by Jack Waddell
He stubbed out the cigarette and went out through the doors then used both hands to draw them back together quietly. He followed the sound of the shower down the hallway to her bedroom. He opened the door and closed it behind him. The bathroom door was open and the sound of the shower was louder now. He went in. He watched her silhouette through the translucent shower curtain. There could be no waiting. He kicked off his shoes and took off his clothes, dropping them where he stood in a heap on the floor. He moved to the edge of the curtain and drew it slowly back. She gave a start as he did, then smiled. "Come in," she cooed. "The water's fine."
He stepped into the shower and drew her close feeling her naked wetness warm against his skin. He kissed her deeply. She reached her arms up around his neck and kept the kiss alive thrusting her tongue between his lips. His hands moved to the small of her back pulling her even closer. She could feel him grow against her and slid her hands down to his buttocks and moved her hips slowly in circles against him. His mouth moved to her neck. As he kissed the nape he could feel her body shudder. He turned her around. She leaned forward and braced her hands against the tile beneath the showerhead. His hands cupped her breasts as he felt her warmth part for him. They moved together under the hot cascade, two as one in a slow solo dance. The rhythm stopped twice as she moaned and trembled, her knees briefly giving way. Twice it resumed, each time with a more urgent tempo. His hands moved to her hips. The adagio became allegro in an ever-speeding crescendo of force. It stopped suddenly as he groaned and leaned forward pressing his chest to her back, his arms under her arms pulling her to him as he briefly, slowly, resumed the rhythm. She whimpered suddenly, her legs shaking and bending. He held her tightly for a moment before she turned and embraced him. The pas de deux over, they held each other for some time letting the now cool shower wash them clean.
"I've never felt this," she breathed. "Never. Until you."
"We've but begun my fair, my love."
They moved out from the shower stall. He took a towel and dried her body with caresses. As he did, she leaned to him and kissed his body wherever it came near her; his hands, his arms, his chest, his shoulders, his back. She wrapped herself in another towel and watched as he dried himself and put the towel about his waist. She took his hand and led him into the bedroom. She pulled back the bedspread, then the down comforter. "Lie here and wait for me," she instructed.
He sat on the edge of the bed and swung his legs up on to it. He watched her leave the bedroom. She came back with the bottle and their glasses. She set them on the nightstand and freshened their drinks. "Here," she said handing him the glass. Then she giggled, "You earned it."
Conor gave a sheepish smile. "Nay, 'twas not me alone in that shower as I'm to recall."
She laughed and walked around the foot of the bed and got in, scooting over next to him, her glass in her hand. She took a sip. "This is the way it's supposed to be, isn't it?"
"Aye. I can't be imagining better."
She leaned back over to her nightstand, opened the drawer and took out a cigarette case and some matches. She took two out, lit one and handed it to Conor. Then she lit the other for herself. They sat and talked about her work after Conor referenced what he'd read in the study. He thought what she did fascinating. The conversation went on with her wanting to know about his younger days in Ireland. She thought his descriptions of the place and the people romantic.
She took a last sip of her drink and put the glass on the night table. She cuddled next to him after he did the same. "You know I want you to stay the night with me. Can you do that?"
"I can. And I would want to. There's to be nowhere else I want to be."
"Kiss me," she whispered.
He did and so began another dance.
* * *
The performances continued through the night interrupted only by brief intermissions of sleep and one in which Annie donned her robe and slippers and padded down to the kitchen to return with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches most of which they ended up licking off one another wrestling in laughter.
After the final performance they fell spooned together into a deep slumber that ignored the rising sun and the quiet knock on the bedroom door. More time passed and the knocking resumed, this time louder and more insistent and this time with a voice, "Miss Annie! Miss Annie! Are you all right?"
Annie opened one eye and got her bearings. "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, Opal! I'm fine!" She closed her eye.
"Miss Annie, Mr. Franklin is downstairs and is wanting to be talking to you."
She bolted upright, wide-awake. "Oh shit," she muttered. "Tell him I'll be right down!" she called out.
"Yes, Miss Annie."
Conor sat up. "Your husband is to be home?" he asked in alarm.
"Yes, apparently. I'll handle it. You stay here. What time is it?"
Conor looked at the alarm clock. "Ten to noon. Should I hide somewhere?
"No, you're fine. Just wait for me." She got out of bed and put on a nightgown and then her robe and slippers. She made her way downstairs thankful Franklin had the sense not to burst into her bedroom.
He was standing at the foot of the stairs a drink in his hand. "I hope he's worth it," he opened.
"What are you talking about?"
"The gigolo you have upstairs. The stud. The guy who probably spent the night fucking your brains out."
"Stop it. You don't know that."
Franklin took a step back and reached into his study and pulled Conor's jacket and tie off a chair back. He stepped back and threw them at her feet. "Based on the wardrobe I'd say you've been slumming it, my dear. I hope you'll be careful of disease. Such vermin are prone to carry it, you know."
"You're to talk. It's none of your business!"
"Ah, but it is my business. It's my business when my whore of a wife misses a deadline and delays a performance payment. That costs me money and that is not acceptable. Where the hell were you yesterday? Where the hell is the next draft?"
Annie's hand went to her mouth. She'd forgotten. The rewrite had been due Monday. She'd imagined it the next Monday. "I just forgot. I'm sorry. I'll get it out tonight, tomorrow latest."
"You think you can keep your legs together long enough to do that?"
"Fuck you."
Franklin smirked. "Not me my dear. You. So tell me, does he have a big one? Is he cut? Does he make you sore? I just want to be able to imagine it pounding you."
"Get out!"
He shook his head. "In due time. It's my house. I suggest you go back upstairs and wash yourself. I can smell him on you from here."
"Get out!" she screamed. She turned to go back up the stairs.
Franklin reached down and picked up the jacket and tie. " You!" he called to her. "Take this with you, whore!" He threw the clothes at her. "Tell him to get dressed while you finish your work."
Annie caught the jacket and tie and ran up the stairs. When she entered the bedroom Conor was standing dressed waiting for her. She burst into tears and fell into his arms. "I hate that man! I hate him! Oh, God, how I hate him!' Conor tried to comfort her. He held her in his arms and rocked her as she sobbed. Finally the tears dried and she pulled back. "I must work today. I really did miss a deadline. And now I'm in trouble. Can you make it to Biarritz on your own from here? I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I really need to get to work. I made a big mistake."
"I understand. And I'm to be sorry too. Don't worry. I can handle it. You just take care of yourself."
"Wait until you see his Packard leave. Then you can go. I have to get dressed now."
"When can I see you again?"
"Not soon enough. Wait. Let me get you something." She went to her nightstand and took out paper and a pen. She wrote something down. "Here's my phone number. Call me tomorrow."
"I will."
Annie walked into his arms and kissed him. "I love you," she whispered. Then she went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Conor took his jacket and tie and went into the study an
d looked out the window waiting for Franklin to leave. It wasn't long before he saw him get into the Packard and pull out of the drive. He must go.
* * *
Conor walked a long way through the Hollywood Hills before he came across a bus stop. He was unfamiliar with the area and had set out in the general direction of Biarritz. But he didn't want to caddie. It was too late in the day and he had too much on his mind. And so he walked and thought. His night with Annie still consumed him. Her touch, her scent, her taste were now part of his very being. He loved her. There could be no other, of that he was sure. But Franklin's appearance that morning had drowned out the music on the dance they had danced that night. Reality was louder than their love. She was married. That was the fact.
It wasn't until he got to the bus stop that he decided what he would do. He would go home and change clothes. And then he would go to Biarritz. He would hit golf balls until he could think of nothing else. And he would stay the night in the Bogey House – their house.
(back to top)
Chapter 24
Billy Redux
Thursday, May 22, 1930
Much to Myrtle's displeasure, every nurse on the ward had fallen in love with her son. Old, young, fat, thin, it didn't matter. One of them seemed to be constantly at his bedside smiling, smoothing the covers, fluffing his pillows, taking his temperature, recording his pulse, bringing him water, chatting away, making those eyes. She noticed none of the other patients seemed to be getting such attention. In fact it was only the cries of other patients that seemed to tear the nurses from Billy's company. Myrtle thought it all inappropriate. Very inappropriate.
Billy was feeling better. The double vision still bothered him but he found that if he shook his head it would disappear for a while. His head still hurt, but more from the wound and the stitches than the concussion. He could control the nausea as long as he didn't eat too much at once. That's why he was surprised when the doctor told him they wanted to keep him one more day for observation.
He'd objected. He felt fine. He was tired of lying around. He hated the food. He had things to do. But Myrtle had sided with the doctor. There was no point in rushing things. When Charlie showed up that afternoon he concurred. "Take a break, get your head on straight, this should be a wake up call, think about what you're going to do, take some time," is what he said.
His father didn't stay long. Myrtle was tired from her vigil and Billy was very much better. She felt like she would be leaving him in good hands, even if the hands were all too eager. So the two of them left for home after making Billy promise to rest like the doctor had ordered.
It had been easier to agree than to argue with them. So that's what he did. But in his mind he knew differently. The only way he could extricate himself from the mess he had made was to make money and make it fast. The Calcutta was the answer. As he lay in bed he assessed his physical state. Nothing was broken. With the help of a caddie he could calculate distances and line up with a target. All he really had to do was stand up and make a swing. He decided he could do that. He would do that. He had to do that.
As they had the past two days the nurses chose to take report at their four o'clock shift change while at Billy's bedside. Billy took the occasion to imagine himself cutting the herd.
* * *
Staying at Bogie House Conor was able to get into the yard early and so was able to pick up a double with one of the first groups out that morning. He got a single bag in the afternoon and was back in the yard by four o'clock. He then found himself playing two-handed pinochle with Dogface while he waited for a chance at one more loop. The card game was mindless enough that he could think. His night with Annie only strengthened his resolve to make her his own. Losing the chance at the Calcutta had put an end to the most immediate path. But there had to be a way and toting golf bags for rich people was not it. He thought about Michael and his connections. Maybe a horse would come along that wouldn't break its leg. Maybe there was a job at the ranch that would at least give him a steady income. After all, Michael had been able to put away a hundred dollars. He couldn't do that caddying. After an hour of cards and such thoughts he gave up on the day. He thought about Billy. He was angry with him; this was true. But he had become a friend. And now he was a friend who was hurt. He decided to pay him a visit in the hospital.
* * *
Billy was picking with his fork at a monochromatic plate of unidentifiable food when he saw Conor poke his head around the curtain. "Hey, what a surprise! Come on in," he greeted him.
"'Tis good to see your eyes open and your mouth working," Conor replied. "'Twas not the case last I saw you."
"Wasn't a lot to fix in there," he said pointing to his head with his knife. "I'm doing better. No thanks to this slop, though," he said tossing the utensils on the tray. "What have you been up to?"
"'Tis back to caddying for me, although I was to be hitting balls last night. Am still to be trying to wind down from getting ready for the Calcutta. Sort of like cooling off a horse after a workout I'm to be thinking."
Billy laughed. "Don't be talking about horses after that weekend we had in Tijuana."
Conor smiled. "No, that did nobody any good, did it?"
"It had its moments."
"So when are you to get out of here?"
Billy looked at Conor for a moment before replying. "I'm thinking right now."
"Now?"
"Yes."
"You're to mean right this minute?"
"Yes"
"Can you do that?"
"'With your help."
Just then a nurse popped in to check Billy's pulse and take his temperature. "And how are we this evening, Mr. Compton?" she purred. "I see you'll be staying with us at least one more day."
She'd popped the thermometer in his mouth so quickly he could only reply, "Ummm."
Conor gave him a quizzical look. Billy just shrugged.
The nurse took her hand from his wrist somewhat reluctantly it seemed to Conor. "Your pulse is fine," she said. Then she took the thermometer from his mouth and looked at it. "And so is your temperature." As she shook the thermometer down she asked, "Is there anything else I can get you? Water? A cup of tea? Anything?"
"No, thank you…" he looked at her name tag… "Gladys… I'm fine."
Gladys smiled and looked at Billy her hands clasped in front of her. She didn't move.
"Thank you, Gladys. Now I really need to talk to my manager, here. Very important business."
She was still standing and still smiling.
"Secret business," Billy said.
"Oh," she said, finally getting the drift. "I'm sorry. I'll be back in a few minutes to check on you. You sure there's nothing I can get you?"
"No thank you, Gladys."
When she left Conor whispered, "You can't be leaving tonight! The nurse just said you're to be staying another day."
"We have to play the Calcutta. We have to. Both of us. I want you to help get me out of here. Take me over to Biarritz and see if I can hit balls. I think I can. And if I can we're going to play in that tournament."
"I don't know. We could be getting into trouble."
"We're already in trouble. At least I am. Come on. Be a sport."
Conor thought about it for a second. "All right. What do you want me to do?"
"Help me get dressed. My car's still down in the lot. Keys are in the stand there. I'm not sure I should drive but you can. Let's get to the club before we lose the light."
* * *
The ruse had been simple enough. Conor carried the food tray down to the nurses’ station then feigned a fall and spilled everything onto the floor in a clatter. He grabbed his knee and screamed as if in pain. The act drew the attention of enough nurses Billy was able to slip down the hall and down the stairs unnoticed. Once he was gone, Conor stopped moaning, stood up and smiled. “I’m to be so sorry for the mess. So clumsy of me.” And then he walked out of the ward as the nurses watched bewildered.
They drove down
to the Bogey House and parked by the barn. Conor collected his clubs and the shag bag from the cellar steps. Billy was a little shaky on his feet so Conor gave him his wedge to use as a cane. With the bandage around his head and the hobble Billy joked he must look like the fifer in "The Spirit of '76." They made their way through the hedge and to a spot out in front of the fifteenth tee. Conor spilled out half the bag. "Let's to see what you can do. But take it easy. Just try some pitches first."
Billy raked a ball from pile and stutter-stepped his way into a stance. His first swing missed the ball. So did the second. He looked a little like a drunk trying to kill a snake. "Just figuring out where the ball is," he explained. He shook his head before making the next swing and he made contact, half topping it along the grass. "There it is," he said. He shook his head again and swung. The ball was struck solidly and arched into the air flying fifty yards down the fairway. "I think I got it now."
He did. With each successive swing Conor could see Billy the golfer coming back to life. The tempo smoothed, the turn got bigger and ball flew further. After a half hour he was hitting the driver high and far with his usual little draw.
He turned back to Conor. "I can do this."
"Aye. You can." Conor was quietly thrilled. The Calcutta was on!
"That's enough, though. I'm beat."
"Where do you want to go? Want to try and stay in the Bogey House tonight?"
"No. I need real food and my own bed. Plus my parents may be wondering where the hell I am. You can stay there too if you like."
"All right. We'll see."
* * *
Billy and Conor walked into the dining room as Charlie and Myrtle were finishing their supper. The parents looked up, startled at the sight of the son they'd just left convalescing in a hospital bed a few hours ago. Charlie was the first to find his voice. "What in the Sam Hill are you doing here?"
"I'm home," Billy said, stating the obvious.
"I can see that, smart guy. Why aren't you in the hospital where you belong?"
"I didn't belong there. I'm all right."
"That's not what the doctor said, dear," Myrtle piped in.
"No, I am. In fact Conor and I were just out at Biarritz hitting balls."
"Oh no!" Myrtle cried. "You're much too ill for that!"
