He took an extended drink from the bottle and set it down. Picking up the sandwich, he eyed it speculatively. “You do not appeal to me,” he told it, putting it aside. He wasn’t very hungry anyway. He tipped the bottle to his lips, then leaned back, sighing. After several moments, he raised his head again and took another drink. How much had there been in the bottle? There was about an inch left.
“Goombye, inch.” He drained it off. “And to think, ladies and gentlemen of the radio audience,” he announced, “I came down here for a fried egg. Now, I am a fried egg. I tell you, such a notion boggles the mind. We now return you to the Adventures of Granpa Dave.”
He hiccupped, frowned. Forgive me, other. His chin dropped to his chest. After a while, he lay both arms on the table and rested his head on them. ‘Take a snooze,” he murmured. “Take a letter. My God, Miss Blodgett, I never saw you without your clothes on.” He shifted in the chair, drawing in restless breath. Feel nervous, he thought. Want something; but what?
“Me?”
He sat up with a gasp.
“Behind you.”
He twisted around. The swinging door was opened. In the dining alcove, just beyond the doorway, Marianna stood looking at him. David felt his stomach muscles wrench in.
She was naked.
He stared at her, unable to move. She drew in breath so that her heavy breasts hitched up, their nipples jutting darkly. “I came to say goodbye,” she mocked.
He shook his head.
“Why not? No harm in it. Your wife’s asleep; I checked. She’s sound asleep. We have lots of time to say goodbye.”
He felt himself shrinking from her. “I’m going home.”
“Of course. I only came to say goodbye.”
Helplessly, he ran his gaze down her body. “That’s it, look at me,” she said. He shuddered as she cupped a hand beneath each breast and held them up. “For you,” she said. “Just one more time.” Her teeth were clenched, her eyelids lowered halfway. “You know you want to. Only one more time. No harm in that.” She drew back slowly.
No; I won’t, he thought. But his mind was like a child before the burgeoning assurance of his flesh. He tried to shake it off but will would not direct his limbs. Standing dizzily, he weaved across the floor toward her.
“You want me, don’t you?”
One more time, he thought. No harm in that. I’ll be gone by morning. One more time, just one.
“Don’t you, David?”
“Yes.” Just one more time. He reach for her. She backed off and he stumbled after her into the living room, stepping across the jumble of her clothes. He had no mind now; he was body, flesh, an appetite.
“That’s it; follow me. Follow like an animal. That’s what we are. Animals. That’s all that matters; being animals and enjoying it.” She dropped to her knees, fell forward on her palms. “Take me like an animal” she said.
Possessed, he staggered toward her, musk-thick fragrance like a mist around him, glutting his brain, the room revolving, darkening. Only her before him, white, luxuriant; an animal. He pulled at his clothes like unwanted scales. “Don’t make me wait,” she ordered. He fell to his knees behind her. “Now!” she screamed.
Then everything was lost in blinding, crazed desire as her lust devoured his body and, for all he knew or cared, his soul as well.
SUNDAY
It was not as waking usually was: floating upward through a depth of somnolence until one broke its surface and became aware. Today was different. For what seemed like hours, he remained submerged, hovering in a murky limbus between sleep and consciousness. He sensed the world above but could not rise to it. Each time he felt himself ascending, something dragged him down again. Neither dead nor living, he hung suspended in a soundless void.
Finally, there was sound: somewhere in the distance, waves crashing; close by, a wind-lashed spattering of rain on window glass. Slowly, David raised his weighted eyelids. Shadows wavered on the ceiling, shifting like gelatine. His head turned inchingly, then, uncontrolled, flopped over on its side. He stared at the window above the right-hand bookcase. It was covered by a streaming network of water. The fluctuating patterns held him in a daze of absorption.
He tried to push up, finding that he couldn’t Can’t move; thought oozed, syrup-like, between the fissures of his brain. He considered looking at his watch but it was strapped around a bar of iron which had been his arm. He blinked and declined his gaze, staring dully at a row of books. His body slept on but he felt his mind awakening.
Earlier this morning (Was it morning now?) he’d woken to find himself, fetus-coiled and naked, on the rug. Wracked by chills, he’d struggled to his feet and managed to dress; his clothes had been scattered all around the room. He’d slumped onto a chair and rested for a while before excruciating thirst had driven him to labor up again and stumble to the kitchen where he’d gulped down five glasses of water, dripping it over his chin and the front of his clothes. After that, he’d hobbled back into the living room and collapsed across the sofa, losing consciousness immediately.
What time was it? He willed the raising of his arm, groaning at the effort it involved. The watch face blurred before his gaze, then shimmered into focus. Nine-sixteen. The arm fell heavily, his eyelids slipping shut. His brain began a backward somersault, turning over with protracted motion. He forced it upright, raised his lids again. He mustn’t sleep.
Once, during basic training, he’d had a fist fight with another soldier from his barrack. The man had punched him repeatedly in the stomach and the next morning he’d felt as he did now, the muscles tender, sore and hot. He was thirsty again too; the tissues of his throat felt desiccated. He wondered if he had the strength to get a drink of water. Every muscle felt encased by lead. He was unable to distinguish where his body ended and the sofa began, all of it fused together into one ponderous mass. There was something else too; an aching in the back of his left leg. Only after concentration did he realize that it was the sciatic muscle hurting with that “toothache in the flesh” sensation he’d endured for sixteen months in 1967–68 when the disc had slipped out near the base of his spine.
David closed his eyes, grimacing. All the pain combined was not enough to dissipate the shame he felt. Once more, he’d broken faith with Ellen, his mind lost another battle. Lost? he thought bitterly. There’d been no contest. Only when the dictates of his flesh had been obeyed had his mind appeared like some cowardly servant who had hidden when its master was in peril, cringing back, contrite and meek, when danger had passed.
He tried to stand; they had to get out of here. He couldn’t even sit up. His limbs felt paralyzed, like the exanimate members of a paraplegic. He strained with all his might, hardly stirring. Finally, he slumped back, breathless. How could anyone be so exhausted?
You’re exhausted, aren’t you? You sleep too much. You have a dreadful thirst which cannot be relieved. Your solar plexus feels abused and tender. Did Mrs. Brentwood really know? Despite more than forty years of hard-headed logic, was it conceivable that Marianna was a ghost?
“Allright.” He said it doggedly, teeth clenched. He had to consider it because it was conceivable. No matter what he thought or believed, there was evidence to support it.
The day they’d arrived, Ellen had chosen not to enter the studio. She’d stood outside and not been incapacitated by the cold. Yet, once inside the house, she’d suffered such a chill that he’d had to cover her and light a fire.
Evidence.
When Marianna first seduced him, he’d experienced an overwhelming sense of wrongness. True, it might have been no more than guilty conscience. At the same time, it might have been something else, deep inside of him, reacting to a trespass which eclipsed human morality.
That involuntary traction in his solar plexus whenever Marianna was around, more powerful the closer she came. That was not imagined; he knew it had occurred. What was it though? Only tension?—or something else entirely? That feeling he’d had when he’d gone to Ellen after his fir
st debauchery with Marianna. Guilt alone? Or, conjoint with guilt, the need of a frightened child for solace?
Evidence.
Why had he felt so relieved when they’d left the house on Friday night? That wasn’t rationalization; he had felt immeasurably better. Had it only been because he was delivered from the risk that Ellen might encounter Marianna? Or had the separation caused a fear which penetrated far more deeply? He recalled thinking, in the drug store and the car, that, if they returned to the house, something terrible was going to happen. Simple apprehension? Or a premonition of malignant danger?
His dread concerning his ability to satisfy Ellen. He’d never felt it before. Had it been some kind of culminating anxiety? Or had it been, instead, that he sensed himself being drained of vital energy? Why had he made love to her in the car? It hadn’t been only for the purpose of erotic stimulation. He distinctly remembered thinking that it had to be there, that he couldn’t gratify her at the house. He recalled the hideous sequence of moments later during which he’d been convinced that he was going mad. There’d been no logical reason for it; none at all.
Evidence.
That sense of ecstasy, that feeling of incredible release. He had convinced himself that it was nothing but relief at having settled his problem with Ellen. What if, it had been Marianna letting go? Hadn’t Ellen grown exhausted immediately afterward and gone to sleep, preventing their departure from the house?
The evidence collapsed with that. There was no sense to the notion that Marianna could affect Ellen as well. Ellen didn’t even know about her, had nothing to do with her. David closed his eyes, defeated. Why fight it? It was him; his lack, his failure. He couldn’t pawn it off on the occult. It would be easier to believe that Marianna had no existence at all, that he’d suffered a hallucination.
He grasped at that straw too before discerning, with a somber smile, that it was hardly possible for Mrs. Brentwood to be subject to the same hallucination. Not that he wasn’t a likely subject for a sexual fantasy—middle-aged, depressed, suffering from serious marital problems. Still, it wasn’t that. It was him—perfectly sane but, in other respects, quite imperfect. He, too, was earthbound, pinioned to the flesh, only too willing an accomplice to its constant and inexorable demands.
Footsteps on the stairs. From somewhere, David found the strength to sit up. Was it Marianna? There was little reason to suppose that it was yet he feared that it might be, that she might have been upstairs with Ellen, told her everything. His fingers gouged in slowly at the sofa cushion as the footsteps neared.
Ellen stopped and looked at him, surprised. “Well, hi.”
“Hi.” He tried to sound untroubled; to reciprocate her smile as she crossed the room.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Fine.”
She sat beside him and, as though it were a casual gesture rather than the agonizing movement of two, incredibly heavy burdens, he put his arms around her. Ellen kissed his cheek. “Good morning.”
“Morning, El.”
“It’s sure a doozy of a day to leave, isn’t it?”
He grunted. “Sure is.”
“Did you sleep?”
“Not much.”
“Oh; I’m sorry.” She squeezed his hand. “Where did you sleep? Down here?”
“Mm-hmm.” He hoped she wasn’t going to ask him why. “Cat naps mostly.”
Ellen kissed him on the cheek again. “You can make up for it tonight.”
He couldn’t visualize that far ahead.
“I’m sorry I conked out on you yesterday,” she said. “I must have been more tired than I thought.”
“That’s all right. You needed it.”
She studied his face. “How long have you been up?”
“An hour: two.”
“That long.” She looked surprised again. “You’ve eaten then.”
He hesitated. “No.”
“You haven’t?”
“I had some coffee.”
“You want some breakfast before we leave?”
Leave, he thought. The prospect seemed not only formidable but, somehow, unattainable.
“We could stop on the way to the airport if you’d rather,” Ellen prompted.
“Oh, we may as well eat here,” he answered. “Use up that food.”
“Oh.” She hesitated, nodded. “Okay, I’ll cook it up.” She looked around. “Where’s your cup?”
He stared at her.
“Didn’t you say you’d had coffee?”
“Oh; yeah. I washed the cup when I was done.”
She nodded again and stood. As she headed for the kitchen, a pang of fear made David shiver. What was wrong with him? He didn’t want to eat here; he wanted to leave. “Uh—”
Ellen turned. “Yes?”
“Would you bring me some water?” he asked.
She stood motionless.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” He almost winced, his tone seemed so grotesquely cheerful. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought there might be.”
“No.”
She gazed at him a few more moments, then moved for the kitchen. Almost instantly, she turned back. “Maybe you should phone for reservations while I’m making breakfast”
“There’s no hurry.”
Ellen gazed at him again. Making him wonder if he looked as tired as he had the past few days. Anxiously, he scanned his mind for something to say that would make her realize he was all right He was still trying when she turned away and went into the kitchen.
As the door swung shut, he slumped against the sofa, all strength gone again. He closed his eyes and let his head loll clumsily. If only he could sleep. Twitching at the thought, he raised his head and stared determinedly into the fireplace. That he mustn’t do.
He frowned, confused. He couldn’t understand why he’d suggested eating breakfast here. Not only would it waste the time it took to prepare but there’d be dishes and utensils to clean again—and, already, it was almost ten o’clock. We have to go, he thought. He tried to stand to tell her but he couldn’t.
When Ellen came back, carrying a glass of water he thought: Perhaps we’d better stay here today and get the utilities turned off. He almost suggested it before he caught himself. Nervously, he took the glass from her. “Thank you.” He felt her eyes on him as he drank.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather eat on the way?” she asked.
“We have to use up that food,” he heard himself reply, startled by the childish logic of his answer. “I mean—there’s time. We’ve already missed the morning flight anyway.”
“Is there an afternoon flight?”
“I imagine.”
“We don’t have a schedule with us?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh.” She nodded, obviously disturbed. “And you don’t think it’s necessary to phone for a reservation?”
“There’s time.”
He had the uncomfortable impression that he’d sounded like an old man. As she stared at him, he broke the silence with the first idea that came to mind. “I’m sorry I finished that martini mix last night.”
Ellen didn’t answer at first; then she said. “I didn’t know you had.”
“You didn’t see the empty bottle?”
“No.”
“Come on.” She was lying to him; that was obvious. He knew she didn’t approve of his drinking.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You don’t have to tactfully pretend you didn’t see it.”
Ellen looked perplexed. “David, I didn’t see it What are you trying to say?”
He stared at her blankly. After a while, he swallowed. “Nothing.”
Ellen sat beside him. “I’m sure there’s something wrong,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because—” She frowned as if the answer were so obvious it needed no recital. “Are you telling me there isn’t?”
“That’s right” He drew in shaking breath. “There isn’t.”
He tried to think of something more to say but couldn’t, his mind like a revolving kaleidoscope, fragments of thought tumbling into endless, fleeting combinations. She kept staring at him so intently that he clutched at one of them. “How come you don’t wear nightgowns?” he asked.
“What?”
“You didn’t hear?”
“I heard.”
“Well?”
“I don’t see what it has to do with—”
“It has everything to do with everything.” He turned his face away, then looked at her irately. “You don’t care to answer, is that it?”
“You really feel it’s vital that you know right now?”
“I do.”
“All right,” she said. “I don’t wear them because you don’t want me to.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I wore them for a long time, David; a long time. I tried to look as nice as I could for you.” She shrugged. “But between—” She broke off.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Between what?”
“David, this is not the time or place. We have to go home.”
His teeth were set on edge now. “Between what?”
Ellen closed her eyes and drew in strengthening breath. “Between one night not caring how I looked and the next night wanting me to look like a whore, there simply wasn’t any point in wearing nightgowns.”
“Wanting you to—?” David looked astounded.
“You deny it?” Her eyes were open now, fixed challengingly on his. “Black Merry Widows? Black demi-bras? Black garter belts? Black silk stockings? Black high heeled shoes? What do you think they made me look like?”
“Perhaps an exciting woman,” he replied. “Perhaps not.” He looked at her coldly. “You slept in those things every other night, did you?”
“I wore them whenever you asked.”
“And sometimes when I didn’t.”
“Because I knew you wanted it that way.”
“But you were repelled by them.”
“Not repelled, for God’s sake! Are you making me out a prude now?”