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Subject: {Kellis} "Hidden Journal: Florrie" ( MF) [1/2]
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Hidden Journal: Florrie
NOTICE: The following file is one of an ongoing series, transcriptions
of files decrypted from the hidden journal of Harrison Everett Stone.
For a summary of their provenance see the initial file, D910412.ZEN,
included in the release, "Hidden Journal: First Files."
--Kellis. Copyright 1998
File D9104141.ZEN
<Sunday, May 14, 1972>
She was an overly plump woman, dressed in faded jeans, standing on the
curb holding two bags of groceries in her arms, obviously waiting for a
ride I thought, if I thought about her at all, when I spotted the
newspaper machine. That was this afternoon. I had left Daisy's place
after lunch and soon discovered to my dismay that the science fold-in
hadn't been folded into Sunday's paper, more to the point that Bayer's
astronomy column was missing. According to an indifferent yahoo at the
newspaper office, whom I finally reached by phone, everyone else's paper
had the fold-in. Did I believe that special agents were preventing me
from reading the atomic secrets disclosed this week? When I asked his
name, he hung up. Sure, I ought to sue. Instead I went out to find a
replacement.
The vending machine, located beside a closed liquor store, still had a
paper even though it was past 16:00. Out of the car, I discovered that it
wanted fifty cents for its rack to come down. A hell of a price, even for
Sunday! -- especially since I had three dimes and two pennies. The hardly
noticed plump woman was standing ten feet to one side, ostentatiously
staring at blue sky over the trees across the street.
Opened my wallet. You guessed it: two fives and a twenty. I looked
at the woman without much hope. "Excuse me, ma'am. Is there any chance
you have change for a five?"
She turned towards me, lips twisted crookedly, and laughed harshly.
She had light brown hair, pulled back in a pony tail, and pale eyes. Her
features were unpainted, small and symmetrical above the rounded chin. I
realized two things: she was younger than the thirtyish first judgment,
and with a little work her face could be beautiful.
My eyebrows rose. "Did I say something funny?"
She sobered and looked away. "No. I'm sorry. It's just ..."
"What?"
She glanced back. "I wouldn't be standing here if I had change for a
five."
Her voice was bitter for no reason I could see unless she, like me,
was another victim of the denomination game. Too bad we can't write
checks for everything! What was her problem -- nothing smaller than a
C-note?
I said, "I can change a ten for you, if that's what you need."
"Oh, god!" She shook her head from side to side. "I want to laugh
again but it's rude, isn't it?"
I smiled politely. "Your sense of humor is better than mine."
She turned her left side more toward me. "Will you take the purse off
my arm?"
I stared at her. Was she implying that I would steal her purse? I
asked, "You want me to take your purse?"
"Off my arm, and open it for me."
Did she want to verify how much silver she had? I suggested, "Suppose
I hold your groceries instead?"
She looked at the sidewalk. "I could set them down, I guess."
"They might fall over. Let me hold them."
"Would you?"
I drew close and she pressed the bags against me. Someone looking
from the side would have guessed we meant to kiss. As my arms encircled
the bags she warned, "Hold this one underneath. It has the milk bottles."
So I maneuvered one arm beneath hers. Transferring large paper bags
in this manner, taking care not to rip them, entails a surprising amount
of body contact. My forearms were all over her breasts, enough to suspect
she wore no bra under her man's white shirt with rolled up sleeves. I
detected no perfume, just woman, a faintly meaty odor like distant frying
bacon.
She stepped back, eyes staring into mine. She was blushing, which I
understood to mean she had noticed my arms on her.
I said, "I'm sorry for ... jostling you."
She took a breath. "You couldn't help it."
The bags were heavy, jammed with cereal boxes, flour, cookie packages,
gurgling bottles. As she opened her purse I looked around. Where did she
get the groceries? The only store in this whole block was the liquor
store behind the vending machines, its windows barred over the sign,
"Closed on Sunday."
Her fist came out of her purse and opened towards me. A quarter and a
nickel lay on the palm. She said, "Take it if it'll help you."
"That's all your change?"
"It's all my money."
"Oh, I couldn't take --"
She interrupted me by leaning towards me and slipping the two coins
into my right-hand pants pocket. "It can't do me any good anyway," she
explained.
"But -- Maybe there's a pay phone around the corner."
"A pay phone?"
"To call your husband."
She grunted. "No husband."
"Well, whoever."
She shook her head. "There's nobody to call."
I stood gaping at her, holding her groceries. She chuckled slightly.
"Here!" she said, extending her arms.
Again we came together. She pressed herself firmly against my
arms while hers slipped between me and the bags. I'm afraid I gasped.
"I'm sorry," she muttered quickly. "Did a nail get you?"
"It's all right. Your knuckle tickled my ribs."
She grinned crookedly. "You'd never guess what yours did to me."
"I'm sorry."
She held the groceries. I stepped back, withdrew all the silver from
my pocket again: 62 cents. I turned away and fed the vending machine,
pulled down the rack and drew out the bulky paper, which was the last one.
Tucking it under my arm, I returned to the woman, my hand extended toward
her. She let me open the purse and throw in the remaining dime.
"Thank you," she said with a sniff.
"There must be <someone> you can call!"
"I wish there was."
I realized I couldn't just leave her. Expressed as a percentage of
her available funds, I believed she'd given me more than anyone in my
experience. I said, "Look here ... My name is Harry Stone."
Her eyes showed a bit of interest. "Pleased to meet you, Harry
Stone."
"And you are?"
She studied me. At last she said, "Florrie."
I nodded. "Florrie. I know that it's totally none of my business,
but would you mind telling me what you're doing here?"
"On Planet Earth?" she asked, her crooked smile again in evidence.
"Huh?"
"That's what I was wondering just before you drove up."
"Florrie, it can't be as bad as that."
She nodded. "I said that, too." Her eyes were suddenly very bright.
"Who're you waiting for?"
"No one." She took a breath. "Any one."
"Well, who are these groceries for? Not just you, I'd guess."
She shook her head. "For nobody now. You want them?"
I rested hand on hip and studied her. "Did you have a fight?"
Her mouth worked. Finally she said, "The last one." A tear suddenly
spilled over her eyelid.
"How did you get here on this street corner, Florrie?"
"I told him if he didn't let me out of the car, I'd dump all these
groceries on him."
"You were angry?"
"That was part of it. I was bawling."
"So he let you out. He'll give you time to cool off and come back for
you."
"No, he won't." A tear appeared on the other cheek. "This really was
the last fight. He's getting married tomorrow."
Apparently to someone else. I took out my handkerchief, leaned in
between the bags and dabbed her cheeks. "Th-thank you," she murmured,
more tears welling.
I turned to my car and held the rear passenger door open for her.
"Florrie, put your groceries on the floorboards."
She took a deep, trembling breath, and obeyed me without the argument
I expected. When she stood back I slammed that door and opened the front
one. "Get in," I told her.
She stared at me, biting her lip. I saw a curious mixture of fear,
resignation and hope pass over her features. Again she sighed but she
plopped into the car.
She looked around as I cranked the engine. "Nice car," she admitted.
I don't keep it very clean, but it's only a year old. "Thank you.
Which way, Florrie."
She shrugged, heaved another breath, then smiled. "Oh, it's good to
sit down."
"How long had you been standing there?"
"I don't know. We left Greenfields at two o'clock." I glanced at my
wristwatch. It showed 16:33.
I pulled slowly away from the curb. "You've been standing there two
hours?"
She eyed the clock on the dash, about five minutes slow. Why do car
clocks always run slow? "I guess. It feels like it."
I shook my head. "Whatever for, Florrie? What did you expect?"
"I didn't know what to do."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-two. Where are you going?"
"We're going to your place."
"It's his place." She choked back a sob. "It's n-not mine any
m-more."
"At least we'll get your things."
"And th-then what?"
"Where do your parents live?"
"They don't."
"Pardon?"
When she didn't answer I pressed her gently. "Are your parents dead,
Florrie?"
"I don't know."
"How can you not know?"
She compressed her lips and looked out the window.
When she kept silent I tried another tact. "Well, tell me this. Why
were you buying groceries for a man who's marrying someone else tomorrow?"
"We were in Greenfields when he admitted it."
"I see. I'm sorry."
"Th-thank you. Turn right up here, I think. Is that the bridge down
there?"
"Those are the suspension towers, yes."
She looked around as if fixing landmarks. "Why?" I asked.
"It may be the place we have to go."
"His place is across the river?"
"No. Not you. I mean me and my baby."
"You have a child, Florrie?"
"In about six months."
When we had rounded the corner, she nodded. "I recognize this street.
Go two more lights and turn left."
"Does he know you're pregnant, Florrie?"
"He does now."
Christ! I could imagine that argument in Greenfields Market and on
the ride back. I asked, "How long have you been with him."
"Seven months."
"Where did you live before that?"
She named a city 300 miles from here.
"Do you know anybody there?"
"They're all doing time."
That kind of people? I studied her surreptitiously. She wore scuffed
penny loafers. Her jeans were frayed but clean. They were not
particularly tight on her; apparently she was not, as the women say,
"showing" much yet. The man's white shirt with the tails out was also
clean and appeared to have all its buttons. It was too big for her. I
could see none of the ridges or shadows that a brassiere might produce,
though on the right side, without shirt pocket, I had failed also to see
evidence of a nipple. I had already noticed well-padded breasts despite a
lack of prominence. But she was not exactly fat. I pegged her height at
five-foot-four and her weight at 150. I had called her "overplump" but
now that she had engaged my sympathy, I was willing to strike the "over."
"What do you mean, the bridge is the place you have to go?"
"Not the bridge. The river."
"The river as 'jump in?'"
"And drown."
"If you mean what it sounds like you mean, I have to say don't be
ridiculous, Florrie!"
She grunted but held her peace.
I argued, "This isn't the Fifties, you know. A girl in your shoes has
many options."
She looked out the window and said, so softly that I could barely
understand her above the car sounds, "If I can't keep my baby, we're
better off dead."
"How can you be so sure of that?"
"Don't worry; I'm sure!"
She would say no more except to give directions. We arrived at a
large dilapidated house on a street of huge trees and similar houses. A
sign in the weed-filled yard offered rooms for rent by the night, week or
month. When Florrie got out of the car, she stopped in the rear and drew
out her bags.
"You're taking him these groceries?" I asked, surprised.
She nodded. "He paid for them."
I had to grin, thinking of the final words that must have been
exchanged before he stopped the car and let her out with his food.
She cocked an eyebrow. "You're coming with me?"
"Unless you'd prefer otherwise."
"Why?"
"To let him know you have a friend."
"Oh, Harry! I won't forget this."
I nodded. "Let's go."
I offered to carry either or both bags of groceries. She ignored it
and marched stolidly up the walk. I followed her to the second floor and
down a creaking hall to a door standing open at the end. It was a warm
day. I could feel a slight draft along the hallway. She paused beside
the door.
"Marshall, are you decent?" she called.
"Yeah," a masculine voice replied. "Florrie, what the hell are you
doing here?"
"I brought your groceries."
"You did what?" I heard a bed creaking followed by the thumps of feet
striking the floor. "Jesus Christ, did you walk all the way here?"
"No, Marshall, I didn't walk. Can I come in?"
"You didn't walk?" The voice changed. "Who's with you?"
"Can I put the groceries on the table? I c-came for my things."
"Oh, yeah? How're you gonna get 'em out of here?"
She looked appealingly back at me. I spoke up. "She has help,
Marshall."
That produced more activity. A very young man appeared in front of
the woman, wearing a stained T-shirt and a gaping pair of jockey shorts.
He may not have been aware that pubic hair was visible through the gap.
Head hair was nearly shoulder length, greasy and tangled. He was skinny,
about five-ten and barefooted, and his toenails were dirty.
He demanded, "Who're you?"
"The name is Stone," I reported, stepping into the room behind
Florrie.
"Stone," he repeated. "Never heard of you."
"Well, I've heard of <you>. I hear you're getting married tomorrow."
His face suddenly flushed. I studied the phenomenon curiously. It
could hardly be embarrassment; surely he was past that. It must be
anger, I decided.
I asked, "Now why should that make you mad, Marshall?"
"<She> told you!"
"She told me something else you're responsible for, too, Marshall."
"Not <me>!" His eyes narrowed. "Say, are you a cop?"
"No," I responded. "If I were I'd arrest you for those seeds you have
in that ash tray."
"The seeds ain't illegal."
"That's what <you> think! But I'm no cop. Go ahead, Florrie. Give
him his groceries."
But Florrie's face had also reddened. She raised her voice. "You are
<too> the father!"
"Not me," he repeated. "I told you, it's that little wop you were
sweet on downstairs." He looked at me. "Just wait till it's born."
That's when Florrie gave him the groceries. She slammed one bag down
on top of a dead TV set, causing it to rock, and now with both arms
available threw the other bag at the back-pedaling man. He tried to catch
it but it split. Cans and boxes bounced through the air. A bag of flour
also split, spewing much of its contents into his face and hair. He fell
backwards onto the bed, which promptly collapsed with a thunderous crash,
dropping mattress and man onto the floor. Cans bounced higher. The
tarnished brass headboard fell forward and struck him on top of the head.
His flailing body subsided.
But the second bag was already on the way. It struck him squarely in
the chest and split in the manner of its predecessor, cascading boxes and
bottles to either side. The milk bottles had been in the bottom of the
bag. They landed on his belly. With an explosion of air he raised up on
the fallen mattress, eyes huge in his flour-white face. Both milk bottles
rolled off onto the floor, but having such a short distance to fall,
neither broke.
A female voice shouted from downstairs, "God damn it, cut out that
horseplay up there!"
Florrie looked at me, eyes large. "That bed falls down every time we
...
we ..." Her voice trailed off. She was blushing again. Marshall had
doubled over. He coughed, producing a small white cloud.
That seemed a good time to return to the main objective. "Where are
your things?"
"Mostly in there," she said, pointing to a peeling chest of drawers.
"Better get them. Do you have a suitcase?"
"These boxes will work."
She immediately turned up two cardboard boxes stacked beside the
chest, dumping their contents, mostly magazines, onto the floor. One of
the drawers appeared to contain her toiletries, another her underclothing,
the third jeans, shirts and what might be a skirt or two, neatly folded.
She pulled out drawers and distributed their contents among the two boxes.
I glanced over her shoulder at the magazines. Scantily clad ladies --
giving them the benefit of the doubt -- stared seductively back at me from
the covers. Several were opened upon full nudity. These were spotted.
With Florrie around what was Marshall saving them for?
I thought about asking him but he stumbled to his feet, making
retching sounds, and staggered out of the room. I presume he was heading
for the communal bathroom.
Florrie straightened up with a well-stuffed box in her arms and looked
at me beseechingly. "Will you carry one?"
"Of course. Does he owe you any money, Florrie?"
She nodded, then shook her head. "Forget it. He'll never pay it."
"Are you certain <he's> the only one who could've put that in you?" I
asked, pointing toward her belly.
Her eyes glinted at me. "I don't care what he says; he's the only
one I've been with since I came here."
"Then let's get him back in here. He needs to understand about his
responsibility."
Her eyes dropped, then rose again to mine. "Harry, if he pays he'll
have the right to mess with it."
"Not necessarily."
"He'll cause a lot of trouble. He always does. Harry, I don't want
to see him ever again and I sure don't want him messing with my baby."
Her face showed determination. I shook my head. "All right, but I
hate to see him get away with it."
"Thanks anyway." She pushed past me toward the door, stepping
carefully through the scattered groceries. I bent to pick up the second
box when I heard her gasp. Marshall came through the door, pushing her
back. He had washed his face incompletely. Behind him stood a larger
fellow with broader shoulders and a sneering grin, dressed approximately
the same as Marshall: shoeless in underclothes.
"I've got help, too," Marshall announced with a smirk. "Where you
going with my stuff?"
Gently I elbowed Florrie to one side. "You claim bras, panties,
skirts and lipstick, do you?" I demanded, including a sneer of my own.
"You stay out of this!" he ordered. "This is between me and her."
"And your brother here?"
The "brother" flicked his eyes over me and lost his sneer. "Wait a
minute, Marsh," he warned. "This guy a cop?"
Marshall opened his mouth but I spoke first. "No, I'm not, though
you're welcome to give them a call. Florrie is leaving and taking her
property with her."
"You related to her?"
"The same as you and Marshall."
"In other words, you're just butting in."
I nodded. "The same as you. Now butt out or I'll butt you out."
He pushed up in front of me, chin thrust out, sneer recovered. "You
and the fat broad and who else?"
The trouble with trained reflexes is that they have a will of their
own, even after a few years of no practice. My left hand, fingers stiffly
extended, had sunk into his unprotected belly while the right crossed
between us, before I was fully aware of their intent. At least I was able
to pull the punch with the heel of the right hand before it could quite
crush the larynx under his extended chin. "Brother" came very close to
dying this afternoon, but I doubt he feels grateful for my restraint.
He doubled up and collapsed to the floor, gagging, hands to his
throat. Marshall fell back against the wall, eyes bulging. I pointed to
him. "Stay there!"
I knelt beside "brother" and listened to his breathing, ragged at
first but strengthening. A crushed larynx is invariably fatal unless
someone nearby is willing to cut a hole in your throat below it. In this
case the airway was still open though it would certainly be sore for a
while.
Florrie's knee touched my back. "Is he ... Did you ..."
"He'll get over it," I said, standing up. "Florrie, does everything
in these boxes belong to you?"
She started to answer, then set her box on the floor, fumbled inside
and removed a safety razor and tube of shaving cream, both of which she
threw into the mess on the bed. "Now it does," she declared, raising the
box up again in her arms.
I fixed Marshall with a menacing stare. "That good enough for you?"
"Y-yes, sir," he mumbled, pressing flatter against the wall.
From below rose the earlier female screech. "God damn it, will you
<please> cut out that horseplay?"
Florrie took her box out into the hall. As I lifted mine I heard her
call, "Ms. Kershey, I'm moving out."
* * * *
On the drive away from the boarding house Florrie had nothing to say
at first. She sat stolidly in her seat, staring straight ahead. Finally
after a few blocks she asked, "Where are you taking me?"
I'd considered a motel but at this time of day on Sunday that might be
a problem, now that those two hitch-hikers had ruined my welcome at the
Bubble. So I said, "Home with me."
Her gaze turned to me. "What'll your wife say?"
"I'm not married, Florrie."
"You aren't?"
"No. So far all my prospects have reluctantly declined." Strictly
speaking, that's not true. Daisy has never said no, exactly. The point
is, she's never said yes either.
"Then ... you're not one of those?"
"I prefer women, if that's what you mean."
"I thought so. One of that kind can't fight like that. Sometimes I
thought Marshall was one."
I didn't correct her, but I thought of Johnny Mills, team leader in
the ranger company, queer as a four-dollar bill but ferocious in
hand-to-hand.
"Where did you learn it?" she asked. The expression on her face was
admiring.
"Vietnam." Again not quite true. I learned it not so far from here.
Where I practiced it was Vietnam.
"Oh." A moment later she added, "I wish I could fight."
I grinned. "Thought you did rather well, especially with those
grocery bags."
"I was just mad. I should tell him I'm sorry, shouldn't I?"
"Are you asking for advice?"
"Please."
"Do what you said you wanted. Make it a clean break."
She took a deep breath. After awhile she sighed again. "What'll
become of me?"
"Whatever you want, Florrie. It's your life, you know."
Tears brimmed in her eyes. I said sympathetically, "Tell me about
it."
"About what?"
"Your life. How did you end up crying in a stranger's car?"
"A stranger!" she repeated. "You're right. I even forgot your last
name."
"And I never knew yours."
Her hand came forth tentatively and touched my arm. "I guess you have
a right to hear it, if you want. Harry, you actually fought for me!
Nobody ever did that before."
"Presumably you were never in such a predicament."
"Oh, yes, I was, almost. Except for the baby. How'll I ever thank
you?"
I almost told her we'd find a way, but if ever I saw a sitting duck...
Instead I said, "What's your full name?"
She sighed once more. "Florence Mary Jones."
"Named for your two grandmothers?"
"I don't know. Yes, I do."
I didn't pursue that. Instead I induced her to report where she was
born, where her parents lived or used to live. She had been thrown out of
their house at age 17, having turned up pregnant on the occasion of her
first obstetrics examination, and had enjoyed no contact with them since.
She didn't know who did it. She'd sneaked out of the house four months
earlier to attend a party where she got drunk and passed out. In the
morning she was sore, hungover and bleeding.
Although abortion had just been legalized, she was too far along for
the legitimate clinics. Some other girls told her about a place in
Chicago that would take care of her if she had the money or if she would
promise to do whatever they asked afterwards. Seemingly with nowhere else
to turn, she had gone to Chicago and been delivered of her shameful
burden. But the doctor, between slugs of bourbon, told her she'd never
have another. That night she tried to kill herself. They pumped her
stomach, but two days later she tried it again. He threw her out, too,
before she even found out what she had promised to do for them.
She went from man to man, trading sexual favors for food and shelter,
spending a year of the same, plus endless bullshit, in a commune in
Indiana. Apparently the doctor was right; she took no precautions but
caught only the common venereal diseases, cured by free-clinic penicillin.
She'd learned to limit her attentions to one man at the time and had heard
no report of disease in several years. She attended the clinics
regularly, had been pronounced clean only last week. Clean but three
months along.
She'd been despairing for as long as she could remember, though she
never tried suicide again. "I can't do anything right," she admitted,
tears dripping. By this time I had parked the car. She was sitting under
my arm, her head on my shoulder, and I was making noises of sympathy. But
I have yet to see a woman cry inconsolably.
She raised her wet eyes to me. "That's it. Some life, huh?"
"It could be better," I acknowledged, reaching a decision. "And by
god, it will be!"
"For a fat broad?"
"Florrie, don't accept the judgment of those louts. You're a whole
lot more than they can imagine."
"Yeah. A <pregnant> fat broad!"
"How did that happen, by the way?"
No one had been more surprised than Florrie -- and tickled to death,
despite her fear for the baby's prospects. Her voice took on
determination when she declared, "I'll try to find a way, but I'm not
going to make a child live like that. We'll go for a swim first."
I grinned. "If you do, I'll come along in a boat."
"Won't do any good. That bridge is 150 feet high. I'll not mess it
up this time."
"You won't have to, Florrie."
She stifled a sob.
"You don't believe me?"
She shook her head, flinging tears off her cheeks. "Harry, you don't
have to promise me anything. You know I'll do anything you say, anything
at all. I've already done it for all the others. But I'm no good, Harry.
You'll get tired of me, just like Marshall. Wait and see."
I restarted the car and pulled away from the curb. "Well, Florrie,
the proof as usual is in the pudding. You say you'll obey me. Let's see
if you mean it."
She heaved another sigh but said only, "I do," curiously like a
wedding oath of a bride knowingly submitting to humiliation and
debasement.
* * * *
As I carried one of the boxes up the steps to my apartment, Mrs.
Hollowell stepped out of the door that shares the landing with mine.
She's in her forties, I think, with the florid face of a drinker. I've
reported the incident of the clogged drains in the open diary.
She said, "Moving out, Harry?"
"As you see, we're taking the boxes <in>, Ms. Hollowell."
"Why won't you call me Eunice? Oh, <you're> moving in, then?" Her
regard had turned to Florrie, coming up the steps behind me.
"Mrs. <Eunice> Hollowell, this is Miss Florrie Jones. She'll be
staying here awhile."
"Oh!" Her eyebrows rose sharply and she declared less ebulliently,
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Jones."
"No, you aren't," Florrie responded, her eyes narrowing.
The older woman stepped back with an expression of shock. Suppressing
a grin, I said, "Excuse us, Ms. Hollowell. We'll visit later. Come
along, Florrie."
The woman turned and fled into her apartment. When we had reached the
privacy of mine, I led Florrie into the spare bedroom and bade her set her
box on the bed as I was doing.
When she turned to face me, I said sternly, "Florrie, the next time I
introduce you to someone, you say, 'Pleased to meet you.' Do you
understand?"
"Even if I'm not?"
"<Especially> if you're not! Have you been out of polite society so
long as that?"
"What's the use of lying? Get the meanness out in the open."
"Perhaps -- but only at a time when it will do you some good. That's
almost never when you've just met someone and know nothing about her. I
can think of circumstances where Ms. Hollowell's good will could be
valuable to you."
"I can't. She don't like me. She wants you in <her> apartment."
As a matter of fact, I'd gotten that impression on other occasions. I
said, "She might come to like you."
Florrie shrugged, then squared her shoulders. "If that's what you
want."
"It's what I want... That dresser is empty, mostly. You can put your
stuff in it when we get back. Now we'll go to dinner. Do you want to use
the bathroom?"
Her eyes twinkled. "Do you want me to?"
I nodded with a twinkle of my own. "It's right around that corner."
* * * *
We ate in the dining room of a roadhouse I like, where most of the
noise comes from patrons at the bar. Over dinner it was my turn on the
grill. She asked question after question, mostly about my likes and
dislikes, a few about my history. I answered better on the latter,
admitting to seeing women, even at present, though I neglected to furnish
particulars. And I failed to convey the fact that I see only one
regularly.
She looked at me in wonder. "And all of them have refused to marry
you?"
I chuckled. "If you're about to ask 'why,' don't ask <me>! I think
I'm a marvelous catch."
"I do, too. Are you rich, Harry?"
"Hardly!"
"You're car is almost new."
"Yes, but the last time I looked at my payment book, the bank owned
more of it than I did." I didn't explain that the last time I looked at
it was just before taking the profit on my Vision Systems' holdings. By
now that payment book is either incinerated or lies somewhere in the city
dump.
Her table manners were excellent, probably better than mine,
pleasantly surprising me after her unmannerly response to Mrs. Hollowell.
I recalled my mother insisting that I should "pat" the lips, not scrub
them with the napkin, though I'd consciously rejected that advice because
the act seemed effeminate. It still does, and on Florrie it is also
gracious.
And I recall learning that a comment on another's manners exhibits the
paucity of one's own. I was on the point of complimenting her on the
revealed quality of her parents when that thought saved me. And another:
if they threw her out, she probably wouldn't appreciate the remark.
Eventually I turned the discussion back to her. "What have you
trained yourself to do, Florrie?"
Her eyes fell. She sighed and raised them again. "Nothing. Please
men, I guess, though I'm not very good at it. I wish I could find one
that deserves ..."
Her voice trailed off. I said, "Deserves what?"
She blushed but held her eyes on mine. "Me."
"That is well put, Florrie," I said approvingly. "You've retained
some self-esteem despite all the hard knocks. But did you never go back
to any kind of school?"
"Three years ago I took a business course."
"Good! Bookkeeping?"
"And typing. I got pretty good at typing."
"Did you get a certificate?"
"Yes, but I don't know where it is."
"Did they get you a job?"
She nodded glumly. "As a receptionist. No typing and for sure no
bookkeeping."
"What happened to the job?"
"The boss wanted me to ... please a customer."
"And you refused."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'll do anything my man wants, so long as it's
done for <him>!"
"No third party, is that it?"
"Certainly not one that ... makes my skin crawl."
"I see."
Suddenly her hand shot out and clasped mine. Her face was strained.
She asked, "You won't make me do that, will you, Harry?"
I kept my eyes level. "I'm going to ask you to do several things,
Florrie, but I want you to believe this: every one of them will be for
<your> benefit and no one else's."
She searched my face, her lips twisting. "Oh, Harry! You mean it,
don't you?"
"I mean it, Florrie."
She leaned back, sighing again. This girl sighs often and eloquently.
"What now?" I wondered.
"I wish there was a course that teaches how to keep a man from getting
tired of you."
"That defect, Florrie, may be in the man instead of you. What you
need to learn is to choose better."
"Sure!" She returned to her food. "A girl has to take what she can
get."
* * * *
After dinner I conducted her through the five rooms and two bathrooms
of my apartment, plus a quick foray onto the balcony. She reacted as if
it was the most spacious residence she'd seen in years, which it likely
was. She goggled at the items of unmistakably feminine hygiene that Daisy
had left in the master bathroom, as well as the female clothing spilling
from the closet next to mine, but said nothing about them. I told her she
could put her toiletries in the guest bathroom. She accepted everything I
said, questioning nothing. In particular she didn't ask how long she
would stay, which surprised me when I realized it, though on reflection it
shouldn't have.
I stopped at the doorway of my office and gestured down the hall.
"Make yourself at home, Florrie. There are snacks in the pantry, drinks
in the refrigerator and a bar in the den. Help yourself. I suggest you
unpack. Check if the guest bed has sheets. If not, you'll find them in
the linen closet in the bathroom. Watch television. If you read, take a
look in the den bookcase. Go to bed when you feel like it."
"What're you going to do?"
"I've got some technical reading. I'll be in here with the door
closed. Knock if you need me."
"If it's all right, I'd like to take a shower."
"Certainly. Towels in the linen closet."
"I <hate> old bathrooms with nothing but a cracked tub!"
"Is that what you had at Marshall's?"
"And I had to share it with a bunch of men. They wouldn't let me in
it until ten o'clock."
"Well, this one is all yours."
She sighed heavily and looked away.
"What now?"
"I ... don't know what to say."
I grinned. "Then say nothing."
Her lips twisted indecisively. I closed the door gently, leaving her
standing there.
I opened a VM programmer's manual but sat waiting to hear the
beginning of her shower. When the pipes groaned as they do in response to
hot water, I dialed long distance information for her father's number,
which I wrote on my desk pad. A man answered on the third ring.
I asked, "Could I speak to Mr. Robert E. Jones?"
"Speaking."
"Mr. Jones, do you have a daughter, Florence Mary Jones?"
"No."
"You don't?"
After a pause the voice snapped, "Who wants to know?"
"My name is Harrison Stone."
"Who are you with, Mr. Stone? The police?"
"No, sir. This is a private call."
Again a pause. "Well, what do you want?"
"I want to convey to you and your wife the information that your
daughter is alive and well."
"Where is she?"
"Just now she's taking a shower."
"Shacked up with you, is she?"
"Would that matter to you?"
"It would not." He said that a bit too fiercely.
"I wonder if you'd care to speak to her."
"We said all we had to say years ago."
"Then may I tell her that you and her mother are in good health?"
"I don't think she cares about that."
"I assure you she does."
"All right. We are."
"Thank you. Do you have a pencil, Mr. Jones?"
"Why do I need a pencil?"
"To take down a telephone number."
"Just a minute."
When he was ready I dictated my number, adding, "She'll be here full
time for the next day or two. If you change your mind about talking to
her, and I hope you do, please call."
"Who are you, Mr. Stone? What do you do?"
"She'll tell you all that. Good night, Mr. Jones."
"Ah ... well ... good night."
I read for a couple hours. Compared to some I know, I'm fortunate
to have a talent at concentration, the ability to put other matters out of
mind and concentrate on the material at hand. I had forgotten Florrie and
her problems, and her gentle knock on my door at 22:00 startled me.
I told her to come in. She was wearing a somewhat tattered housecoat
over bare legs and feet, holding it closed around her with hands gripping
the edges. Her toenails were unpainted but close clipped and healthy.
Her light hair was brushed loose from the ponytail to float around her
shoulders. Her face shone in the light of my desk lamp, clean and pale
from absent makeup and something else. Trepidation?
"All moved in?" I asked, smiling at her.
"Yes. Harry, excuse me for disturbing you but I wanted to find out
..."
She seemed to run out of wind. "Ask me anything," I directed.
She swallowed. "To find out h-how I can thank you."
I shook my head. "Florrie, no thanks are necessary. And when --"
"Yes, they are," she interrupted. "I think you saved my life."
We stared at each other. Her face slowly reddened. She took a breath
and separated her hands, pulling the housecoat fully open. She was nude
behind it. She said, "This is all I have to thank you with."
Overly plump? Not this woman! Some would call her fat, I suppose,
but Rubens wouldn't have. Her figure was classically voluptuous. <Lush>
is the right word. The skin was pale cream, backed by a tracery of blue
veins, especially in breasts and thighs. The nipples were large and
pinkly unpigmented. The pubic hair was thick and light brown to match
that of her head. From its unshaven state and her lack of tan, she
obviously owned no bikini. Considering the grandeur of breast, hip and
thigh, her waist was remarkably small. Three months pregnant? I knew
nothing about the progress of pregnancy but it was still hard to believe
her claim.
I stood up. "My god, Florrie!"
Her hands sagged and her hopeful look changed to one of anxiety.
"Please don't be mad at me!"
I pushed back the chair, closed the distance between us and took her
hands in mine. "Florrie, believe me, I'm not mad! You just knocked my
socks off, that's all."
The red tide was spreading down her chest. Her face fell. "I'm
s-sorry," she whispered.
"Well, I'm not," I declared. "You're magnificent, Florrie."
Her face came up with a startled expression. "What?"
"Your body would make an artist's mouth water. Rubens would've
drooled all over you."
Her eyes were wide. I couldn't stop a fond chuckle. "You don't know
what I'm talking about, do you?"
"I'm a fat broad." She said it anxiously, eyes pleading with me for
something -- whether to affirm it or deny it, I couldn't decide.
"You are <lush>, Florrie! I'd love to have a statue of you, holding
your housecoat open just as you did a moment ago ... about half scale,
mounted on a pedestal in the middle of my den."
"A statue?"
"I'd call it 'Gratitude.' It'd be worth a million dollars."
She chuckled slightly, eyes softening. "A million dollars!"
"Only after we're all dead, of course." I brought her hand to my lips
and kissed it. "Thank you, Florrie, for giving me a glimpse. You're a
vision."
She freed herself and stepped back from me. The housecoat fell to the
floor as she shrugged out of it. She spread her hands. "All of it's
yours, Harry."
This was approximately what I'd intended to happen when I ordered her
groceries into my car. Yet as I took her in my arms and kissed her, it
felt like betrayal. Her lips parted readily for my tongue. That more
than her words said she wanted me. The erection rising against her belly
said I wanted her, so why the reluctance to proceed?
I brushed it aside and led her to the guest bedroom. Noticed in
passing that the bed was already turned back, pillows fluffed. She sat on
the bedside, watching silently as I threw my clothes on the floor. As I
stepped out of my shorts, she reached under a pillow and drew out a
crumpled tube of lubricating jelly.
She showed it to me and said, "I'll put it on you," which I took to
mean she'd prefer to refrain from oral sex. So I let her. She used it
sparingly but thoroughly, replaced cap on tube and tube under pillow, and
lay back on the coverlet, opening her legs and looking at me expectantly.
I stood by the bed, staring at her in the yellow light from the table
lamp. She made a beckoning gesture towards my dick. "Come on."
"Florrie, is this what you've done with all your men?"
"Sure." Her face showed surprise. "What else?"
I knelt between her legs and stroked her belly while cupping a breast.
My hand was not large enough to enclose it fully. The hand on her belly
descended to her furry slit.
She cocked her head at me. "You don't need that. It's hard already."
A dick does not have to rule a man's life, or so I told myself as I
sank upon her to disprove it. She was tight despite the jelly. A rapist
would need lots of it. And probably a new set of balls; this woman was
no weakling. Her rotating hips lifted me effortlessly. When they had
milked me dry she was not even breathing hard.
I felt shame. For perhaps the first time in my life I was glad of my
rabbit-like response.
She smiled as I got off her. "That's a down payment," she said.
"Florrie, I ... don't know what to say."
She grinned. "Who was it told me then to say nothing?" She looked
down at my feet and pretended to be disappointed. "Thought you said I
knocked your socks off."
* * * *
She's asleep in the guest bedroom as I finish these curlicues. I
checked on her just now: curled like a child on her side, long hair
spreading over the pillow, breath soft and even. Despite appearances, my
rock-bottom reason for bringing her home was not to screw her -- that is,
not <just> to screw her. Which was why her discovery by Mrs. Hollowell
failed to dismay me. I want Daisy to know that her continued dalliance
bears a risk. Presumably she will learn it no later than next weekend,
which she is scheduled to spend with me. Does this reflect a willingness
to lose Daisy? Not really. I have a long list of her own arguments
supporting infidelity, to bounce back. What it reflects is desperation.
But now ... Miss Florence Mary Jones, as a sexual object, might be
the greatest challenge I ever faced. Earth mother though she may be,
above such petty humanity, she is going to <come>, god damn it, and soon!
--
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