He even had a key.
May Beth had talked about living with her mother. Maybe the mother would be there. If she looked half as good as May Beth, he might end up having a pretty good time with her.
Albert unwrapped a slim bar of soap and began to wash his face.
FORTY-FIVE
GOING HOME
“Blessed Virgin College. May I help you?”
“Rhonda, this is Lester.”
“You still under the weather?” Her voice sounded sympathetic.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, I’ll give Sister Martha a ring when she arrives, and let her know.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“You take care of yourself and get well, Lester.”
“Okay. Thanks again. Good-bye.”
He looked at the alarm clock beside Emily Jean’s bed. Almost s even-thirty. Too early to leave.
So he went down the hall to the bathroom and took a shower. He stayed under the hot spray for a long time. When he was done, he got dressed and went downstairs. He made coffee. While it percolated, he fried bacon and eggs. He ate in the living room, watching a cartoon show on the television.
Shortly before nine, he went out to his car.
A cramp began twisting his bowels as he drove toward home.
What if Helen’s there?
She won’t be.
Before entering his house, he checked the garage. Empty. Some of the pain went away, but not all of it.
Fairly certain that Helen was at school, he entered the house. He took two large suitcases from a storage closet. They should hold enough to keep him going for a week or two until he could find an apartment.
Maybe he wouldn’t need an apartment.
Maybe he could stay on at Emily Jean’s house.
Would she let me?
Maybe. He suspected that she had fallen in love with him.
One gal’s trash is another gal’s treasure.
He carried the suitcases into the bedroom. Instead of starting to pack them, he dropped them to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed.
Staring at the wall, he wondered whether he really wanted to live with Emily Jean.
Even if she does love me, I’d be stuck with someone who’s twice my age…and a little weird.
Very weird, that stuff about pretending to be May Beth.
May Beth!
If I do stay at their house, May Beth will probably be there, too.
If she lives.
If she lives, she’ll come back and live at home. It’ll be the three of us…
Lester imagined himself stretched out on a bed with both of them, the mother and daughter, both naked and slim and eager, both kissing him, stroking him, sucking him, but one so much younger and prettier and firmer and smoother, the other so much more desperate and strange.
It’ll never happen.
When May Beth comes home, he thought, I’ll get tossed out.
Emily Jean isn’t about to let me live in the same house with her main rival.
Only way I get to stay on with Emily Jean is if the girl doesn’t make it.
I sure don’t want that to happen, he told himself. It’d be so devastating to Emily…
And I’d lose any chance of…
WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME? I don’t even know the girl. She probably wouldn’t even LIKE me, much less…
If she dies, Lester thought, maybe I won’t even want Emily Jean anymore.
What’s that all about?
He didn’t want to think about it.
He suddenly wanted to flop on the bed and not get up.
Not get up at all.
But he would have to get up sooner or later. If he stayed till mid-afternoon, Helen would probably come home.
He didn’t want to face her.
He didn’t want to face anyone.
I ought to do everyone a favor and blow my brains out, he thought.
Helen hates my guts. Emily Jean’s a pathetic loser. I don’t stand a chance with May Beth. I’ll never stand a chance with any woman that I want.
Was it Groucho?
I wouldn’t want to be in any club that’ll take me as a member.
Something like that, Lester thought.
Story of my life.
In the second drawer of his dresser, he found his Ruger .22-caliber revolver. He unsnapped the guard strap and slid it free of its holster.
FORTY-SIX
THE LOUNGE
Janet dropped a dime into the vending machine in the faculty lounge. Stepping back, she watched a cardboard cup drop into place. When the machine stopped its loud humming, she bent down and lifted out the cup. The coffee inside was muddy brown. She wrinkled her nose.
“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,” said a slim, striking woman who was sitting on the couch.
“It does look sort of disgusting.”
“The hot chocolate is much better,” the woman told her. “It’s five cents more than the coffee, but worth every penny.”
“What’ve I got to lose?” Janet dumped her coffee into the sink, found three nickles in her purse, and turned the machine’s selection knob to Hot Chocolate. She inserted her nickles and waited.
“Is this your first time at Grand Beach High?” the woman asked.
“It’s my first time anywhere.”
“Must be quite an adventure for you, then. You have Emily Jean’s classes, don’t you?”
She picked up the cup. The hot chocolate looked fine. “Is that Mrs. Bonner?”
The woman nodded and fit a cigarette into the end of a long, silver holder. “She and I are usually the only ones in here now. Everyone else with fourth-period preparation makes a beeline for the mixed lounge, which is an absolute madhouse.” She lit her cigarette.
“Mixed lounge?” Janet asked and sat in an armchair.
“We have a grand total of three faculty lounges at this establishment. The men’s lounge, which is the lair of the male chauvinist contingent. Venture in there at your own risk. Abandon all hope. Then there’s the mixed lounge, where chaos reigns. Finally, the women’s lounge, as blissful as the eye of a hurricane. That’s us.” She blew out a stream of smoke and squinted as if inspecting it. “By the way, I’m Dale.”
“I’m Janet.”
“Is English your field, or have they placed you in an alien subject? They seem to have a preference for that, you know.”
“I’m an English major.” Janet decided not to mention her master’s degree. She tasted the hot chocolate. “Mmm. You were right about this.”
“Good, isn’t it?”
“It’s great.”
“I’d have one with you, but I can’t afford the calories.”
Janet stared at her chocolate. If Dale, as slinky as a Vogue model, couldn’t afford the calories, then Janet shouldn’t. She took another sip, anyway.
“As it is,” Dale said, “I’ll be a rather plump Ophelia.”
“A plump what?”
“Oh, I’m dressing up as Ophelia for the faculty Halloween party tonight. Ophelia of Hamlet? My husband, who’s much more literary than I am, insisted on dressing as the ghost of King Hamlet. He gave me a choice of Ophelia or Yorick.”
“I think I knew him.”
“Didn’t everyone? At any rate, I opted for Ophelia.”
“Are you going mad or sane?”
“Oh, mad, of course. Mad as a hatter.”
“A wise decision,” Janet said, nodding sagely and smiling. “Sounds like fun.”
“Oh, we generally do have memorable parties. Jim Harrison—the principal—came to last year’s party as a geek. You wouldn’t believe the uproar he caused. He had a plastic garbage bag containing several plucked chickens. Deceased chickens.”
“Oh, dear.”
“At intervals throughout the night, he would pull a chicken out of the bag and bite off its head.”
“My God.”
“It was really quite zany. And ghastly. All the men, of course, thought this was the greatest thing ever. Actually
bit their heads right off! Jim’s a lovable man, but coarse…terribly coarse.” Dale puffed her cigarette and shook her head. “Poor Emily Jean was so repulsed by his act that she tossed her cookies—retched into Ian’s swim ming pool. She was mortified, though Ian took it remarkably well. Nothing fazes Ian.” She gazed at her smoke and grinned with one side of her mouth. “I suppose Emily Jean won’t be making it to tonight’s festivities.”
“Suppose not,” Janet said.
“In fact, now that I think about it, maybe she called in sick today as an excuse not to attend tonight’s party. She was miserably embarrassed about last year’s fiasco. On second thought, she is on the social committee. We had a planning party a couple of weeks ago and she seemed very enthusiastic about attending. So I suppose she must be indisposed. Otherwise, she wouldn’t miss it. She hasn’t missed a faculty party in years. They are fabulous parties.”
“They do sound memorable,” Janet said.
They sound awful, she thought.
“The great trick is to avoid being the person remembered.” “I should think so.”
“If you don’t have any plans for tonight, why don’t you come to this one?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Well, then, you definitely shouldn’t pass up this opportunity. We have several men on the faculty who would be delighted to meet you.”
“I’m not sure I want to meet them.”
“Oh, they’re not all chauvinists, geeks and cretins. Several of them are quite delightful.”
“I’m afraid I already have some other plans for tonight, but…”
But I don’t want to see Dave!
But if I don’t show up, he’ll go after Meg again.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think I’d feel out of place, just being a substitute and not knowing anyone and…”
“No problem. Everyone loves to see a new face, especially a pretty one. You’d be welcomed with open arms— at the very least.” She twisted her cigarette out of its holder and mashed it into a wobbly ashtray that looked as if it had been made by a student in metal-craft class. “What do you say?”
“Well, maybe. I suppose I could cancel my other plans…”
“Wonderful! The social committee provides soft drinks, ice and an assortment of edible goodies. But if you prefer the hard stuff—as most of us do, it’s B.Y.O.B. The party starts at eight at my place. Hang on a second and I’ll find you a copy ofmymap. You’ll have a marvelous time, just wait and see.”
“Is it a costume party?” Janet asked.
“Costumes are optional. But it’s always fun to dress up, isn’t it? And wonderful to be someone else if only for a night.”
FORTY-SEVEN
INJUN JANET
Exhausted but happy after her day of teaching, Janet returned to Meg’s house. She took a long bath, then stretched out on her bed in the guest room.
When she woke up, she felt good. The room was gray.
She looked at the clock: 5:10.
Morning or afternoon? she wondered.
Then she remembered that this was Friday afternoon, that she’d been up since dawn and spent the day subbing at the high school. It had been great. Mrs. Bonner’s lesson plans had been flexible, so—this being the day after Halloween—Janet had devoted every class period to masters of the macabre. All the kids were familiar with Poe, so she’d taught about lesser known writers such as M. R. James, Algernon Blackwood, H. P. Lovecraft and William Hope Hodgson. A lot of the kids had seemed really interested.
Maybe that’s why they behaved so well, she thought.
A few of the kids had been rats, but most had been fine.
Best of all, she’d been asked back. By the end of the school day, the people in the main office had apparently found out that Mrs. Bonner would be continuing her absence for at least another week, so they’d asked Janet to fill in for her.
Somebody over there must’ve put in a good word for me.
But who? She’d been so busy in her classroom that she hadn’t met anyone except the principal, the office secretaries and the teacher in the faculty lounge who’d invited her to the faculty Halloween party.
Maybe I’d better go to that, after all.
Earlier, she had pretty much decided against it. She wasn’t crazy about parties in the first place, this sounded like a rowdy bunch and they would mostly be strangers. Who needs it?
But the situation was different now that she’d been asked to sub at the high school for a full week.
She might as well get to know some of the people so she wouldn’t be spending the week among strangers. Besides, from a practical standpoint, she’d heard that teachers are encouraged to recommend which subs they want.
If they get to like me, they’ll ask for me. I might end up subbing every day.
Might even end up with a full-time position.
Right, she thought. An exciting idea, but she couldn’t exactly hope for a full-time job. Not with a baby on the way.
How will I even go on subbing?
Starting to feel scared, she quickly climbed out of bed.
“Let’s just take this a day at a time,” she muttered. “So far we’re doing just fine, thank you very much.” She smiled down at her flat belly. “Aren’t we, honey? Yes, we are. So tonight we go to the faculty Halloween party…but as what?”
Janet had no idea.
She wished Meg would get home from work. Meg might have some costume ideas.
But no telling when she might return. Her job at the college bookstore lasted until six, but she sometimes went out afterwards for drinks, sometimes for dinner as well.
This being Friday—T. G.I. F.—she probably would go out after work.
I’m on my own, Janet thought.
Since the party wasn’t supposed to start until eight o’clock, she had plenty of time to visit a mall and buy a costume.
I’m not going to buy a costume, she told herself. Only people with no imagination buy Halloween costumes.
So use your imagination.
Janet looked at herself in the closet mirror.
How about going as Lady Godiva? Stark naked…with a box of chocolates in each hand.
That’d be a hit, she thought.
She put on fresh white panties and a white bra.
A good start, she told herself. Now what?
She swung open the closet door, pulled a string to turn on its light, and stared at the hanging garments.
Has to be something simple. I obviously can’t go as a kangaroo.
She flipped through the hangers, glancing at each outfit.
Too bad I was never a cheerleader.
Yeah, right.
It came as no surprise, but she found no costumes or uniforms of any sort. She owned just an ordinary array of old and new clothes. They allowed for certain possibilities: hobo, pirate, cowgirl, gypsy, hippie…If she dared to wear a certain slinky, low-cut evening gown, she could go to the party as a lounge singer.
Or high-class call girl.
She chuckled and shook her head and muttered, “Don’t think so.”
On the last hanger, she came upon a white doeskin shirt
that she’d only kept because it had been a present from her parents. They’d given it to her as a souvenir after a trip to Arizona.
What the hell were they thinking?
Smiling, she shook her head.
Dad obviously thought I’d look cute in it.
And I do, she thought.
She’d only worn it once—to a Merle Haggard concert with her parents. But she’d looked real cute.
I could wear this to the Halloween party, she thought.
Would never want to wear it anywhere else …unless I get invited to the Grand Ole Opry…
She lifted its hanger off the bar, pulled it out of the closet and held it out for inspection. Though the shirt was several years old, its white buckskin looked clean and new. So di
d its colorful beadwork. Its fringe swayed all over the place.
“Never seen so much fringe in my life,” Janet muttered. It dangled off the shoulders, ran all the way down both sleeves, crossed the back at shoulder-blade level, and circled the entire hemline.
Get me a coonskin hat, she thought, and I can go as Davy Crockett.
In white doeskin? I don’t think so.
Maybe Calamity Jane.
It’s all a moot point if the thing doesn’t fit, she thought.
So she removed it from the hanger and pulled it on over her head.
It felt loose enough to wear. It also felt wonderfully smooth and soft against her skin—though the fringe tickled her thighs.
Jeans will take care of the tickling.
She stepped back from the closet, swung its door shut and looked at herself in the mirror.
“Not bad,” she muttered.
Who am I kidding? I look terrific.
The V-neck, cross-hatched with leather laces, almost plunged low enough to show her bra. But not quite.
Though her bra didn’t show, plenty of leg did.
I’ll wow them all, she thought, if I don’t wear jeans with this.
Wouldn’t dare.
Why not? she thought. I used to wear miniskirts just as short.
Raising her arms, she watched the shirt rise. Through the swaying fringe below its hem, she could see the white crotch of her panties.
That also happened with miniskirts, she reminded herself.
In one of her dresser drawers, she found a black leather belt. She put it on, drawing the shirt in snugly around her waist, and fastened the buckle.
Davy Crocket my ass, she thought. I look like a sexy Indian maiden.
Moccasins!
She pulled a pair out of the closet and slipped her feet into them.
Back at her dresser, she opened a drawer and took out a red bandana. She rolled it into a band, then tied it around her head.
Now all I need is a feather.
Where do I find a feather? she wondered.
At a dime store, that’s where. Maybe over at the Woolworth’s on the Third Street Mall.
Forget it. I’m not going out like this, and I’m not going to change.
I’ll have to go featherless.
Unless Meg has one.
Thinking of Meg suddenly reminded her of Dave.
She picked up his red-inked note, took it down the hallway to the kitchen and picked up the phone. Her hand was shaking. On the first try, she misdialed.