, when the doorbell rang. She halted, and blinked. The doorbell rang again. She looked down at her nakedness, then at the pills in her hand. She turned and hurried to the top of the stairs. "Just a moment, please," she called. She tripped into the bedroom and picked up her negligee from the floor, sliding it on hastily. She put on the black robe over it, dropped the pills on the top of the pill box, and hurried down stairs. "I'm coming," she called, as the bell rang insistently.
She opened the door, and a man was standing there, a manila envelope tucked under one arm. His hair was close-cropped, and his eyes were pale blue. He blinked, and said, "Mrs. Pembroke?"
"Yes," Melissa answered. "Can T help you?"
"I'm Mr. Warden, ma'am," Warden said. "I wanted to see Mr. Pembroke."
"Come in," Melissa said, stepping back, watching Warden enter. His shoulders seemed to fill the doorway.
She closed the door behind him. She felt his eyes roving over her, and it pleased her. Strangely, she felt no fear, nor was she embarrassed. The man was looking at her with admiration. It was a pleasant feeling. "What did you want to see him about?" she asked, casually.
"Well, ma'am, I'm the athletic director at school. I've got the tentative basketball schedule here. I thought he might want to see it."
"Oh, yes," Melissa said, "Mr. Pembroke has spoken of you many times. So has Patti, my daughter."
"Really?" Warden's tone seemed cautious.
"Yes," Melissa said, amazed at the tranquil feeling this man gave her. "They've both remarked at how much you've done for the school," she lied.
"I didn't do it, ma'am," Warden said. "It was the team. They're the ones who deserve the credit. They made the finals, again. I just let them play."
"I think you're being modest, Mr. Warden."
Warden glanced at his watch, and shifted from one foot to the other. "If I could see Mr. Pembroke?" he asked, hesitantly.
"He isn't home," Melissa said.
"Oh. Well, then, I'll leave this with you. You can give it to him. I'll see him in school, and answer any questions he might have." Warden turned toward the door.
"Wait!" Melissa blurted. Then, more slowly, "Don't go. Here," she said, "you can leave them in here, in his study." She opened the door to his study and flicked on the light. "In there," she said.
Warden glanced at her, then into the study. He walked into the study and Melissa followed him. She closed the door softly behind her, her mind reeling again, this time in pleasurable anticipation. While his back was still turned, she shrugged off the robe, quickly. "Where shall I leave he stopped talking as he turned and saw her, the negligee temptingly outlining her nakedness underneath.
"Do you like it?" she asked.
"Don't be shy, Mr. Warden. What is your first name?"
"Roy, ma'am. But I think..."
"Do I look nice?" The question was a strident one.
"Very nice," Warden said, swallowing hard. "Good. Then you won't mind spending a little time with me?"
"No, ma'am."
"And stop calling me 'ma'am'. Do I look that old?" Her voice became coy, and she cocked her head, and struck a seductive pose, awaiting his answer.
"No, ma'am, you don't look old," Warden said.
"I don't feel old. Not when I look at you, Roy. Please call me Melissa, Roy. Please?"
"Yes, ma'am, I mean Melissa," Warden said.
"Leave that schedule, or whatever it is, here, and come with me," Melissa said, making it a command. Her eyes caught his traveling down her body again, and she read no shyness or embarrassment in his eyes. Her thoughts of early evening returned to her, along with a surging need so great she hadn't dreamed it still existed. It had been so long, she told herself. Perhaps it would not be too much longer, now. She turned and led him out of the study, into the living room, through the dining room and into the kitchen. She put on the overhead light, knowing its brightness would make her negligee nearly transparent.
She saw his eyes widen as he drank in her body. As he studied her, she studied him, and noted again the broad shoulders, the wide, muscled chest, tapering to a small waist. Her eyes traveled down his slacks, noting the erection, amused that men could not conceal their emotions, as women could. She felt her tits throbbing under his gaze, the large nipples expanding until they stood out, pressing against the sheer cloth. "Behind me," she said, her voice husky, "is the liquor. Fix us a drink, Roy."
He stepped toward the cabinet, unthinking. She knew he would have to collide with her before he reached the cabinet. When he did, she pretended a loss of balance and clutched at him for support. He caught her arms and righted her, and then her arms snaked about his waist, and her face came very close to his. "Thank you," she said, softly, and kissed him.
It was a tender kiss, probing, experimenting, and she felt him answer it with urgency. She tightened her arms about his waist and felt his arms go about her. "I don't know why I'm doing this," she heard him whisper. "You're a married woman. Your daughter..."
"My daughter's gone for the night. My husband doesn't seem to care. But you do, don't you, Roy? You do." She stepped away from him, slightly, and slid out of one strap, then the other. The negligee fell, and once again, she was naked to the waist, her breasts full, and yearning to be touched and held. She guided his hand to them, and surrendered her mind to the ecstatic thrill of his touch. She felt him begin to press against her, felt a tautness in his muscles, and an urgency in his movements. "In there," she said, nodding toward the living room. "Quickly!"
They shuffled and whirled through the dining room, locked in an erotic dance as old as time. Their emotions cried out for satisfaction, their bodies for gratification until they felt their passions peaking, and there was no need for a reason, no reason to the need.
Their nakedness was strange to each other, heightening the delight of each touch and caress. Her negligee was gone, now, lost in the dining room, and who cared? His body was magnificent, a divine physical animal, muscled, and formed, his passion rigidly expressing its desire. She touched his cock, and he responded. The rug was suddenly there, and they were suddenly very close to it, and then the lamp lights were swirling past her vision, and there was a great, searing warmth in her pussy.
Later, she made him promise to come back, knowing he never would. Still, she was serene in his departure, knowing she would not find him again, but still serene.
She had found herself, at last
CHAPTER EIGHT
It had been a job, worthy of his best efforts, to convince his aunt to spring for the hefty tab involving the infra-red equipment, but Stu had done the job, as he usually did. on the athletic field and off. She'd bought the best, and now he awaited the results.
Excitement etched his face in the dull, red lamp. The negatives had been developed. He was glad it was over. First the tedious process of feeling around, his hands up to the elbows in the light-sealed black bag, manipulating the film away from its wrapper, and into the tank, being careful to thread the end of it into the plastic notches of the tank spool. Then into the tank, and the developer being added, slowly, carefully.
Then spinning the film back and forth in the tank, counting away the minutes, pouring away the developer, and racing for the bathroom for tap water.
The film had emerged, eel-like, from the tank, wet, and slippery. All twenty frames seemed true, but it was then too early to tell. Now he was developing the first prints from the slides, remembering, deliriously, the subjects photographed, and excited over the possible, and probable results. For the Zeiss-Ikon was too good to make mistakes.
The images swam into murky clarity in the dull red light. The slide frames, unframed yet by cardboard, seemed so tiny. There was the door frame of the car. That was recognizable. The interior of the car, that ancient Chevy that Warden kept on the road, out of spite, it seemed.
There. That was a clear one. He held the miniature negative up to the red bulb and squinted at it. A man and a woman, semi-naked in the back seat of a car, locked in a passionate position. A smile, sharp, and evil, played across his features. He thanked his aunt, silently. This was what he'd waited for, planned for. Now Warden was right where he wanted him. And he'd find out about it, soon enough.
He took the transparency gingerly, between the tips of his fingers, and moved to the enlarger. He placed the negative under the frame bars, and adjusted them. Then he slid the photographic paper underneath, and turned on the enlarger lamp, its dull white light seeming brilliant, against the dull, creeping red burning into his eyes.
He cranked the time clock over, and watched it as it ticked off the seconds. He flipped off the enlarger light, and took the exposed paper with tongs, dropping it into the hypo. He swished it around, until the white and black of the negative began to show in their true form. He extracted the print from the developer, and slid it into the hypo, the figures emerging more sharply now. His eyes widened, and he nervously moved the print from the hypo into the rinse water, swishing it around until the developing process had been negated by the water. Then he studied it more carefully, to be sure his eyes had seen what he thought they'd seen.
Pembroke! It was unmistakably Pembroke. And the woman? It wasn't Miss Norris at all. No it was what's-her-name, Pembroke's secretary, Mrs. Watkins! Excited with anticipation, he let the print settle in the tray of water, and processed the rest of the prints. To prolong the moment of truth, he slipped all of them from the water, directly into the dryer, laying them against the metal, and fastening the cloth overlap atop them, and waiting for them to dry. In between time, he slipped down to the kitchen for a peanut butter sandwich, grateful for his aunt's proclivity toward sleep, night, and day.
When he returned to the room, he slipped the cloth back, and the prints, curling, seemed to spring off the dryer. He laid them down beside the dryer, and made a final check of print paper, and anything else that would be ruined by light. When everything was secured, he flicked on his bedside lamp, and studied the photos.
A throaty chuckle passed his lips. That old rascal, he thought. Look at that. The man's carrying on like a kid! He rearranged the photos in sequence, and studied them, again, until every detail seemed engraved into his mind. As he looked at the photos, his mind raced with theories, possibilities, conclusions, and events that would come to pass.
At length, he put the photos down, and sat on the bed, staring into space. It was, he decided, a bonus. But it had been discovered accidentally, which detracted from its allure. It was not Warden he'd captured, in his nocturnal wanderings. But it was attractive prey, nonetheless. He glanced down at the photo on top of the pile. Mrs. Watkins' charms were obvious. It was no wonder that Pembroke was out in the bushes with her, so to speak. Her breasts seemed monumental, even in the small print, and there was a look of unabashed ecstasy on her face, as Pembroke's hand was shown fondling one of them.
But it wasn't Warden. He felt robbed of something intangible. It had been hard, peddling his racing bike along the darkened roads on the outskirts of town, waiting for the chance. When it had come, when he'd spotted the ancient, rust-pocked car, its color dull in the dim moonlight, he'd thought he'd won. But it wasn't Warden.
His mind moved to an alternate plan he'd been mulling over for weeks. He didn't want to use the alternate plan, but now it seemed it would be necessary. There were enough good reasons for him to reject the alternate plan, and principal (Principal? he thought, and snickered) among them was the involvement of a patsy. It was an element difficult to know and control. One simply did not inform someone else to lead another person into a compromising position, just to be photographed. Especially, in Warden's case. He smiled, ruefully, as he imagined himself approaching Miss Norris with that request.
Who, then? Patti? She'd hardly spoken with him since that day on the field, weeks ago. He noted, with detachment, her panting after Warden, but once he'd tasted her charms at Lake Walsh, there was no pressing desire to see her again, except for more of the same, plus maintaining his well-rounded image in front of the other students.
He checked the alarm clock. It was nearly time to pick up Kathy. She was a pleasant enough diversion from Patti, he'd decided, a few days after Patti had walked away from him. Let her have all the time she needs, he'd decided, and made a rough pass at Kathy, which was picked up immediately. She hadn't been as scintillating as Patti, but there were few girls in Spring Vale who would be, even with a running start. But she considered it as something wonderful to be going out with him, he knew, and he did nothing untoward to discourage her.
Until tonight. He stood up from the bed, having already thought out the evening. His aunt had granted him permission to use the family sedan, with the roomy front seat in which he'd driven Patti to and from Lake Walsh, listening to her prattling on about Warden, which had begun this vengeful hunt, in part. He would pick up Kathy, and drive to Lake Walsh, again. No need to dart furtively about town, now. The championship finals were over; Spring Vale had won, and there were a few more weeks remaining until basketball season.
He was thinking about Kathy, idly, as he drove to meet her. He was imagining her nubile body, nude before him, in the comfort of the car her squeals of pleasure as he awakened her desire.
The vision of Kathy's nakedness tenderly embraced the thoughts he'd had in his room, and it came to him so naturally that he was momentarily disgusted with himself for not having thought of it before. Kathy. Of course. She would be ideal. She was so trusting, so sincere, so naive. So malleable, like putty in his hands. He hadn't taken her before now, not because he couldn't, but because he wouldn't. There was a delightful element of suspense about getting to know her better before he savored the pleasures of her body. He was working on how to approach her with it, when he saw her at the corner, and pulled over to the curb, to pick her up.
"Hi, Stuie," she said, getting into the car.
He flinched. He didn't like that derivative of his name. "Hi, yourself," he grinned. "You're lookin' mighty good," he said, glancing at her, before he pulled away from the curb.
"Gee, thanks, Stuie," Kathy answered.
He didn't have to look at her to know that she was grinning, vacuously, vastly pleased with herself. It was almost pitiful. "Get your homework done?" he asked her, to cover the fact that he was turning onto the highway out of town. He'd told her they'd take in a movie. But there were more important things to discuss, now, in the light of the photos he had in his room.
"I looked at it, but I decided I'd do it tomorrow night. There's nothing good on television tomorrow-night," she said, in a chatty voice. "Hey, where're you going?" She tacked it on at the end, as though it were part of her answer to his question.
"Well," he said, casually, "I didn't look at my homework, either, but I did look at the paper for the movie listings. The same movie is playing all over the county. So I thought we'd just go for a ride."
"That sounds like a good idea." she chirped.
He felt relieved. "Turn on the radio," he said. "See if you can pick up some good music."
In a moment, the soft tones of a dance band filled the car. The music was romantic. So, apparently, was Kathy, for little more time had passed before she began to inch over to him. When she had placed herself close to him, he put his arm around her shoulder. "That's better," she said. She pressed her leg against his. Then she rested her head on his shoulder. "That's so much better," she said.
He pulled the car into the same picnic grove he'd parked in with Patti. He left the engine running. The heater felt good. He killed the lights. Kathy raised her head. "Why are we stopping," she asked, looking up at him.
He turned his head, and gazed down at her. "Because I haven't kissed you yet," he said, bending his face toward hers. He brushed her lips with his, then pressed hard against her, feeling her return the kiss. He broke away, slowly. "As you just said, a little while ago," he said, "that's better. That's so much better."
They looked at the lake, in silence. Stu's mind was working. Should I ask her now? No, better wait. Later.
"Stuie?"
"Mmmmm?"
"Do you like me, Stuie?"
"You ought to know, by now."
"You sure you don't like Patti any more?" Kathy squirmed upright, taking her head away from his shoulder.
"No. What makes you ask a silly question like that?" His answer was shaded, attempting to feel her out.
"I don't know," Kathy said, in a small voice. "Sometimes, I feel funny that's all. I mean, she was going steady with you, and she's my best friend, and all.;. "
"Well, you certainly don't make for a pleasant evening by bringing up her name," Stu said, in a curt manner, testing how far he could go.
"I'm sorry, Stuie," Kathy said, with sincerity. "I didn't mean anything. I was just being silly, I guess. Forgive me?" She turned her face toward him, again, waiting to be kissed.
He obliged. He gathered her into his arms, twisting his body to meet hers, feeling the nubs of her breasts pressing against his chest, through her jacket. They kissed and kissed again, Kathy emitting small groans of pleasure each time their lips met.
"Why don't you take off your jacket?" Stu suggested, between kisses. "It's getting awful warm, in here." He slipped out of his sport jacket. She hesitated only a moment, and then eased herself out of her jacket. He took both jackets, and put them in the back seat. Then he bent to kiss her, again, feeling her breasts more sharply now, and feeling the desire stir inside him.
He draped his arm further over her shoulder, until the tips of his fingers could touch her breasts. She squirmed, under his arm, and he was pleasantly surprised that she was not squirming away from his touch, but toward it. "Touch them," she whispered. "I know you want to."
He didn't need to be begged. His fingers glided down from her shoulder, up, over the small, firm mound. He paused at the tip of her breast, his fingers closing slowly, tenderly, against the tip of her breast. His hand glided to her other breast, moving her shoulders close to him, pulling her head close to his, as he did so.
"Ooooh. that feels so good," she murmured. She began to undo the buttons of her sweater. "Go inside," she said, softly.
"Are you sure you want me to? I mean..."
"Yes, Stuie, I want you to. I want you to hold me. I want you to touch me. I want you to care. I like you so much, Stuie."
He didn't mind the nickname, now. His fingers slipped into her sweater, feeling the hard firmness of the bra. He inched his fingers over the top of the bra, and felt the warm, hard tits. "I don't want to hurt you," he breathed.
"You won't hurt me," she sighed. "Just don't stop. It feels so heavenly. I didn't think it could feel like this." He felt her breathing increasing as he probed inside her bra, reaching for the tip of her breast, finding the nipple, and moving his finger around on it. Slowly, he withdrew his hand.
"Why are you stopping?" she asked, squirming close to him. "You don't have to stop."
"I'm so afraid I'm going to hurt you," he lied.
"Wait a minute, then," she said, inching away from him. She unhooked her bra, underneath her sweater. The bra fell forward, grotesquely. It didn't seem to matter. He slid his hand into her sweater, again, feeling the small, firmness of her breasts, free now, to be caressed, and fondled. Her body wriggled and squirmed under his touch. Her breathing increased still more, and her lips sought his out, eagerly.
Her lips brushed against his, and then he felt the hot stab of her tongue against his lips, and he met her tongue with his, their lips apart, their tongues fighting a sublime duel. Then he could stand the tantalization no more, and he crushed her lips against his. He broke away, panting. "Baby, you don't know what you're doing to me," he groaned.
"What do you think you're doing to me?" she gurgled.
"I don't want to stop. I don't want to stop, but if I go any further..." He left the sentence unfinished, half-surrendering to his emotions, half-despising himself for his cold, distracted calculating. But he wouldn't go through another night like it had been with Patti. He had to know. She had to want it. Badly. She'd have to tell him so.
"Don't stop," Kathy said. "Don't stop. I don't care. I don't care what happens." She took his hand and placed it back on her breast, and pushed her body forward, against it.
He let his other hand fall to her lap. He let it linger there, a moment, and when she made no move to send it away, he slid it tentatively down her thigh, feeling the rounded perfection of it beneath her skirt, wanting to touch the skin, wanting to do more than touch, or feel. He tried to adjust himself in the seat, trying to ease the discomfort. It wasn't working.
While his one hand continued to minister to Kathy's heaving breast, he took his other hand from her lap, and moved it to his zipper. He unzipped quickly, and felt relieved, to free himself.
"What are you doing, Stuie?" she murmured, looking down at him.
"I'm making it even," he said, gruffly. "I can see you, bare. It's only fair that you see me, too." It sounded absurd, like a child's game behind the barn.
"Can can I touch it?" Kathy asked, her voice tiny.
His eyes caught hers. "I'm touching you," he said, tenderly.
He watched her hand move hesitantly toward him.
Then it stopped, and jerked back. "I don't know if I should," she said.
He squeezed her breast, and then bent, and kissed her nipple. His lips surrounded it, and he pressed his lips together, catching her nipple between them, pinching it gently. He opened his lips slightly, not enough to let it go, and his tongue caressed her nipple. Then he pulled his head away, as he felt her soft, small hand touch him. Then the hand was gone.
"Do it again," he commanded.
"I never touched one before. It feels funny," she said, with a small giggle.
He guided her hand back to him. "It feels warm, and very good," he groaned, as he forced her fingers around him, feeling the soft, small hand surround his cock. He moved his hand to the hem of her skirt, and darted beneath it. His hand traveled swiftly up her leg, barely pausing to savor the rounded contours of her luscious thighs. His hands touched silken material, then, and he felt her legs part, as he waited. Then he crept beneath the rim of her panties, the backs of his fingers tickling from the coarseness, there.
"Oh, Stuie, Stuie, don't do that. Don't do that ... "
"I can't help it, baby. I..." Again, he didn't finish, but not because of cold calculation. He was being tugged at, insistently, and he let her lead him where he knew she would. "Wait," he grunted, attempting to undo his slacks.
"No, I can't. I can't," Kathy said, heaving her buttocks up, and sliding her panties down, jerkily, clumsily. "Do it, Stuie, do it to me, now!"
He surrendered to her guidance, her touch, rising over her, her skirt askew, her bra flopping lazily against her bare belly, her panties, wrinkled about her knees.
She was leaning back on the seat, her head against the door, her legs spread apart. She led him closer, and closer, and he sank down on her, her hand moving away when he touched her. Then her body heaved upward, and her arm encircled his waist, pulling him downward, forcefully, and he surrendered, plunging into the dark pussy, feeling it envelop him and surge about him.
Afterward, they made their repairs in silence. The ecstasy had worn off now. He felt rational, again, knowing his silence would eventually prompt a question from her. She seemed serenely peaceful, for a while, and then his silence began to get to her, he knew.
"Whatcha thinking about, Stuie? About me? Is it about me, Stuie?" She sounded worried.
"Kind of," he answered. "I was thinking how different you are. From Patti, I mean."
"Patti?"
"Yeah. At least you are out with me. And we have our own fun. You aren't chasing after a grown man." That was one shoe dropped.
"Patti? She never told me. I'm her best friend." She sounded interested, now.
"I guess you're too close to notice how she's been panting after Coach Warden."
"Oh, Stuie," she said, "I think you're imagining things. Or did you tell me a lie? Have you really forgotten her? What we just did, does it mean anything to you?"
"If you mean I'm jealous, I'm not. She doesn't mean anything to me. T think T proved that, didn't I? It's not her. It's that damn Warden. He has no business in our school, fooling around with young girls, like that." There was the other shoe.
The response was immediate. "You mean he's been after Patti?" The tone was indignant.
"I'd say the feeling was mutual, with those two," he sneered.
"I can't believe Patti would do anything like that," Kathy said, with a disbelieving tone.
"Would you like to see the pictures?" The boom was officially lowered, now. In the silence that followed, he felt his heart pounding. If she didn't swallow it, now, there was nothing left.
Finally, she spoke. "What kind of pictures?" she asked.
"Pictures of the two of them, in his apartment," he lied. It's only half a lie, he thought. I do have pictures of Patti.
"How how?" She seemed too stunned to speak.
"I'd been watching her, when she gave me the cold shoulder. Before I started dating you," he added, quickly. "Remember that rainy Saturday, when the game was cancelled? She was in his apartment, that morning. T took the shots with my telephoto lens. They were shameless, with the shades up, in broad daylight." The lie was getting bigger. It would have to be a big lie to move her in the direction he wanted her to move in.
"And you took pictures of it? Why, that's snooping!" she exclaimed. "You didn't have any right to do that!"
"That's where you're wrong, Kath. I wasn't snooping. There was a reason. Warden's a monster, don't you see? Who knows where or when he'll strike next? You could be next. In the locker room, or the hall, after practice." He made it sound dramatic, and fearful.
"He has to be stopped," she blurted.
"Exactly. Now you see my point. I have the shots of Patti with him. If I could get more corroborating pictures, I could mail them to the school board, and we all could testify. Pictures couldn't lie. We'd be rid of him. They wouldn't dare keep him!"
"Good!" Kathy said. "I'd like to help."
"I was just going to ask you if you wanted to." Stu said, enthusiastically. "Here is the way I see it. If you could get into his apartment, and the shade was up, and I got a shot of you and him together, with you in your slip, with a strap half-off the shoulder..."
"In my slip!"
"Hold on. Let me finish." He was building it as it came, and it was convincing, even to him. "It would look like he was trying to rape you."
"But what would I be doing in his apartment? There's no reason to be there."
She was making it hard, but she had a good point. There had to be a reason for her to be there. A valid reason, to him, to Warden. And Peeping-Tom photography wouldn't do for a reason. "Let's try this one. Tell him you've talked to Miss Norman about physical ed. colleges, and now you want his ideas. Does that sound plausible? Only don't forget to mention it to Miss Norris. This stuff will all have to be validated at the Inquiry."
"It all sounds scary. like it's a nightmare." She shivered, in the warmth of the car.
"Because it is scary," Stu said, emphatically. '"Think you can do it? It would be helping to put him where he belongs. He always looked like a sex fiend, to me."
"I'll try, Stuie, if you think it'll work. I won't like it, but I'll try."
"Atta girl," Stu said, warmly. "We'll talk about it some more, when the time to do it gets closer. Right now, I could stand a malted. How about you?"
"Yes. Sure." She sounded preoccupied. She's already working on it, he thought. That's the best kind of patsy. One who really gets involved.
He put the car in gear, looking at the gas gauge. The car had been idling for over an hour. But when he got the money for the pictures he was going to take, he wouldn't have to worry about chintzing a few bucks out of his aunt to buy gas. There'd be plenty of money, then. And Warden would be sorry he ever tried to make a fool out of Stu Smith.
He eased the car out of the picnic grove, with Kathy sitting close beside him. You'll get yours, Warden, he thought, grimly. You'll get yours.
CHAPTER NINE
With the LOOK OF A WOMAN BURDENED, LAURA Watkins unlocked the door, and walked into her home. Once inside, she let her braced shoulders sag. There was no one in the empty house to impress.
George, her husband, (she had to think to remember what he looked like) had been home from the road, last week, for just one day. He'd brought home himself, a few overtly kind words, a spasmodically distended bout of lovemaking, and some dirty clothes. He'd left the next day, and the good-bye had been an automatic and feelingless one. It was almost as though the road had become his home, and his home just another stop on his route.
She thought about that, as she pushed the button, setting the automatic washer into whirring, sloshing motion. She poured soap powder into the washer, then filched his clothes out of the hamper. The clothes, especially the shirts, told their own story.
This lipstick-smeared collar. That would be Albany. She dumped it into the washer. This shirt, redolent of stale, dried beer stains, would be Ithaca. Harry lived in Ithaca, George had explained long ago. Harry was an old Army buddy, and an old drinking buddy, too. She had a strange fondness for Ithaca. It was one of his safe stops. There was never any catting around in Ithaca. She dumped the shirt, and the underclothes, into the washer. Watkins' Cleaning Service, she thought, dully.
She left the washer, and wandered into the living room, her shoulders drooping. She sloshed some Scotch over ice, and squirted a spoonful of seltzer in the glass. It was a good time for a drink. And some relaxing. And some thinking.
School had been anything but calm, even before George had come, and gone. The Fall marking period would be due, almost directly after the Thanksgiving recess. Marking periods were always fun-filled affairs, with students turning the office into a train station, each vainly hoping to get an edge on his or her grades, before their reports were sealed, and sent to their homes. But this year, the school board had whimsically decided to install computer apparatus for the marking period. Grades would all be computerized, eventually, they'd said. It would eliminate error, they'd said. As with any changeover, it was initially creating more problems than its worth. And Laura was right in the middle of them.
She sipped at her Scotch, reflectively. Thinking of school had brought Hugh into her mind, as did the Scotch. He was seldom out of her mind, now, and that, too, was a burdensome thing.
She didn't like to think of it as an affair, but it was. It was no better, nor worse, than what George was doing, except it was being done in their home, hers, and George's. At first, it had lent a delicious aura to the entire fling, but now conscience occasionally reared its ugly head, especially when she glanced at George's smiling portrait, on her dresser. She didn't often allow herself to think of her relationship with Hugh. It was there, and it would be there again, tonight. But it was somehow no longer the pure, cherished relationship it had been. In their overweening familiarity with each other, they had thrown discretion to the winds, and had actually made love in the back seat of her car, one night. It was hardly clandestine, any more, not was it cautious. But it was Hugh, the man, asserting himself, becoming young again. Wasn't that what he'd said that night in the car? She smiled and enjoyed the flush creeping into her cheeks, as she thought of it now. Her shyness, like a schoolgirl, his insistence on taking off her clothes, his awe-filled remarks about her beautiful breasts, pale, and shadowed, in the moonlight. He'd grunted for purchase, and it had been at once comical, and precious, leaving a stirring memory.
She stood up, and refilled her glass, glancing into the mirror over the fireplace, noticing that she'd been frowning. She returned to the chair, and resumed her thinking, again. The Scotch tasted good, though not as good as the shared drinks with Hugh. Sometimes, those were the best nights, when they just sat and talked, she reflected. Knowing that their bodies were accessible to each other, the talk was genuine, and stimulating. But where was it all going, the talking, and the intimacies? She pondered it, the headiness of the Scotch making her mind demand clarification. It had begun, and it had been wonderful. And it was still wonderful. The novelty and thrill of it were not gone, they had just worn down to practical, acceptable levels. Was this the middle of the affair? The end, or the beginning of the end? Was there to be an end, ever? Was it possible to go on like this for years, or would it be over, tonight or tomorrow?
She took a strong pull at her drink, resolving not to think of the cheapness, or shoddiness inherent in any illicit affair, no matter what the reason, no matter how warm and beautiful the relationship. She had posed herself so many unanswerable questions. It was all so involved. Despite his obvious shortcomings, she still loved George, but it was terribly difficult to prove it to him, or herself. But there was Hugh, with his quiet assertiveness, his charm and grace. He made her feel like a woman needed and wanted, as George had, so long ago.
She was growing drowsy. What did it matter, she thought. What did any of it matter. The school and the work, George's indiscretions, infidelities being washed away in the chunking of the washer, as she felt her cares and sins being washed away by the warmth of the room, the comfort of the chair, the pleasantness of being alone, the Scotch serenely dulling her mind, pressing down the cares and worries. She lay her head back on the chair. It would be good to sleep, she thought. Hugh will be here later. He'll say things and do things, and none of it will seem to matter. Life would go on, somehow. She let her eyes flutter shut, and the room began to tilt, very gently. Soon, she was asleep.
Warden listened to the car cough, and sputter, as he turned off the ignition. He turned to Stacey. "It refuses to die," he said.
Stacey giggled. "You know," she said, "I don't think you'll ever get rid of this car. I think it's the best friend you ever had."
Warden flicked off the headlights. "I have a recurring dream," he said. "I trade it in, see, and buy a nice, dependable used car with no rattles and no wheezes, and I'm driving by the lot where this one's sitting and this damn thing leaps out of the lot and smashes into the car I'm driving. Then it sort of sits back on its haunches and laughs, with its bumper, like it was a mouth."
"Oh, Roy, really."
"No, I'm not finished. It groans at me with its horn, 'I'll destroy anything that stands between us. Take me, I'm yours.' And then it starts its engine, and it runs smooth, with no valve knocks, or anything. Real smooth, like it's making up to me." He finished, and joined Stacey in laughter, unable to help himself.
"Oh," Stacey gasped, "oh, Roy, you're too much. You need a rest."
"I need something," Roy countered, "but I don't think it's rest."
Her laughter died, unnaturally. "I can't help feeling there's some deep, hidden meaning in that glib remark of yours," she said.
"You do, eh?"
"Yes, I do. Is that why you drove me out to this forlorn part of town, in the middle of nowhere? How did you know about this place, anyway?" she asked, with mock suspicion.
"My dear girl," Warden said, "you'd be surprised what one learns from a football team. Just think, the trusting, adoring fans in the stands have absolutely no idea what a bunch of clever clowns these guys are. They get out there and play their hearts out, in the American tradition of true sportsmanship. Then after the game, they're in the bushes with the cheerleaders, or the majorettes, or the sweet young thing in the band, with the clarinet."
"My, my," Stacey interjected, "what brought all of this on?"
"Ahh," Warden snorted, "I know you were joking when you asked me that question, Stace, but it isn't a joke, really. Sometimes it makes me sick."
"I know what you mean," Stacey agreed.
"Do you? Do you know of a doctor in Spring Vale who'll clear up an anti-social disease for a fat fee? Well I do. And there's another doctor, right here in the county, who'll take care of unpleasant mistakes that sometimes happen after a boy and girl get done saying hello." Warden sighed, with exasperation.
"There's more than one doctor," Stacey said, quietly. "And there are several, in the city."
"Yes," Warden said, "I suppose the girls talk as much as the boys." He smacked the steering wheel. "Lousy, rich punks! It's all a game to them. There are no secrets, nothing sacred, nothing that can't be touched, or done, or bought! When I was a kid..."
"Another run-in with Smith?" Stacey said, breaking in.
"No. But that's part of it. He acts like I'm not alive. Did you see him, in the championship game? He ignored my signals, from the bench. Ran half the game his way. And he pulled it off. I can't fault him for that. But there's no discipline, then, if he's going to do that. And without discipline, there can't be anything else in life that's worthwhile. It all starts with yourself."
"Let's not let the school, or this town, or those kids ruin our evening," Stacey said. "We can't change anything. I've got used to it. Those kids, this whole town, is some kind of never-never land, their own world with their rules, their cards and their chips. And most of the time, the deck is rigged. What they want, they want very badly. And what they don't want, or can't stand to face, they ignore, or buy it away from their clean, grubby little lives."
"Well. That was quite a little speech."
"I'm sorry, Roy. I guess I've felt like this for a long time, but until you came along, I never felt safe talking about it."
Warden reached over, and patted her shoulder "You're quite a girl, Stace." He cranked down the window. He took a deep breath of the chill, night air. "Ah," he exhaled, "as fresh as your ideas. I was thinking about what you said. Remember the night, just before the championship game, when we finally broke the rules and went to that place out on 307?"
Stacey smiled, in the dim-lit car. "Yes?" she said, "I remember."
"That was good, that night. Dancing, close together, your head on my shoulder. It really felt good."
"Yes, it did."
"Then why aren't you over here, with your head on my shoulder?"
"I thought you'd never ask," Stacey answered, squirming close to him. She let her head fall against his shoulder, gently. "Mmmmm," she said.
Warden draped his arm around her, and sat, looking out the windshield, at the trees, barren of leaves, now, like spindly sentinels against the star-soaked sky. After a time, he said, "Didja ever notice how there is always one really bright star, brighter than all the rest?"
"Mmmmm hummm," Stacey murmured.
Swell, Warden thought. She's quick on the pick-up. "Didja ever wonder about that?" he asked, trying again.
"Mmmmmh mmmh," Stacey murmured. She pressed her head deeper into his shoulder, sliding it around past the arm, till it rested partially on his chest. "What's got into your heart?" she asked, softly. "It's going like crazy."
"You."
Stacey raised her head, away from his chest, and sought out his face, her eyes probing it, then looking onto his eyes.
"Don't look so surprised," Warden grumped. "I tried to tell you. D'you think the stars are my favorite hobby? I wanted to tell you that you're the brightest star in my life." He lapsed into silence.
Her eyes continued to search his face. Very quietly, and very slowly, she said, "You're trying to say something, Roy. Maybe I'm trying to' say it, too."
"Yes, dammit," Warden said, "I'm not going to try any other way. There is no other way to say it. I love you. Plain and simple. There. Now it's said." He took his hand from her arm, and drummed on the back of the car seat, nervously.
"How long?" she asked, in a small voice.
"I don't know," he answered, quietly, his fingers still tapping the car seat. "Maybe the first time I saw you, the day I came here. Maybe that night in the apartment, when you wouldn't ... " He let the sentence die, pursed his lips, and then went on. "How do I know. I don't. How do I know I'm awake? When is the exact moment? My eyes open, and I'm physically awake. Helpless, for one split second. Then the world rushes in. That's how it was. I don't know when it happened. Maybe I don't even know why. Start taking it apart to see what's making it go, and there isn't any more. It falls apart in your hands."
"I'm not alone, any more," she said softly.
Warden stopped tapping.
Stacey turned her face toward him, her expression earnest. "I don't know how long, either," she said. "One day I saw you, and it was there. And then that night, at your apartment, I wanted to, you don't know how much I wanted to..."
"I want you to forgive me for that," Warden said.
"No, Roy, no," Stacey said, her voice low, almost throbbing, "it's you who should forgive me. I thought you were just another man, and I'd been foolish enough to fall in love with you. I didn't know, then. I couldn't know that you loved me, too." She reached up, and brushed away a tear, trickling down her cheek.
"I want to marry you," Warden said, his hand pressing against her, again.
"I will. I want to. Oh, Roy, I want to." She leaned toward him, then, and her lips found his.
He gathered her in his arms, feeling the soft sweetness of her against him. How long had he dreamed of holding her closely, like this, feeling her lips pressed against his? "Darling, oh my darling love, I love you, I love you," he crooned, in her ear.
She withdrew herself from his arms. "What's the matter?" he asked, alarmed.
She undid her coat, and slipped her arms out of it. She began to unbutton her blouse.
"What what are you doing?"
"The last time the last time, I had to say no. I don't want to say no, any more. The blouse was open, now, and she slipped out of it. She inched the straps of her slip off her shoulders, and shrugged them away.
"I don't want you to do it," he groaned, unable to stop looking at her, feeling the passion rising in him, the blood pounding, the primitive urge asserting itself. "Please, darling, please. It isn't ... "
"I want you, Roy. You can't believe how I want you. My whole body is crying out for you. You have to want me, Darling. You have to want me, now!" As she spoke, she'd unhooked her bra. As she finished speaking, she tore it away from herself, and those conically-tipped, oval wonders were exposed to him, sitting proud, and inviting, before his gaze.
"I want you, too, my love. But not like this. When we're married. When it's right. It is something to wait for..."
"I can't wait," she murmured, her tone insistent, strident. She pulled his head down to her tits, arching her back, offering them up to his eager lips. He buried his face between them, feeling the softness, the firmness of them against his cheeks. He closed his eyes, and let his senses savor the lushness of the twin pillows cushioning his head. Then he turned his head, and kissed one breast, then the other.
"Take me," she was whispering, almost chanting. "Take me, take me, take me."
Her hands worked feverishly with her skirt, tugging it upward. He peered down, and saw her rounded thighs, pressed together, as she sat, then the thighs separated, as she raised herself, and filmy, pink panties slid past those taut, lean thighs, and then the thighs were apart even wider, and she was leading his hand between them.
His hand moved of its own accord, without her encouragement. His palm rested on her thigh, feeling the vibrant warmth of it, and then his hand moved inward as her body thrust forward to him. He brushed against her warm, dark haven, and then withdrew his hand.
He couldn't find the zipper tab, and he cursed, softly, watching her body grinding against the seat, twitching with anticipation, waiting to be satisfied, taken, possessed. Then he found it, and grasped it tightly and slid it down quickly. He spread his slacks open, and twisted his body out from under the steering wheel. His temples were pounding and there was a roaring in his ears that was shattered, suddenly, by a noise, a foreign noise, not her breathing, or her naked body rustling against the seat. He froze, suspended above her.
"Did you hear something?" he asked, curt, demanding.
She stopped moving, and listened. "No," she said, resuming her undulating, tantalizing movements, "nothing. I didn't hear anything. Only the beat of my body for you," she said, breathing with short, shallow gasps.
He gazed down at her body, and the roaring came back into his ears. His throat felt tight, and dry. He began to lower himself toward her. "No regrets?" he asked, his voice a hoarse croak.
"No, darling, no regrets. Only hurry. Hurry! I can't stand it!"
Lower, and lower he sank, slowly, probing, shifting, until the gates of paradise were before him, and he plunged, tenderly, into the deep darkness, feeling the heat envelop him, grasp his cock, take him and hold him suspended in a frenzy of passion.
He sank deeper, and tried to recover, moving back, and then thrusting, probing, again, and again, hearing her small groans of ecstasy in his ears, joining them, mingling his with hers in a concert of desire.
The chill air wafted through the open window, and the breeze rustled the dry leaves on the ground, outside the car. Nature seemed to join in the swirling, driving, pulsating surge for satiation, until the feeling began in the back of his head, traveling down his spine, deep, deep into his loins, and moving forward in a searing river, flowing, drifting through time and space until it left him, empty, and spent.
After a long time, she placed her hands on his cheeks, and drew his face toward hers. "No regrets," she sighed, and kissed him, lightly.
It had been a hell of a night, but it had been worth it. Stu Smith pedaled along smoothly, his muscular legs driving down on the pedals, moving the bicycle along, as the photographic bag drooped from his shoulder, slapping against his ribs, occasionally. A cat darted out of a hedge, and he flipped his bell at it. Drinngg, drrinngg. The cat scampered across the street, into another hedge. He chuckled.
The long wait was over, he thought, as he rode along. It had been tedious, and numbing cold, but it was over. No more nocturnal vigils, no more skulking behind cars, and in shadows. That was over. And when the pictures were developed, they would refresh the delightful show his mind was reviewing, and they would eventually refresh Warden's mind, too.
He was too excited to be tired. It had been a long ride, out to Lover's Lane. There had been many nights of emptiness, and a lot of false alarms, too, but tonight had paid off. It was only a matter of time, he told himself.
He parked the bicycle quietly, in the garage. All the lights were out. He let himself in, through the back door, and tiptoed through the house, into his bedroom. He paused, to see if his aunt had awakened. The house remained still. He turned the knob on his door, and eased into his room, closing the door behind him, and locking it.
He took the Zeiss-Ikon out of the leather photographic bag, and unloaded it, in the dark. He slid the spool of film into the tank. He sat down on the bed, the tank cradled between his knees as he twirled the film back and forth, developing it, and his mind continued to review the evening.
He'd spotted the car some distance down the Lane, off to the side. At first, it looked like Mrs. Watkins' heap. He had to investigate to make sure. If it was her car, it was a flop, the whole thing, the long bike ride, all the feelings of heady anticipation, it would all be a great big nothing.
But it hadn't been her car. It was definitely Warden. There wasn't another car in town that looked as pitiful as his. He'd put his bike down, by the side of the land, and walked carefully, gingerly down the lane, selecting his footsteps, wanting to run, afraid he was too late, but wanting to be quiet and unheard.
It had been ridiculously easy, and he'd been ridiculously lucky. The boob had even rolled down the window, so there'd be no distortion from the glass. The two of them had huddled about in the car for a long time, talking with each other. His feet had got cold, and he'd taken to shifting from one to the other, impatiently, hoping something would happen, soon.
It had, finally. He'd inched closer, until he could almost hear what they were saying to each other. That didn't matter. It was the same trite crap in every parked car. What they were doing was important. He'd flicked on the infra-red lamp, and sighted them in through the viewfinder. When the action began, with Miss Norris undressing herself, he'd moved closer and shot a few frames. She sure had a body, he thought.
At last, just when Warden was up for the title of the Slowest Lover of All Time, Warden had finally moved. He'd squirmed, and twisted, and now he was above her. Click. The agonizingly slow descent began. Click. Then Warden had froze. Damn! Stu had froze, too, daring not to breathe. It had been that damn rock his foot had skittered off of. He'd been too interested in what was happening. He'd almost blown it, there. Instant, hideous visions of Warden charging out of the car had gone through his mind, but Warden was half-undressed. That had saved it.
There. Warden had made a soft landing. Click. Now they were swingin', and Norris was going crazy! Click. That had been enough. After all, they were entitled to their privacy, he thought now, with an evil, crooked grin.
The timer buzzed, anxiously, and Stu reached over, and shut if off. He'd taken a pitcher of water into his room, not wanting to dash to the bathroom in the still darkness of early morning. Tie processed the film through the trays, snipped the frames apart, and ran them through the dryer. It was all building to what he hoped would be a satisfying, and dramatic climax. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest, as he took the first negative, and held it up to the dull, red bulb.
Perfect! Quickly, he scanned the other negatives. They had all come out, crystal clear. He felt like kissing the Zeiss-Ikon, but resisted the feeling, patting it, instead. He slid the negatives into an envelope, and dropped them into his dresser. He turned out the light, and the room swam in blackness, as he crawled between the sheets.
It had been a hell of a night, but it had been worth it.
CHAPTER TEN
The phone had stopped ringing, and the inter-com was silent, for a moment. Pembroke listened, attentively, for noise in the outer office. There was none. It had quieted down. He folded his hands behind his head, and swiveled his chair around. He gazed out the window, watching the few remaining leaves drifting down from the trees, dancing and sailing through the air, and he thought of Melissa.
His mind took him back to the night she'd found him in the bedroom, dressing for a rendezvous with Laura. He felt ashamed, when he thought of the shabby way he'd treated her. He couldn't have blamed her if she hadn't had a thing to do with him, after that. She'd had such a poignant look on her face, as she stood rooted to the floor, beautiful in her nakedness, but unable to arouse him.
Because of that night, and sensing that their marriage was disintegrating to the point where there could be no salvaging it, he'd taken to staying home more often than he had in the first frenetic days of his relationship with Laura. And because he was home more often, he knew a profound change had come over Melissa since the night he'd gone away from her, so coldly.
like last night. Although he didn't leave the house as often, he still closeted himself in the study, away from the humdrum existence of the house, surrounded with his work and his good books. Last night she'd violated a long-standing rule. She'd come into the study. She'd sought him out, and she chatted amiably, as though it were ten years ago, and there were no unpleasant aberrations marring her behavior. Last night, it seemed that she was the Melissa he'd married. They'd talked for a long time, and she'd made sense. It was wonderfully refreshing to hear her that way, and it had stirred old, almost forgotten memories.
His eyes ceased to focus on the leaves swirling past the window. He was there, in the study, with her, and he could hear her voice as clearly as he'd heard it last night.
"Are you going to be ready for bed, soon, dear?"
Pembroke yawned. "Yes," he said, stretching, flexing his stiffened shoulder muscles. "I'd love to talk more," he said, meaning it, "but it really is getting late."
"Then I'll put on the tea," she said, smiling. He watched her leave the study, almost as though she were being wafted away. How many years had it been since they'd had tea in the bedroom before retiring? He thought she'd forgotten all about it. It had been so relaxing, and so soothing, and it ended every day with a moment shared, a bit of closeness, alone. It was one of the most precious casualties of her illness, and just thinking of it made him feel warm, and a bit sentimental.
He trailed her into the kitchen. "What made you think of the tea?" he asked.
"I've had a lot of time, Hugh, to think of lots of things," she said, with no rancor. "Along the way, I remembered the tea we shared, and I wanted to do it again, to be with you at the end of the day and have some tea. That's all."
"I think it's a wonderful idea," Hugh said, his voice so genuinely affectionate he could hardly believe he was talking to his own wife. "Where do you keep the tray? I'll carry it upstairs."
The tea had warmed him, and their quiet moment together had warmed him, too, and he regarded her now with a feeling stirring deeply inside of him that had nearly died. He studied her face, as they drank their tea. The poignancy was still there, but there was another emotion reflected, as well. Was it remorse? Or shame? Or sadness? It was difficult to tell, and he resolved not to probe. Perhaps this was to be a new beginning. The doctor had told him it might occur this way. He was too grateful to see it happening, to probe.
He set his cup down. "Come on, Hon, let's go to bed." Again the words coming from his mouth, echoes from the long-dormant past, familiar phrases he'd used once, when there had been happiness, and closeness, and oneness.
"Yes, dear. Don't forget to set the alarm."
He slid beneath the covers, and set the alarm clock. He placed it on the night table, and turned off the night lamp. For the first time in so long, in too long, he felt he was not sleeping with an alien form, a limp, unfeeling body inhabited by a sick mind. As he felt her legs touch his, the thrill of years past rose in him, and it was like a wonderfully pleasant dream, all the better because he was not yet asleep.
She had settled in, with her back to him, but now she rolled over toward him, and he felt her presence close to him, her breath in his face. "I forgot to kiss you good night," she whispered.
He found her lips in the darkness, and they were warm, and tender. Memories whirled around in his mind, and he reached an arm over her, and drew her to him. This was Melissa, his Melissa, more delicate, more fragrant now than Laura, but as voluptuous, in her own. fine way.
Without thinking, his hand went to her bodice, and felt the lush, firm breasts waiting there. She stirred, as he touched her. "Mmmmm," she sighed, through the kiss.
He parted his lips from hers. "Feel like makin'? " he breathed. It was a code phrase, invented years before, when the phrase was in vogue. They'd adapted it to their bedroom antics, and it had become a ritual, then.
"Whoopie," she answered. He crushed her in his arms. She'd remembered!
Her hand reached beneath the covers, touching him, and it felt wondrous good, and her small cry of surprise sounded excited, because that, too, had been part of the ritual. It was all back, as though it had never been gone.
His hand stroked her leg, stroking her nightgown up, up, beneath the covers, feeling the softness, the roundness of her thighs, the smooth skin like velvet to his touch. Her body wriggled under his caresses, helping him, moving with him. He struggled away, reaching for the lamp, and flicking it on. He flung the covers down, and braced himself firmly on an elbow, looking directly at her.
"How long has it been since I've seen you, really seen you," he said, half to himself. She preened herself under his insistent, fond gaze, and he was proud, again, that this was his wife. She slithered out of her nightgown, and lay before him, her belly depressed, her breasts rising, and falling rhythmically, temptingly. She was using her body, now, as she had long ago, weaving a spell over him, hypnotizing him with her splendid charms, and he had no will to resist. He didn't want to. he could not. Entranced by the sight of her, he shucked off his pajamas, his eyes not leaving her body for an instant.
He inched toward her, his eyes feasting on her, straying from her half-closed eyes, down her naked body, stopping here, and there, not for long, always returning to the sanctity of her yearning pussy. "How long," he murmured, "how long."
"Don't talk," she whispered. "Just take me. Let me have you." She sent her hips into slow, revolving gyrations, until he was there, and looking down at her, a lovely feast, spread before him, and then he lay flat against her, and her hand was moving him, touching him, guiding him into that wet clasp, and all of his senses tunneled down to that one haven, and he wanted suddenly, desperately, never to go away, again.
The scene dissolved, slowly, the dark periphery surrounding it, closing in on it, blotting it out. The dark blot took shape, and name. Laura.
Laura, in the outer office, attending to students. Laura, whose firm, full body he'd seen, and tasted, sating himself of it, fondly, tenderly, in these last weeks. But Laura had never been like last night, and it vexed him.
In the beginning, he'd been driven into her arms by the same force that was moving him, now, compelling him to regard her arms as entrapments, robbing him of his honor, and pride. He had been faithless, and for a long time it was suppressed in his mind, because he hadn't cared. He'd transferred his feelings, and his desires to Laura, who was so willing, so healthy.
He swiveled his chair around and faced his desk. It was no good, he decided, to browbeat himself about it. What was done, was done. Perhaps Melissa's actions last night were only a temporary thing. He hoped not. If Melissa was truly on the road to recovery, it would mean a new life for him, and for Patti, for all of them.
But what was to become of the old life? Laura. His sense of right and honor plagued him, and he wrestled with the problem, finding no solution worthy of himself. In the midst of his agonizing appraisal of the situation, the door opened and he glanced up from his desk, and then looked again, hard.
Laura stood in the doorway, her face ashen, her hand clutching the morning mail. She stepped into his office, glancing behind her, and shut the door. Pembroke, seeing her obviously shaking, stood up, and came out from behind his desk. "What's the matter?" he asked, concerned.
"Hugh, oh Hugh, I don't know what to do." Her voice quavered.
"Well, what is the matter?" he asked, again, more insistent. She was distraught, but why?
"This--this came in the office mail," she said, extending the mail to him, her hand shaking. She pressed her other hand to her forehead, closing her eyes, her body swaying.
"Here," he said, quickly, "sit down. Come on, now, sit down. Good heavens, Laura, what's this all about, anyway?" He flopped the mail on the desk, and hovered over her, wanting to help her, not knowing how. She wouldn't speak. She kept her hand to her forehead and her eyes closed.
"The letter," she mumbled, gesturing weakly toward the mail. "The top letter on the pile. Oh, my God, my God, what are we going to do." She stifled a sob.
Pembroke turned from her, and snatched up the pile of letters. He held on to the one on top of the pile, and discarded the others. The letter was short, typewritten on plain stationery. There was no date, and the letter bore no signature. The text was short, riddled with misspelled words and poor grammar. He scanned the letter, quickly, his face mirroring his disbelief. He went to the top of the letter, and read it again, more slowly, the disbelief being replaced by a look of shock. It read:
Dear Pembroak
I am writting this letter to let you know something you have to know.
I got pictures of you and yoor lady frend when you too was parked in her car one nite. They are very good pictures if I say so myself ha ha. But they can make truble for you and yoor lady frend becaws they are not nice pictures.
I will sel you the pictures for money. I need a lot of money. You can have the pictures for five hunnerd dolers.
Think it over.
I wil writ you agane and tell you wher to put the money. I think you beter by them. like I said they can make trubble for you and your lady frend.
Pembroke's shoulders sagged, and he looked at Laura, blankly. He glanced from the letter, to her, and back to the letter. "How?" he managed.
"Don't you remember? The night, in the car. We parked, outside of town. Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord," she whimpered.
Yes. That night. Oh, the stupidity of it! Frolicking about in the back seat of a car, like a kid! A dumb, stupid, careless kid! "Maybe it's a prank," he offered, not believing it himself.
"Oh, Hugh, you know it isn't a joke, even a poor one. Someone knows we were out there, that night. And he took pictures of us. Oh, my God, I'm so ashamed! What are we going to do, Hugh? Tell me. Please! Tell me!
"Shhh, for God's sake, Laura, keep your voice down. We've got to think. The letter says he'll write again. That'll give us time to think. There's got to be an answer. I'd like to get my hands on the slimy, despicable devil who did this," he said, raging inwardly. "Do you have the envelope this came in?" he asked, then, suddenly. "It may be a clue."
"The postmark is Spring Vale," Laura sniffed. "I looked. I don't know why, or how, but I did. My God, I thought I was going to die when I read it."
"Calm down, Laura, just calm down. Now, then, is the envelope typed, too."
"Yes."
"Damn! A clever one, whoever he is. If it is a he," Pembroke said, musing.
"You can't mean that a woman..."
"No, I can't," Pembroke said, impatiently. "Can you? Is it a man, or a student, a woman, or a girl? If we knew, it would be easy, wouldn't it?"
"You don't have to get mad at me," she said. "It was your idea. You know that it would never have happened if..."
"I know, I know. That doesn't help, now." He smacked the desk in frustration, sending the other mail skittering across it, and onto the floor.
A long silence, with each of them involved in their separate thoughts. Pembroke kept turning the letter over in his mind. The misspelled words could be a trick. No one sophisticated enough to possess photo gear capable of taking pictures at night, without flash equipment, could be that stupid. There were a few good leads right there. First, the person would have to be rich enough to afford the expensive gear. Oh, hell. That covers pretty nearly everyone in Spring Vale, he thought, glumly.
It would have to be someone who knew me, and Laura. Well, who doesn't know me, in Spring Vale? Nobody. And Laura? It didn't mention Laura. It just said, 'your lady friend.' Another dead-end.
"Hugh," Laura said, "I've got some money saved. Money that George doesn't know about. I could-we could..."
"Buy the pictures? It'll never come to that," Pembroke snorted. "You never get finished with blackmail." The word was out, defining the letter for what it was. It was blackmail. "That's what it is. Blackmail," he said, affirming it.
Laura shivered. "It's terrible," she said. She stood up, slowly, straightening herself with effort. "I've got to get back to my desk," she said. "I don't know how I'm going to manage. I never expected this."
"Don't worry about it," Pembroke told her, trying to convince himself as well. "It's a dirty mess, but it wasn't dirty, what we did. Always think of it that way. Someone is trying to dirty up what was good and right, for us. But they won't get away with it. Whoever it is, they won't get away with it."
Laura paused, near the door. "Not the police, Hugh. You wouldn't call the police, would you, Hugh?" She began to sound frantic, again.
"No. Not while there's time. Don't worry. It'll be all right," he assured her.
When she was gone, he knew the reassurance of the words he'd spoken had gone with her. How could it be all right? This was no fairy tale. This was the grim game of life, bedeviling him, threatening, now, to destroy his marriage, his career, and his life, as Melissa's illness never could. Just when she was on her way to recovery, he had been confronted with this demonic letter.
The day passed with torturous slowness. Laura did not come back into his office, nor did she say good-bye when the business day was over. And it was over. The day, and Laura. There could be nothing, now. Ironically, he'd mused over how to extricate himself from her grasp, he thought, as he drove home. Now it was being done for him, in an insidious way he would never have imagined possible. Not in Spring Vale.
Melissa met him at the door, and he was glad to see her. In another twist of irony, she would be his strength in the bleak days, ahead, instead of holding her and his floundering marriage afloat. It was a small, comforting thought, and she was comfortable, in his embrace. She would be his comfort and solace. While there was time.
And when time ran out, he would, he supposed, pay the money. And if the letter was not solved before the money ran out, what would be, then? He suppressed a shudder, and held Melissa close to him.
Laura Watkins had always prided herself on her sense of decency, and pride. She was sorting out the tattered remains of those noble virtues, as she plodded, numbly, home from the office. Her mind picked up the fragments, examining them carefully, trying to reassemble them.
She hoped George would be as indulgent of her, as she had been of him. That was her first, and initial hope. She imagined that she was going to pay the money. It always turned out that way, for small people, in small towns. She was less concerned about the money than she was with what had led her into such an idiotic, compromising position. One last fling at youth? Hugh had been impetuous enough. He'd been all the things that George wasn't, and one thing George was. He, like George, had been unfaithful to his wife, and she imagined he would now scurry back to the shelter of her arms. He couldn't be blamed for that, because she felt the very same way.
Could it have been that she was trying to even the score with George? She'd washed George's lipstick-smeared collars long enough, she'd decided one day. That was simple, enough. But Hugh had had enough virtues of his own. He was attractive, intelligent. No, it wasn't a matter of evening the score. It was a matter of loneliness. And now, the loneliness would grow again.
Because she was already thinking of Hugh Pembroke in the past tense.
It was over. The letter had come between them like a bolt of lightning, leaving only the seared, dying emotions behind. If the letter were solved tomorrow, it could never be the same. A mistake would be made, again, eventually, like the one disastrous error already committed, even to film. It would be too great a burden for any relationship, much less such an intimate one, to bear.
She sighed. I can't go through life sighing, and choking up, she thought. She turned down the street on which their house was, hers and George's, with memories of Hugh, and happier times with George. She blinked, dumbly, when she saw the blue Ford in the driveway, familiar to her, only because it was George's car.
She wanted to run to the house, and throw herself in George's arms, not telling him why she wanted the comfort, and security of his arms about her, ready to forgive him everything, but not wanting to tell him why she would. Instead, she continued her measured pace, the one functioning part of her mind warning her not to do anything unusual.
She walked through the front door, and into George's arms. He'd been standing there, waiting for her. Before he crushed her against him, she caught a glimpse of his beaming face.
"Honey," he said, "I'm glad you're home, at last. IVe been waiting for hours!"
"I'm I'm glad you're home, too, George," she stuttered, fighting for breath in his vise-like grip. And he's only happy now, she thought, fleetingly. II he were ever angry with me...
"I've got the greatest news," George said, letting her go. "The Company's pulled me into the Home Office. How about that!"
"Why, George, that's that's wonderful," she stammered.
George fixed her with a suspicious glare. "You don't sound very enthused," he said.
"It's all so sudden," she explained. "Give me a chance to catch my breath."
George let out a charming bray. "That's my girl," he said, chortling. "Come on in the living room. I bought a bottle."
She followed him into the living room. She seated herself next to him, on the couch, wanting to be close to him, for protection, but fearing him, his anger, his quick accusations, his suspicions, even when he could hardly suspect the worst, which was real enough. The letter in Hugh's office.
She plunged into the bottle with him, hoping it would help obliterate reality. Before he became too drunk, he tricked her into the bedroom on what she knew was a flimsy pretense, but she submitted to his savage lovemaking, gradually enjoying it, until they were both locked in the abandoned throes of passion, and at once the loneliness that was once present, was over for both of them.
Thanksgiving recess was only days away. In the days left to her, she almost managed to forget the letter, but never quite. George had become a changed man, commuting daily to the city and lavishing time and attention on her that had once gone to other women, on the far-flung outposts of his route. She enjoyed him, as she never had, telling herself her own guilt had nothing to do with it. George was George, brash, outgoing, but tender, and warm. And her husband.
Her relations with Hugh had been cordial, but cool, full of sidelong glances. They were locked into a horrendous situation, together, even though they'd ceased to be lovers. The presence of each other made the situation ever-present, but as time passed, she ceased regarding the mail with trepidation, for no second letter had yet arrived.
Her work helped in her return to normalcy. With the help of friends of hers, administrative clerks from junior high, who carried a much lighter work load, she was able to process the report cards of the freshman, sophomores, and juniors into the computer. What had been an insurmountable task took on the overtones of fun. They even managed to nickname the computer BMS, which stood for Blood, Mind, and Soul.
She was deeply engrossed in her portion of the seniors when one of the girls interrupted her. "Excuse me, Laura, this belongs in your pile. I found it under the desk."
"Mmmmm? Oh, thanks, Marge." She looked at the form. A request for change in subjects, from journalism to photography. Typed. She looked at the name. Smith. Stuart. The date. Last fall, almost a year ago. She thumbed through the folders until she found the one with Smith's records. As she opened the folder to slide the form in, the peculiar form of the T and the 's' stood out at her, from the page. It was pica type, which didn't matter, but the letters nagged at her mind. She'd seen them somewhere before, and recently.
When it connected, she wanted to reject it as absurd. But it tied together so neatly. It had to be. It just had to be. Too much depended upon it. She stood up from her desk, and walked into Hugh's office, folding the form so that he wouldn't see the name, at least, not immediately.
She walked up to his desk, and bent over, and in a confidential tone she asked to see the infamous letter.
Pembroke blanched, swallowed hard, his face draining of color. "Has it come, another one?" he croaked. He fished the letter out of a drawer, and handed it to her.
She took the letter, and the form, and compared them. She'd been around typewriters too long to miss it. There was not only a similarity, the peculiarities of the two letters matched, on the firm, and the blackmail missive. She allowed herself a small smile, and stood very still, feeling the cleansing waves of relief wash over her.
"What is it?" Pembroke asked. "For heavens sake, Laura, don't play games. Not with that."
She placed the letter in front of Hugh, and lay the form beside it. She pointed at the misshapen 'I' and 's'. And then she watched his face. He looked up at her, and comprehension dawned slowly on his face.
"Who?" he said, softly, taking the form, and straightening out the fold. He looked at the name, and then looked up at her. "It would have to be him," he said dropping the form casually on the desk, his lips pursed.
"It has to be," she said. "There's simply no other choice."
"You know he may not admit it," Pembroke said "Then it will have to be the police," Laura answered.
"No," Pembroke said, quickly. "It can't be the police. He must have the photos at home. I'll call him tonight. He'll be in tomorrow." He paused, for a long moment. "Funny," he said finally, "I didn't think it would end this way."
"As I said, a long time ago," Laura said, smiling, "it was not the end, so much. But it is a beginning. For both of us, I think."
"For both of us," Pembroke said, looking up at her and smiling.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was early evening, when warden arrived back back at his apartment. He'd driven into New York with Stacey. and they'd found what she wanted. Although he'd cautioned her not to go to pieces when she found it, she hadn't been a good pupil. She'd choked up, and her eyes had filled, and spilled over. But it was pretty, and it fit. It was more than half a carat, the jeweler had assured them. He hoped so. He didn't know that much about diamonds, but it had cost enough to make getting engaged more than once a costly hobby.
She hadn't wanted him to leave, but he'd insisted, telling her there would be a time in the not too distant future when he wouldn't have to leave, ever again.
Besides, Mrs. Rankin was trooping back and forth in front of the door like a Grenadier, and even Stacey began to get uncomfortable, despite her dearest wishes. Even if she hadn't been wearing the ring he'd bought for her, the good-bye kiss she'd given him was something to come back for.
He checked his mail on the way into the building. There was a flyer from a record of-the-month club, and a letter, the address typewritten. He glanced at it, noticing that his name was misspelled, and the postmark was from Spring Vale. He tucked the flyer and the letter under his arm and walked down the corridor to his apartment.
The apartment was warm and cozy. It reminded him, almost, of days gone by, in his childhood, when he'd come in from the frosty air. The house would be warm, and sweet smelling, the aroma of fresh-baked pies drifting out from the kitchen. The pies would be served at Thanksgiving dinner, only days away. He snapped himself out of his reverie. Thanksgiving was a few days away, to be sure, but there were no fresh-baked pies, this year, nor had there been for many years, since he'd left home. But this year, there would be a lot less loneliness, for Stacey was there to fill his life.
He fixed himself a drink, and flopped into a chair, curious about the letter. He ripped the envelope open and unfolded the letter. The words, garish and violent, leapt out at him from the white page, setting his mind ablaze with confusion and fury.
He read the letter again. It had to be some kind of obscene joke. But he knew it couldn't be. It was all there and all true. The evening with Patti. The night in the car, with Stacey. Somebody had the photographs. And somebody wanted money for them. Blackmail.
How did he know? How had he done it? He glanced at the window. The drapes were open. Well, there was one way. He got up, quickly, and went to the window, and zipped the drapes shut. But there had to be more to it, than that. Someone had had to follow him, day and night. Someone had to hate him so much, he would be willing to sacrifice anything, just for those pictures. But who?
A crazy thought flashed through his mind. Hortense? It was absurd. Spring Vale was not a large town, but it was not so small that she would go unnoticed. For one thing, Dixon would have noticed her. He was forever running off at the mouth about new girls in town. A girl with Hortense's dimensions could not have escaped his attention for long. Besides, she hardly knew one end of the camera from the other. She had admitted that herself, the day they'd taken each others' pictures and she'd opened the back of the camera, thinking that was the way to advance the film.
No, it couldn't be Hortense. She was gone, out of his life, forever, just a fond memory now that there was Stacey.
Stacey! He felt the quickening of his heart, and the lead ball .grew in the pit of his belly. What if she found out? He couldn't show her the letter. Not when it mentioned Patti. She'd want to know, and she could never know, not now, nor years from now. It had been a foolish thing, with Patti. In the end, it had meant nothing to him, nor to her. He passed her in the hall, and she had a smile and a hello for him, nothing more.
He wracked his brain, trying to think of anything he'd heard about anyone in town involved with photography. There were professional photographers, to be sure, but they didn't know him. They would have no reason to do a thing like this. He took a lone pull on his drink, feeling the sweat standing out on his forehead, and knowing it was not from the heat in the room.
He glanced at the letter again, reading the last part. Another letter would follow, it said. He scanned up the letter, to the figure. Nice, round numbers. Five hundred dollars. Whoever it was, they had no idea of a teacher's salary, he thought, absently. Where the hell would I get jive hundred dollars, he asked himself. There was no answer.
There were no answers to the whole, crazy thing.
There was nothing to do, but wait. It would be an unusual Thanksgiving, this year.
Stu Smith sat in his room, reviewing the pictures of Pembroke and Mrs. Watkins, planning his next move. He put down the pictures, and picked up the ones of Warden and Stacey. These were not as good, but they were incriminating enough. He allowed himself a small smile.
So far, the whole idea had been a masterpiece of execution. He'd drafted Pembroke's letter, spelling words wrong, using poor grammar, practically none at all. That would throw him off the track. Pembroke was sure to have the letter, by now. He'd steered clear of the principal's office, since he'd mailed the letter. He did not want to attract attention to himself in any way, whatsoever. He was afraid he might stare, for a reaction, and it would give him away. He left it to his imagination to satisfy himself. He could see the look of consternation on Pembroke's face when he saw the letter. And Mrs. Watkins had probably gone into shock. It served them right, behaving like kids.
He shuffled the pictures of Warden and Miss Norris, absently, thinking of Warden. His letter had really been a gem. It was only at the last minute that he'd decided to incorporate the lie about Patti he'd told to Kathy. She'd believed him. Even if Warden were foolish enough to turn the letter over to the police, the face that he'd been intimate with a school girl would certainly ruin his case, even if it weren't true.
And Kathy, dear, sweet, nubile Kathy, so trusting and gullible. Just last night she'd called him and told him she'd worked up enough courage to do what had to be done. He'd made elaborate arrangements with her, about tonight. It was too bad the dear girl was going to go through all that nonsense, for nothing. It would be a treat for Warden, he supposed. A little unusual entertainment in his apartment. He would have received his letter, by now, certainly, and the combination of the letter, and Kathy undressing in front of him would send him right up the wall.
The thought of it made him almost want to do as he'd planned, with Kathy, but cooler logic prevailed There was utterly no need to take any undue chances, any more. Before he'd stumbled across Warden and Miss Norris in the car, it had been different. He would have gone to any length to secure what he wanted. But there was, right in his hands, all he needed to revenge himself on Warden, triumphantly, completely. If Kathy made a fool of herself, it was her business. She'd believe he was there, across the street, capturing her and Warden on film, cementing the case against him. Later, he'd amble down to their pre-arranged meeting place, and she would suspect nothing.
The Princes phone buzzed, softly. He let it ring, knowing his aunt would answer it downstairs. In a moment, he heard her voice, calling him, faintly. He went to his door and opened it. "What is it?" he asked. "It's for you," his aunt called back. "Who is it?"
"He didn't say. Just pick up the phone, Stuart."
He closed his door, and walked to the phone. What had she said? 'He didn't say.' It was a man. A man? Who could it be? He picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Is this Stuart Smith?"
"Yes. Who is this?" The voice sounded vaguely familiar, resonant, and deep. He'd heard the voice before, but where?
"This is Mr. Pembroke."
He beat down an urge to panic. He couldn't have found out, he told himself quickly. Probably something to do with the Letter Awards, for football. He probably wants me to make a speech, he thought smugly. "Yes-sir," he said, into the phone.
"I'd like to see you in my office at ten, tomorrow morning," Pembroke said.
"Yessir," Stu said, again.
"And Stuart, you won't forget to bring something with you, will you?"
"Bring something with me, sir?"
"The pictures, Stuart. And the negatives." The voice was cold and hard. He felt the phone beginning to slip from his sweaty palm, and he grasped it tightly.
"I I don't know what you mean, Sir," Stu answered, damning himself for hesitating, stuttering, trying to keep his voice from quavering.
"I'm sure you do, Smith," the voice rasped, harsh, and cruel, now. "I don't think there is any need to involve the authorities in this matter. It won't be necessary, if you do what I've asked."
"But, sir, I don't quite understand."
"I think you do, Smith," the voice grated. "Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock." The receiver clicked dead, in his ear. Pembroke had hung up.
He stood frozen in position, the phone still to his ear, the echoes of the words crashing about in his mind. What had gone wrong? Where did I make a mistake? It was foolproof. There was no way. How had he found out, so soon? And what was he going to do about it? The questions cascaded atop one another, dizzying his senses. He cradled the phone, and turned toward the bed, when the door burst open.
His aunt paused in the doorway, for a moment, and then stormed into the room, her face contorted in pain and anger. "Where are they?" she demanded. She glanced past him, spying the pictures on the bed.
He backed up, trying to shield the pictures from her. "Auntie, what's the matter?" Then he remembered, and it was like a knife piercing his belly. The second, small click, after Pembroke had hung up. It was not trouble in the line. She had not hung up the phone, downstairs. She'd been listening! And she'd heard everything!
"Get out of my way, boy!" she shrieked.
Years of training could not be broken in a moment. With docility, he stepped aside, watching her pounce on the pictures, his mind whirling, and his heart threatening to burst from his chest.
She snatched up the pictures, and scanned them, briefly, then tossed them, disdainfully on the floor. "What's the meaning of this?"
"I I ... "
"This is the man who called, isn't it! Isn't it? Which one. Which one, you, you animal."
"Auntie!"
"Shut up you scheming animal. Now I know why you left the house all those nights after you thought I was asleep. You didn't think I knew, did you? You thought you'd fooled the old lady, eh? And this is why!" She kicked at the pictures with her foot.
"Please, Auntie, I. . . "
"You're a disgrace, boy!" She swung her arm up, and her hand cracked across his cheek. She brought it back, and smacked him, smartly, on the other cheek, with the back of her hand. "You're going to get out of this house! I don't care where you go, but you're not going to stay here! I'm not going to have this filth contaminating my house, and I'm not going to want to look at your face and destroy the memory of your father, rest his soul!"
She began to sway, and clutched her side. Her face was livid, the cords standing out against the translucent, aged skin on her frail neck. Before he could summon up any kind of answer, or explanation, she turned her back to him, and lurched out of the room, pausing to support herself on the doorknob, and then slamming the door behind her.
He raised his hand to his burning cheek, blinking rapidly, feeling the tears leave his eyes and trickle through his fingers. He gazed down at the photographs, strewn about, on the floor, and then sank down on the bed, his mind aching with the devastation just wrought upon him, in the last few minutes of what had been, up till then, a calculatingly rewarding evening.
His lips began to tremble, and he bit them, but he could not stem the tide. He gave himself up to the wracking, dry sobs that heaved his lean, muscular frame.
The night was chill, but Kathy could feel the droplets of sweat, gathered on her back, and her face felt flushed. She was walking, with determined steps, toward Mr. Warden's apartment, allowing herself no thought that would weaken her intentions, and turn her footsteps away. She drew comfort from the thought that Stu would be leaving his house, about now, and would later take his position across the street, to capture, on film, the damning evidence that would put Coach Warden out of school, and out of Spring Vale for good.
She went over the details of Stu's plan once more, as she neared Coach Warden's apartment house. She didn't think she'd forgotten anything. Just that afternoon, she'd engaged Miss Norris in an amiable, fact-finding chat about physical education colleges, although she had no intention of attending one. It had laid the groundwork, though. Ostensibly, it gave her a reason to visit Coach Warden. Miss Norris had even helped the sham excuse along, volunteering the information that she could talk to Coach Warden about it, but not that afternoon, because she was leaving with him for New-York. They had made him inaccessible, lending credence to her evening visit.
She walked down the corridor of the apartment, checking off the nameplates, fear and apprehension struggling up within her. She managed to calm herself, as she stood in front of Coach Warden's door, and pushed the buzzer.
In a moment, the door opened, and she was confronted with Coach Warden, clutching what looked like a letter. He looked haggard. "Yes?" he asked her, not seeming to really notice her, at all.
"Good evening, Coach. My name is Kathy Lawson. Miss Norris told me I had to see you."
"What, another one?" He sounded edgy, almost wary.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing," he said. "How can I help you?"
Kathy made a point of looking past him, into the apartment. She also flicked her eyes up and down the corridor, and acted shy. He got the message. "I'm sorry," he said, "come in."
She entered his apartment, her eyes moving instantly to the window. The drapes were shut. That was going to be a problem. She turned and looked at Warden. "I was talking to Miss Norris, this afternoon. About attending a physical education college," she said.
"Oh. Oh, yes, I remember she mentioned it to me." He seemed still leery of her, she thought, but it was good news that Miss Norris had confirmed her reason for being there. As for his being leery, she supposed he'd much rather it was Patti, perhaps, than her, standing in his apartment, alone with him. Stu had been right He was an evil man, preying on schoolgirls.
"That was very nice of her, to do that," Kathy said, unable to think of anything else to say, preoccupied with getting the drapes away from the window, somehow, and getting the window open, if possible. Stu had said that would be better, because the glass in the window might distort the pictures. It was their only chance to trap him, and she wanted to do it right.
"What is it you wanted to find out?" Coach Warden asked her.
She looked at the window, and then at him. "Do you mind if I open the window, a little? I feel so warm."
"I'll open the window," he said, "But I think you'd be cooler if you just took your coat off."
That's what he must have said to Patti, she thought. She watched him slide the drapes partly away, and crack the window. She looked out into the darkness hoping Stu could see through the window. He hadn't opened it very far. Or the drapes, either. But it was November. What was he supposed to do? It was cold, out there, and she'd told him she was warm. He'd looked suspicious enough, already, when he answered the door.
He returned from the window, and took a seat on the other side of the room. "Sit down," he said. "Now then, again, what is it you wanted to know?"
"Could I trouble you for a glass of water, sir?" she asked, now. I have to get him out of the room. She sneaked a glance at her watch. She was sure Stu was ready. She didn't want to stay alone with this man any longer than she had to, but she had to be alone for at least a moment, to get to the window, to get her blouse off.
"Miss Lawson," Coach Warden said, exasperation in his tone, "I'm extremely tired. If you could just settle down, and..."
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to be such a pest. I'm really sorry," she said, with contrition.
"Oh, that's all right. I'll get you the glass of water. Then can we get down to what you'd like to know?"
"Yessir."
As soon as he left the room, she stood up, and moved quickly to the window, unbuttoning her blouse, as she went, feeling foolish, and ashamed, at once, but reminding herself it was for a good reason. She controlled an impulse to wave out the window, as a signal to Stu. She shucked off the blouse, and unzipped her skirt, wriggling out of it.
Coach Warden came out of the kitchen with a glass of water. "Here's your water, Miss Law ... oh, no!" he exclaimed, spotting her by the window.
"Could you-bring it over here?" she asked, trying to sound seductive, like they did, in the movies.
"No, I won't. And you put your clothes on right now, young lady." He sounded angry.
"Please," she cooed, slipping a strap off her shoulder. That moved him.
He moved toward her quickly. "I told you to stop that!"
In a moment, he would be near her. She slid the other strap off, and let the front of the slip fall away. For the moment, she was glad she hadn't worn a brassiere. Whoever examined the photos wouldn't notice. They'd only see him, close to her, her breasts bared, his bands on her arms, as they were now.
She saw him glance down at her budding young breasts, but it didn't seem to stop him. "What are you doing? What do you think you're doing?" He was asking her questions through clenched teeth, and his hands were hurting her arms.
"I want to be with you," she managed, as he shook her, and wrestled with her, trying to readjust her slip. It would make great pictures. No one would think he was trying to help her into her clothes.
"You silly little kid," he was saying, grunting, "get away from the window!"
"I can't!" She blurted it out, and he stopped wrestling with her, for a moment.
"You can't? What do you mean, you can't?"
Somehow, she realized she'd made a mistake. She'd said something wrong. His voice had changed. He was eyeing her, shrewdly, questioningly, now. She tried to guide his hand to her naked breast, but he resisted, firmly. He wasn't acting right. She expected to have to fend him off. Instead, he was resisting her clumsy attempts at seduction. He wasn't behaving like Stu had said he would.
"I want to stand here " she gasped, trying to slide her slip down, again.
He shoved her away from the window, and threw it open. He looked out the window, sticking his head out. He pulled it back in. "There's no one out there," he muttered.
Did he know? He couldn't know. But he'd said there was no one out there. Where was Stu? He must have left. That's right. He's got all the photos he needs, she thought, relieved. She began to slide her slip back up, until he grabbed her, again, and started shaking her. "What are you up to, Miss Lawson? Why did you undress in front of that window? Why? Why? Answer me!"
She was being shaken violently. He seemed to have gone crazy. What was the matter with him? He was shaking every bone in her body. She began to feel like a rag doll. She couldn't fight back, he was twisting her, and shaking her so violently. "Stu," she murmured, an inadvertent cry for help. When his eyes narrowed, she sensed she had committed a terrible mistake.
"Stu? What about Stu?" He took his hands from her, then, and she felt like she might collapse.
"Nothing," she said, trying to sound defiant, and failing miserably.
"Don't tell me nothing," Warden grated. His voice was soft, but she knew by its tone that he was going to find out what he wanted to know. "Do you want some more shaking?" The tone became threatening.
What was the use in hiding it, any longer. Stu had got what he needed. In time, he'd be called before the board, anyway. He might as well know, now. "Stu," she said, still weak from being shaken. "Pictures. He took pictures. It's all over, Coach. You're going to," she paused, her breath heaving, swallowing great gulps of air, "Lose. Lose your job." She managed a pitying chuckle.
His face changed expression. He turned away from her, and bounded to the couch, grabbing up the paper he'd been holding when he'd answered the door. He glanced at the paper for a moment, then turned to her, smiling oddly. "Thank you, Miss Lawson. You've been very helpful. Very helpful, indeed. You can go now."
"You can go, now, Miss Lawson. Repair your attire, and leave. Please." He stepped toward her. She needed no encouragement. She slipped her slip into position. She threw on her blouse, and buttoned it, hurriedly. She moved toward the door, and gathered up her coat, and she went. Without realizing it, she was outside his apartment in a moment, and the door had closed, softly, behind her.
She put her coat on and walked out of the apartment house. She had to meet Stu. She had to tell him what had happened after she mentioned his name, after he'd left. She hoped she hadn't done or said anything wrong. A strange' feeling kept rapping at the back of her mind. Somehow, Coach Warden had hardly seemed the ogre Stu had painted him up to be. He had not tried to molest her. It all seemed very peculiar.
She arrived at the street corner. Stu was not there She looked up at the street sign. This was the right one. Where was he? Had he waited long enough, and left? He'd promised he'd meet her, here Something was wrong. She fished a dime out of her purse, and went into the drugstore, down the street, and stepped into the phone booth. She dialed Stu's number. A woman's voice answered. His aunt, she knew.
"Can I speak with Stu?"
"I think he's sleeping," the voice answered.
"It's very important," she said.
"I'm sure he's sleeping," Stu's aunt said, tersely. "He's quite upset. He's been in his room all evening. I don't think it would be good to wake him. Call back tomorrow." The receiver clicked, cutting the connection.
She hung up the phone, and stepped out of the booth, suddenly realizing what Stu's aunt had said. He'd been in his room all evening? Then then he"d never left the house. He hadn't taken pictures. She allowed herself to accept the unpleasant truth, then, remembering Stu's words. About evil.
Except it was no longer Coach Warden, who was evil.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was five minutes of ten by the office clock. A The bell ending the period had sounded, and now the students were milling through the hall, on their way to their next class. Among them was one student who would not be attending his class just yet, Pembroke thought.
He glanced down yet again at the incontrovertible evidence before him, on the desk. It was to be shown to Smith, if he did come in with the pictures. If he did not, it would be shown to him anyway, after he was paged on the inter-school communications system. To fend off the apprehension in him, apprehension Laura, too, would be feeling, out there, at her desk, he read the blackmail letter quietly. It seemed comical now.
The bell sounded again, to commence the next class period. It was ten o'clock. He fixed his eyes on the closed office door and waited. At two minutes after ten, the door opened and Stu Smith stood framed in the doorway, his eyes cast downward, Laura directly behind him.
"You may go in," he heard Laura say to Smith. Smith advanced into the office, reluctantly. Laura began to close the door.
"Mrs. Watkins, will you come in, too, please?" he called after her. "And please post the Conference sign on the door and close it? Thank you." She did as he asked, and he motioned her toward a chair, near his desk. She walked over to it, and sat down, exchanging a warm glance with him, and then eyeing Smith.
A long moment passed. Smith's eyes flicked up to him, but he didn't raise his head. Pembroke cleared his throat. "Would you come here, to the desk, Mr. Smith?"
Smith stood, rooted to the floor, not moving. His head moved upward slightly, and Pembroke saw his eyes for a brief moment. Then Smith lowered his head again.
Pembroke pushed his swivel chair back and stood up. "Did you hear me?" he asked Smith, raising his voice, injecting a threatening tone into it.
Smith moved like a robot, closer to the desk, where he stopped and finally raised his head. "Sir?" The voice was small, and shaky.
"You have every reason to be ashamed," Pembroke said to him, disdainfully. "But you're not here to show us your kind of contrition. We don't want to pity you," he said, glancing sideways at Laura, and receiving a reassuring look. "We want the photographs. Put them on the desk, please."
"Yessir," Smith answered. He fumbled in his pocket, and produced a small, folded envelope, which he laid gingerly on the desk. From his back pocket, he took another envelope, and laid it next to the first one.
Pembroke reached for the first envelope, and shook its contents onto the desk. Thirty-five millimeter slides. So small, looking so innocent. He emptied the second envelope on the desk. Standard-size colored prints. He picked up one of the slides, and looked at it, feeling his stomach contract. It was all there. He dropped the slide on the desk. He took a packet of matches from his pocket, and tossed them on top of the slides. "Burn them," he told Smith. "All of them."
He watched Smith reach for the matches. Smith lit the corner of the first negative, and acrid fumes filled the office. He turned to open the window, but saw Laura already there, sliding the window open. Smith held the negative between thumb and forefinger, and the tiny flame crawled across the negative, consuming it. When the flame neared Smith's fingers, Pembroke kicked an empty wastebasket toward him. "In there," he said. Smith dropped the negative in the basket, pain moving swiftly across his face, as he shook his burned fingers vigorously.
When Smith had burned the negatives, and the prints, he reverted to his silent, sullen pose. "Is that all of them?" Pembroke asked. "Look at me, damn it! I'm talking to you! Is that all of them?"
"Yessir," Smith mumbled.
"Do you see these two pieces of paper, Smith?" He turned the papers around, so Smith could read them. He watched Smith's expression change to one of surprise, and then the pathetic expression returned to his face.
"Not very pretty, are they? They're insurance, Smith. We're going to keep these in a very safe place, in case you, er, accidentally forgot to bring all the negatives, and prints. Do I make myself clear?"
"There are no others," Smith mumbled. "I ... "
"What's that? Speak up! I can't hear you!"
"There are no others," Smith said, more clearly. "All of them are gone."
"All right," Pembroke said, at length. "Now what do you suggest I do with you?"
"I don't know, sir," Smith said, raising his eyes to Pembroke's. "If you're not going to turn me over to the police, I'm going to join the Army."
Pembroke sat down, and contemplated Smith. He glanced at Laura who shrugged her shoulders, then back at Smith. "Commendable," he grunted. He stood up, again, and moved around his desk, confronting Smith. "I'd just like to know how a fine boy like you ever conceived this warped, dirty little plan. Could you tell me that?"
Smith looked past Pembroke, out the window. "I can't tell you, sir. I don't think I know, myself."
"I don't know either," Pembroke said, with a sigh. "A boy like you. It's a shame. A damn shame," he said, shaking his head. He walked around the desk, back to his chair.
"Mrs. Watkins and I agreed that it would serve no good purpose to bring the police into this," he said. "Consequently, the issue is closed. I hope it has been a lesson you'll never forget. You won't ever forget it, will you, Smith?"
"No, sir," Smith answered.
"Mrs. Watkins will give you a pass to the teacher of the class you're supposed to be in, now. I'd like to wish you luck in the Army, but I can't. Suffice to say I'd be happy if I didn't see you again. You're free to leave." He turned away, until he heard Smith leave the office. When Smith was gone, Laura returned to the office.
"Well," she said, sighing, "that's over."
"Yes," he agreed. "Funny, I reminded him to never forget. I guess we never will, either. My only hope is that it won't make a a difference."
Laura moved to him, and squeezed his hand, gently. "We'll always be friends, very special friends," she said. Then she turned, to leave.
"Laura?"
She paused. "Yes?"
"Nothing," he said. "Just thank you. Thank you for everything."
She smiled at him, a genuine, sincere smile, and walked out of the office. He watched her leave, looking fondly at her legs, the legs he remembered so well, and when the door closed, blotting out the view of them, he turned Ins mind to Melissa. He sat back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. I'll ask her out to dinner, tonight, he thought, contentedly. We'll celebrate her complete recovery, and the happiness it's going to mean. For all of us.
Half the ordeal was over. The easy half. Warden wouldn't be that easy, he thought, sadly. Warden was a hard-nose. He wouldn't be at all happy. But at least he won't have to sit and wonder when the next letter's coming, after I'm gone. Even he doesn't deserve that.
Last night, after Pembroke's call and his aunt's horrendous visit to his room, he lay in the dark, thinking. All the tears were dry, there were no more left. None for anger, none for self-pity, and none for remorse After he decided to join the Army, he decided to make a clean breast of all of it with Warden.
The Army had seemed like a crazy idea, at first, but he knew his aunt, and she was not inclined to dispense idle remarks. She had ordered him out of the house. He would have to leave. She was not a vindictive woman. She was fair and honest, and he'd disappointed her, shamed her. He could stay against her wishes, but he knew she would stop feeding him and clothing him, because she always meant what she said.
So she would not be alarmed when he told her he was going to join the Army. It was not something he was going to do for spite. It had to be done. There was no point in staying in Spring Vale, any more. Not after what had happened. With Pembroke. Every time he looked at Patti, she would remind him of her father. With Kathy. He wondered, idly, how she had made out. It was a hell of a trick on the poor kid. But it was life. She'd have to learn.
He allowed the smug feeling to grow. It was better than the mood of depression he'd felt, leaving Pembroke's office, heading for the showdown with Warden. No one could appreciate the irony of it, but him. The pass Mrs. Watkins had given him was addressed to Mr. Warden. Gym was his ten o'clock class. Only it wouldn't have been much of a class, anyway. Not with the envelope of negatives and of the prints that were present in his shirt pocket.
He turned a corner in the corridor, heading for the stairs that would take him down to the gym. Then the smugness he was clinging to evaporated, for he spotted
Kathy Lawson, sitting at the desk reserved for the Hall Monitor. He tried to reverse his steps, but he knew, instantly, it was too late. She'd spotted him. And her face was distorted with fury. It was too late to avoid it. He continued right on walking, until he reached her desk.
"Hi, Kathy," he said, uneasy. Her eyes seemed to be burning thrcrugh him. Her hands were clenched into tiny fists, and she was almost quivering, as she stared at him. "About last night ... "
"You!" She spat out the word, as a curse. She tried to get up from the desk, and he extended a placating hand toward her.
"Kathy ... "
"Don't you touch me! Don't you speak to me, you
you monster. After what I tried to do! I was stupid enough to believe what you said, and I went there, and
oh!"
"I know it wasn't easy, Kath, but ... "
"But! You two-timing monster! You weren't even there! You didn't even leave your room last night! Your aunt told me!"
Stu looked at Kathy, perplexed. "She did? I what did you do? Call the house?" When things started going wrong, he mused, they really all went wrong.
"Yes!"
"Shhh, not so loud," he cautioned, looking over his shoulder. This was insane. Was there no end to it? What kind of trap did I get myself into? Mrs. Watkins knew about it. Kathy was involved. It was getting deeper and deeper.
"Don't shush me," Kathy hissed. "I don't care. I don't care, any more. They've got to find out what you are. You're not what everybody thinks you are, Stu Smith! You're evil! You're more evil that I would ever believe. If Patti only knew about you..."
He blinked, startled. He hadn't thought of that. She's Patti's best friend! "Did you tell her?"
"No," she said, more quietly. "And not to save your worthless skin. You don't have to worry. Remember, I did what I did. I don't want anyone to ever know about that." She looked like she was about to start crying.
"Take it easy, Kath," he said, feeling pity for her, and confusion, his belly in turmoil. You've simply got to believe me. I didn't mean for it to be anything like this..."
"Just get out of my sight," Kathy said, her voice low, angry. "I don't want to see you! I don't want to know you're alive! Just leave me alone!" She glared at him.
He opened his mouth to answer her, to try and explain, but she wouldn't stop glaring. He knew, then, that he had said all he could say. Nothing else would seem to matter. He turned away, and walked down the corridor.
Warden was sitting at his desk when Stu entered the office. Warden glanced up, and his face worked. "Smith," he said, his voice rasping. "I want to see you. Close the door."
Stu closed the door behind him, and walked over to Warden's desk. He started to fumble in his shirt pocket, for the envelope. "Before you begin, Coach, I thin!; there's something you ought to see."
Warden stood up, slowly, his broad shoulders seeming to fill the room. "You," he sneered, his voice malevolent, "you little punk. You stinking, little punk. I ought to beat the hell out of you. I only wish you were a few years older, that's all!"
What was the matter with him? Then it come to him. Kathy! That little witch!
"I had a little visit from a friend of yours, last night, Smith," Warden said. "A real good friend of yours. So good, in fact, she was willing to take her clothes off in my apartment. You have any more real good friends like that? No? Well ... "
" I think there's..." Stu stammered.
"Shut up, punk! You punks are all alike. You give me a great big pain in the ass. Only this time. Smith, you really covered yourself with glory. You really stand out, in my book. I didn't think a punk like you had the guts, or the brains, to try what you did. How wrong I was!" Warden slammed the desk hard with his fist.
Stu backed off. "I know what you're talking about." he said, amazed at the loudness of his voice. Don't stop. he told himself. Don't let him interrupt. Keep going or you'll be out the door, or in jail. Keep going! "It's true. I sent her to your apartment. But I wasn't out there, and I didn't take any pictures. She didn't know. She didn't do anything wrong."
"Wrong? What the hell's the matter with you, kid? Don't you have anything in that head of yours? You must have the morals of a rabbit! Didn't do anything wrong, he says. Listen, smart guy, she must have really been hung up on you, if you could talk her into doing what she did. And she did it for you! And you don't think it was wrong! I ought to bat the hell out of you, just for that!"
"No, Coach, wait!" Stu blurted, as Warden came out from behind the desk, and moved toward him. menacingly. "Here, take them. Take them!" He tore the envelope out of his pocket, and extended the packet to Warden, his eyes pleading, as well as his voice.
Warden stopped. He snatched the envelope out of Stu's hand, and turned back to his desk. He opened the envelope, and took out the photos. He looked at them, his eyes widening. Then they became narrow slits as he looked at Stu. "You little son of a bitch."
"I know, I know," Stu interrupted, half sniffling, half-pleading tones riddling his quavering voice. "Please! I'm sorry! You don't know how sorry I am. I never meant to hurt anybody!" He felt the tears streaming down his cheeks.
Warden dropped the photos on the desk. "That's the trouble with you punks. You never mean to hurt anybody. But you do. And you don't really care. So you cry. But you don't cry for the people you hurt! No, you cry for your own stinking self. You feel sorry for yourself, not for anyone else. You want to cop out, make believe it never happened. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you!"
"Mr. Warden," Stu said, gaining control of himself, "the pictures are there. All of them. You can do whatever you'd like with me. Anything at all. It's all I deserve," he said, meaning it.
"What do you think I could do with you? Turn you in? D'you think I'd like the cops drooling over these?" He waved at the photos. "My fiancee would be thrilled about that. A wonderful way to start a marriage, right? A real swell wedding present. Ahh," he snorted, "just get out of here. I may have to have you on the basketball team, but I sure as hell don't have to be reminded of your rotten hide if I don't have to be. Go on, just get out of here!"
Stu stood, watching Warden tear up the photos. Warden began to struggle with the slides, but they were difficult to tear. "You'd better burn them, sir," he said, softly.
"Yeah," Warden agreed. Then he looked up at Stu, frowning. "Didn't I just tell you to get out of here? Well, go on!" The voice didn't seem as harsh, any more.
He left the office, just as the bell clanged for change of class. His next class was early lunch, and he decided he couldn't survive the cafeteria. Not today. He fell into the milling throng of students, and managed to get to his locker. He got a dollar, and some change, out of his coat pocket, and wandered out the side door, not wanting to run into Patti. Not yet.
He walked down town, not feeling the chill gusts of wind whipping about his collar. Patti. He'd see her, this afternoon. He'd have to make a date with her. Suddenly, it was very important. He needed someone. She was the only one not touched by the whole, sorry mess. Kathy had said so. That meant Patti knew nothing. How wonderful it would be to hear a civil voice, one that just spoke to him, without cursing him, or condemning him.
He quickened his pace, straightening his sagging shoulders, wanting to look the gloomy world in the eye. II I play my cards right, he thought, she'll never know. And her old man will forget, in time. He'll want to forget. If it ever gets that far. It would be nice, if she'd write to me. I can ask her to do that. Maybe she still cares, a little bit. I hope so. There's no one else left.
He left the street, and stepped into a drug store. He looked up the number he needed, and eased himself into the phone booth. He dialed the number.
"Good morning, U.S. Army Recruiting Service, Sergeant Bowen speaking."
"Hello? I'd like to find out about enlisting. In the Army."
Warden was looking forward to meeting Stacey. Even the car seemed to be interested. It didn't cough as much or sputter as much. In fact, everything seemed to be better, since that morning. The air had been cleared, the confrontation had been accomplished, and all the evidence destroyed. Especially the letter, which had been reduced to thousands of little bits of innocuous paper, and taken out by the janitor. He could never have shown it to Stacey anyhow, he mused. How had Smith known about Patti? Or had he known, at all? He'd meant to ask. But perhaps it was just as well he hadn't.
Stacey was waiting, at the curb. He pulled over, and she climbed into the car sitting down beside him. He raced the engine.
"Hi there," she said, greeting him. She cocked her head, and listened to the engine. "What's this all about?" she asked.
"Even the car's got it bad, for you. It's racing its engine."
Stacey slid over, in the car, near him. "You are a nut," she said, smiling. "A real nut."
He pulled away from the curb. "How about a drink at my place, before the show?"
"What do you want to do? Race my engine?"
Now there was a straight line, he thought. "No," he answered, "but I wouldn't mind filling your tank." He grinned, slyly.
"You're a nasty old coot," she snorted. "Anyway, since we're talking about racing engines, my cheerleaders were certainly racing theirs, this afternoon."
"How come? You cracking the whip, again?"
"You really don't know? I thought you'd be the first one to hear about it. Super Smith is going to enlist in the Army."
"Who?"
"Who, indeed. Who's rattled your cage ever since you got here? Super Stu Smith, that's who."
So that's it, he thought, turning onto the street where the apartment house was located. It's a cop out. But maybe it'll straighten out that warped little mind of his. "You don't say," he said, hoping he sounded astonished. He hoped it would end, there. He'd had enough in fact, more than enough, of Stu Smith to last for a long, long time.
"I thought you'd be climbing up the wall, when you came to pick me up," Stacey said. "What're you going to do for high scorer, this year. You know Spring Vale. They want a championship."
"I guess we're going to fake it. Or maybe I'll shave twice a day, and play myself." He parked the car. and got out. He walked around the car, and started up the sidewalk, when he heard her rapping on the car window. He turned, and went back to the car. "What's the matter?" he asked, leaning over.
She said something, but the closed window muffled the sound. He opened the car door, knowing that's what she was beefing about, anyway. "You're supposed to open the door for a lady," she said, climbing out of the car.
"You show me a lady, and I'll open the door for her," he said, and started running. She caught up to him at the door.
"If you're not careful, you'll have this ring back," she said. "And you can wear it in your nose!" Then she smiled at him.
He took her hand, and they walked down the hall, to his apartment. Once inside, he watched her flop down languidly, on the couch. She tucked her long, curvaceous legs underneath her. "About that drink," she said, as he hung up their coats.
He made drinks for them, and came over to the couch, and sat down beside her. They clicked their glassed together. "To us," he said, and sipped his drink.
She wriggled closer to him. He reached out, and patted her thigh. "This is really the way to live," she sighed.
"I can hardly wait to start," he said. "Meaning?"
"I keep thinking about that night in the car," Warden said. For more reasons than one, he thought. He glanced at her, and saw that her cheeks were becoming flushed.
"You would bring that up," she said, with mock embarrassment.
"To tell you the whole truth, I've given it considerable thought. Actually, I don't see why we have to get married at all. I mean..."
He felt her body shift, and he knew it was coming. He skittered away, and felt the whoosh of her hand go by his ear. He looked at her, winding up for another swat. Her activities did wonderful things for her body. Her skirt had slid up, and he could see the creamy thighs, at the end of her stockings. She swung at him again, and missed. Her breasts wobbled delightfully inside her sweater.
Warden didn't wait for the next swing. He dove for her, and wrapped his arms around hers, pinning them to her sides. His lips found hers, and she returned his kiss, ardently.
His hand rested on her bared thigh, inching up to where the stocking ended. The smooth, satiny flesh felt warm to his touch, and he felt her legs move apart, ever so slowly. "Are you going to do it again," she breathed.
"Yes, I am," he answered.
She struggled away from him. "Wait," she said, urgently.
"I can't." he said. "T love you."
"I know. I love you, too. That's why I want you to wait. We might as well do it right," she said, tugging her sweater up, over her head, revealing those tantalizing tits, struggling against the cloth of the bra. He reached for her. "Wait," she said, again.
She unhooked her bra, as she stood up. The bra fell to the floor, and her two, proud breasts stood out. proud, and firm, pale-tipped beauties yearning to be held, and caressed.
She slid out of her skirt, and panties. She was nude, now, except for her garter belt, and stockings. He could wait, no longer. He stood, with difficulty, and shuffled toward her, undoing his belt. "No more waiting," he murmured.
The sight of her only skimpily attired in stockings had aroused him more quickly than he thought possible. She was a vision of desire, partially clothed, hiding nothing, but creating a seductive imagery that he could no longer resist.
They careened toward the couch with short, clumsy steps. He freed himself of his slacks, and had tediously unbuttoned his shirt, while seeking to touch her with his other hand.
"You see," he panted, "that proves it"
"Don't talk silly at a time like this," she said, with irritation.
He lowered her, gently, to the couch. "I was telling you, there really doesn't seem to be any point in getting married."
This time, he didn't duck fast enough, But it didn't matter, now.
