by Mary Astor
She stopped trying. Protecting them both from his headstrong impulsiveness was a full-time job. She had to do the thinking, the worrying, the maneuvering out of situations that might be dangerous. Love and exasperation were mismates but they had to be accepted. He loved to give her presents, and she loved him for bringing them to her, postponing her dismay until she was alone. It was impossible to make him understand that she couldn’t wear a lovely expensive blue sweater set he’d found for her in town. How to explain, even if she could tell Brian that she had bought it for herself, that their money was accounted for to the last penny and that she had no rich out-of-town relative who might have sent her such a gift. A pair of heavenly aquamarine earrings—“to match your eyes”—the filmiest of nightgowns, all found themselves in the bottom of a trunk in the storeroom, until she could put her mind on what to do with them. Luckily—and yet strangely—he never spoke of his gifts afterward. It was apparently an impulsive thing—buying and offering, and receiving her smiling, loving “Thank yous” was all there was to it. And foolishly, she would keep the gift around to look at, to dream over as a symbol of his love, postponing its safer storage in the trunk.
His own obvious love for her was reproof enough for any complaints at this tightrope-walking existence. To save him any misery about her relationship with Brian she had explained it, carefully—that she loved Brian “in quite a different way.”
“He’s like a good, solid friend. We’re fond of each other. I feel safe and protected with Brian.” She would have gone further, lied even, about their very occasional sex relations, made them seem even more occasional, and more meaningless than they actually were, for she required reassurance of Charlie’s fidelity. Her jealousy was a torment, especially when he seemed cool and quiet and remote.
He had seemed not to care even to talk about Brian. Perhaps it was a superiority of taste, of a sense of delicacy beyond his years. But, hating herself, she had to probe, to find out, to ask unanswerable questions that would make secure an obviously insecure position.
“Aren’t you ever jealous of me, my darling?” His head on the pillow, the brown muscular arms behind his neck, and the faint, mocking smile, all maddeningly sensuous to her, made her want more of him than he could possibly give. Dissatisfied physically, she tried to fill the emptiness with words.
“Sure I’m jealous. I’m a red-blooded male.”
“I never know when you are—do you ever worry about the fact that I might find someone else—one of the other men in your class, maybe—attractive?”
He seemed to think it over, still looking at her, the smoke from the cigarette in his lips making him squint his eyes, giving him an inscrutable look.
“You’d never do such a thing. You’re too—well bred.”
“Oh, Charlie,” she laughed, “you and your ‘breeding’—I’m not exactly from the wrong side of the tracks, but I spring from a very ordinary, very dull line of teaching people.”
“They must have been wonderful, to bring you into this troubled old world. You’re so beautiful and exciting and lovely.”
“I’m old!” she coaxed.
“Pooh—what’s age!”
“Fifteen years is an awful difference, darling—especially on the wrong side of the ledger.”
“How can it be wrong? I’m flattered and grateful, that a perfect being like you would even look at me!”
This was wine, soothing and comforting, and she drank deeply of it. “You’ll forget all about me. Someday you’ll meet a girl of your own age.”
He raised himself on one elbow—cupped her face in his long fingers. “Stop that! Stop it! You don’t trust me! How could I ever—even look at another woman?”
Charlie stirred as the little clock began to strike. Jane leaned and kissed his forehead. “Wake up, baby-thing—you have to go.” He groaned. “Oh, please—lemme sleep a little——”
Gently she pushed him up to a sitting position; he slept so heavily, like a child. Groggily he shook his head.
“Come on, off you go, it’s very late, I let you sleep.”
“What did you do that for? I should be back in bed.”
Unbelievably, Jane heard the sound of the garage door behind the house. It couldn’t be—dear God, it was—Brian! Choking with fear, she pulled Charlie to his feet, slapping his face frantically, trying to wake him fully.
“Hey, stop! What are you doing anyway!”
“Charlie, Charlie!” she whispered frantically. “It’s Brian, he’s come back! Run, get out of here.”
“Okay, okay, I hear you, what are you so scared about?” He patted her cheek. “Good night, my beautiful, my dearest.” He listened for a second, and then, soundlessly, swiftly, he was gone.
As the key in the back door rattled Jane turned on the wall light brackets, emptying the ash tray in the wastebasket, gratefully remembering she had straightened up the bedroom before they came down. Quickly she opened the swinging door into the kitchen and turned on the wall switch.
“Brian!” she cried. “What in the world! I thought we had burglars, I couldn’t believe——”
“Cut my damned hand,” he said, holding out a badly bandaged fist. “I was afraid I’d better have it looked at—would have been stupid to stay any longer and risk infection.”
“Oh, darling, let me see.” In her relief she could afford to make a fuss over him, and then, with the hand washed and disinfected and rebandaged, fresh coffee made, they sat in the living room, while he told her of the poor fishing, the amount of mileage he’d got on the car, the weather at the lake—the factual filling up of the gap of time since he had seen her.
There was something so solid about Brian—he filled a room with his presence. As he talked, Jane stood off in her mind and watched him fill a pipe, ease his feet out of the heavy boots; listening to his rumbling, familiar voice, a wave of relaxation swept over her. The whole stupid affair with Charlie seemed suddenly what it was, an insanity. Nothing, nothing, must endanger her marriage. She must rid herself of this attachment—somehow, some way, she’d figure it out. She’d settle down and be a good wife to Brian and stop trying to hold onto her youth—it was a losing game anyway. And Brian loved her—he needed no spate of words. He trusted her completely, without saying so, simply expecting nothing but the best from her, as the best of himself was given to her.
They walked upstairs together with linked arms, Brian yawning his fatigue. “Big doings tomorrow night, eh? Got a new dress?” What big doings! “Oh—oh, tonight, you mean—the Halloween dance? No, no new dress, honey—the good old basic black and the little pearls is all. Maybe I’ll wear a pumpkin for a head!” Without realizing it her heart had started hammering again. Why! Why? Because Charlie would be there, of course.
The band was inadequate, the punch was a little on the sweet side, there were not quite enough girls to go around, as many of them preferred to wait and come up for the bigger event of the Christmas ball, but on the whole it was a successful party. The moon obliged by being full, mellow, and properly pumpkin-colored, and the weather was mild enough for sauntering on the stone terrace between dances.
Jane felt tired. The muscles of her mouth were cramped from smiling, from the effort of living up to her reputation as the young vital wife of Brian Dexter. The boys tired her by cutting in constantly—she was the one faculty wife with whom they could perform their obligation and have a good dance and a few laughs at the same time.
She had danced a discreet two times with Charlie. He was so tall she could turn her face to his shoulder and drop her mask of pleasant gaiety, giving in momentarily to the excitement of being so close to him. Above her head, he hummed to the music and whispered to her, “Isn’t it fun? Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Not much, I’d rather be alone with you.”
“The Fraser girl’s pretty, isn’t she? Andy’s sister. Boy, that red hair!”
In spite of herself, Jane felt herself stiffen in annoyance, and wonder at his impertinence in spending precious m
oments with her talking about another woman—well, all right, girl. She was about to rebuke him when the music stopped. They applauded politely and he looked down at her with that engulfing warmth that always staggered her. “Can I get you something?” he said. “You look like a doll!”
“Thanks no, dear, I think it would be best if you took me back to Brian for intermission—we must be careful.” She felt perspiration on her upper lip as they walked down the long hall through the chattering couples. It was like taking a beating, she felt; this torture of too much emotion, this touchiness, this oversensitivity to his every word, every look, every movement of his handsome body. He was one of those men born to wear a dinner jacket. No look of gauche, misfitting, dressed-in-a-uniform stiffness that most of the boys had; it simply enhanced his bearing and drew the eyes of the girls like magnets. She wanted to be back with Brian, where she couldn’t watch the admiration Charlie drew, where she couldn’t see some young thing tip her head back and look up at him like a flower to the sun.
He was saying to Brian, “Thanks very much, sir; your wife is an excellent dancer. I enjoyed it, Mrs. Dexter,” and he moved off into the crowd.
Brian tucked her arm beneath his own. “Honey, you look a little beat. Let’s go into the lounge where you can kick off your shoes.” Dear, sweet, no-nonsense Brian!
Three long rapid strides took Charlie to the door of the ladies’ powder room, from which Barbara Fraser was emerging, having repaired slight damages to her complexion.
Charlie closed in. “You know, Barbara, we all kid Andy about his red hair.”
“You do? Now, is that nice! Are you going to kid me about mine?”
“That would be like kidding about a sunset.”
She was terribly pleased, but it was more in form not to seem to be. It was “the thing” to do to keep matters on a bantering, lightly insulting level.
“And what do you say to blondes? That it would be like kidding about moonlight?”
“Wrong. Let’s see now, if you were a blonde, I’d have to say something about halos—and I hate halos!”
He steered her out the door to the terrace, where they got caught in a slight traffic jam. The intermission was about over, and the girls in their colorful frocks wedged themselves with giggles and apologies past each other and then broke free like butterflies.
“Whew, it’s hot in there,” said Barbara as Charlie moved to her side. “Isn’t the river lovely tonight!”
Charlie said, “I’d like a nickel for every single time someone has said, ‘Isn’t the river lovely tonight!’ ”
“Well, it is! Charlie, you are awful!” and she flounced prettily away from him.
He drew out a cigarette case, silver, monogrammed. “Want one?” he asked.
“My!” she exclaimed. “Just like William Powell—real suave.”
“Man of the world, that’s little Charlie,” he said as he struck a match for her.
She looked at him over the light, in the best movie-star manner. “Lots of people say I look like Myrna Loy. What do you think? She’s got red hair and green eyes too.”
“Has she? It looks black in the movies.”
“Well, of course it does, but don’t you read the movie magazines? They say she has freckles too, but they don’t show.”
“And I bet you’ve got a lot you don’t show——”
The girl blinked and caught her breath. “Why, Charlie!” she whispered, and glanced nervously around her. Several couples not quite in earshot were ambling slowly up and down the terrace.
He moved a step toward her, and she backed up against the stone balustrade. “Please, please,” he whispered, “lean over a little, let me see——” He plucked at the lacy edge of the neck of her gown, sliding the back of his hand to the full outside curve.
“Charlie, are you crazy? Somebody will—don’t, please, Charlie, I don’t want to have to make a fuss——”
“I won’t do anything—just please—pull your dress loose at the top—just with your fingers—just enough so I can see your nipples.”
With an indignant gasp she slapped his hands away from her and her cigarette flew out of her fingers onto the diaphonous fabric of her dress.
Charlie bent quickly. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it, I’ll get it.” Like lightning, in one move, he knocked the cigarette from the hem of her skirt and rose with the delicate folds tight in his fist. Her quick scream was muffled as he pulled the skirt over her head, holding it tight behind her neck. He pressed a knee in to open her thighs and as he was fumbling, cursing frantically, he felt a blast in his ear. The terrace tilted and the darkness and the moonlight and the sound of gasping and screaming blended as one sensation and then cut out dead.
There was a soft click . Another. Something rustled, and there was a stir of air. Charlie slept.
In only a moment, it seemed, there was another click . . . click . Another rustle . . . A voice, sibilant . . . A word: “Sedative.” . . . Charlie groaned, and slept.
Again: Click . . . click! Charlie pushed his fists against the sunlight and growled. “What the hell goes on! Let a guy sleep.” From under his lids that seemed stuck together he could see the pleats of a tan wool skirt.
“Can you hear me now, Charlie?”
Startled at the sound of Jane’s voice, he raised up, and then sank back again, holding his jaw. “Oh, Christ!”
“You’ll be all right, Charlie—lie back, take it easy.”
Months went by, and then the sunlight plucked at his eyelids again. Full consciousness surged through him. He sat straight up and, wide-eyed, looked around him, at the strange surroundings, the white walls, the unaccustomed height of the bed. “What is this, the infirmary?”
“Yes, Charlie,” said Jane. “They carried you over here unconscious, and then when you came to a little bit you were flailing around and raving so, they gave you a sedative and called in a nurse.”
A pair of sparrows scolded on the window sill. The half-drawn shade flapped a little. Charlie poked an exploring finger into his mouth and withdrew a bloody pack of gauze. “My teeth! My back teeth—they’re gone!” He turned to Jane. “Who th’ hell was it that socked me?” he asked indignantly.
Jane was sitting stiff and rigid in a small chair, holding back her need to cry, trying to control her sick rage, hoping she would be able to fulfill the purpose of her visit, to play the role that Brian and the dean had assigned her. “You know the boy, Jane, maybe you can talk to him—find out something, some explanation for his actions,” Brian had said. She had protested, on the grounds that one didn’t “know” a boy, simply because he’d been around at a few tea parties. But not too much. It had been all she could do to lie still and pretend to be asleep in the endless night, tortured and full of shame for herself and for him. Wanting to get to him—talk to him. Talk! She faced the fact that what she really wanted to do was—make him suffer in some way for the suffering she was going through.
She had been fairly composed by the time she reached the infirmary. She had bathed and dressed, deliberately, carefully, attending to little details, dissipating emotion by little actions. Going over what she should say to him with Brian, about finding out what Charlie would like them to tell his parents, to make it easy on them; to tell him that they “understood” that it must have been some kind of temporary insanity, but that that wouldn’t lessen the fact that he would have to leave. Brian said that he and the others were just too damn disgusted to be able to talk any kind of sense, and that she could probably handle it with diplomacy.
Now, sitting beside him, looking up at him on the high, hospital bed, his face puffed and swollen, she could only hope to be able to say what she was supposed to say—and then get out.
“Do you remember—what happened, Charlie?”
He looked at her, perplexed, and then as it came back he relaxed back onto the pillow. “That little tart!” he chuckled.
“Oh, Charlie—no, no, no!” She put her face in her hands. “You’ve got to talk about this as
it really happened. To realize what you’ve done, not only to the school, but to yourself and to me.”
“To you! What did I do to you! Did anybody hit you? Did you get your teeth knocked out?”
“What came over you, Charlie—what went on in that mind of yours—how could anything like that happen so suddenly—how could it happen at all!”
“Oh, you just don’t understand one bit—I can see that,” he accused.
“You are so right.” Her breath became shorter. “You who have said so often that our love was ‘sacred,’ that we belonged to each other ‘forever.’ I believed you, because you were so young, and I felt that words like that had not yet become just a ‘line.’ It takes years of training and effort to be that much of a bastard! Where did you learn it all so fast——” She was crying now, angrily, bitterly.
“Now, now, Jane—don’t make a fuss, please—I can’t stand it, I still feel awfully groggy. I’ll be all right in a day or so—and then watch out——” He leaned over and tweaked her nose.
She pushed his hands away and went to the window, her arms folded over the sickness in her stomach. She spoke, calmly, her voice raised a tone, and cold. “You don’t seem to comprehend what has happened to you—leaving us and our relationship out of it. You’ve been sacked, my boy. You’ve been thrown out on your behind as a disgrace to the school. Do you know what that’s going to do to your parents? Do you know what it’s done to your life?”
Charlie started to yell. “Listen, Mrs. High-and-mighty-nympho-Dexter, you can just goddam well leave my parents out of this. They’ll understand all right. They know the kind of phonies you people are. That you’re jealous of people like us, because we have money and breeding and culture. Why, they wouldn’t even spit on a woman like you. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if somebody didn’t put that redheaded floozy up to it—the way she pulled up her skirts right there in front of everybody, making it look like I was going to rape her or something. I feel sorry for her—that kind of behavior!”
