‘Miss Russell, it would help his case. When he comes up for sentencing, it can provide mitigating circumstances more human and understandable than the evil influence of the printed page. I think it would then behoove the judge to mete out a lighter sentence.’
‘You really believe that?’
T honestly do.’
‘Well…’ she said, and paused, studying his face. ‘Maybe I’m beginning to believe what you say. Or maybe I’m a fool and being taken in. But…’ She hesitated. ‘While I feel that I can’t give you any personal information directly, there might be others who would be willing to speak more freely. You want to know about Jerry’s
background?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know, before I came here my Aunt Ethel had another companion who was with her for a year or two. She was just a companion and sort of practical nurse, not involved in any secretarial work the way I am. After she quit or was fired or whatever happened, that’s when my aunt offered me the job. Maybe that woman could give you a little help.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Mrs Isabel Vogler. I think she lived out in Van Nuys. That’s the most I can offer by way of appreciation for what you did tonight.’
“Thank you.’
She took up her purse. ‘You’ve been asking me questions, Mr Barrett. You know, I have some personal ones to ask of you, also.’
‘I wish you would. I enjoy talking about myself.’
‘No, on second thought, I think not. Besides, it’s too late now. I’d better get some sleep, if I expect to cope with Jerry.’
‘Not even one question ?’
‘I was going to ask you about Faye Osborn. I know her casually. Now I know you a little. I was just curious.’
‘About what she sees in me, or vice versa?’
‘That was your question, Mr Barrett, not mine. About the vice versa, I’m curious, not catty. No, I was just curious about how you met and all that. But that can wait.” She stood up. “Now I’ve got to run.”
Barrett came to his feet. ‘You said your question or questions can wait. I take that to mean you would be willing to see me again ?’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean -‘
‘Then I mean what I’m saying. I would like to see you again. No prying, I promise you. Strictly social.’
‘It’s tempting, Mr Barrett. But I’m afraid not. If I were seen with you in public, and the family learned I was seeing you, they’d misunderstand. No, let’s leave things the way they are. But if… if I can ever help you in any way, I mean in a way that doesn’t jeopardize my relationship with the family, well, you have my private number.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
She started to leave the table, and when he stood up to accompany her she held up her hand. ‘No, I think it would be wiser if I left alone. Good night, and thanks for the treat.’
‘Good night, Miss Russell.’
He watched her until she had left, and then as he picked up the checkhesawbeside it the napkin on which he had scrawled thename of the former Griffith employee, Mrs Isabel Vogler, of Van Nuys.
A possible peephole into the Griffith past.
Maggie Russell’s gift out of gratitude.
It was a real lead, and despite the lateness of the hour he determined to pursue it at once. Leaving a tip, he went to the cash
register, paid his bill, and then went back to the gas station. He gave the attendant his credit card and asked where there was a telephone booth. The attendant pointed off.
Once inside the booth, Barrett dialed information, and was relieved to learn there was still a Mrs Isabel Vogler listen in Van Nuys. Immediately he sorted out his change, deposited the required coins, and dialed the number he had been given.
The receiver bumped noisily off the phone cradle in Van Nuys. A little boy’s sleepy voice piped, ‘Hello?’
‘Does Mrs Isabel Vogler live there?’
‘Yes. But Mom isn’t home. She went next door. She said for me to take any messages. She said to take names and anything else. Are you calling about a job for Mom ?’
What he was calling Mrs Vogler about would be too complicated to explain to a child. He decided to make the message an easy one. ‘Yes, it’s about a job. Do you have a pencil and paper ? Tell her a gentleman by the name of Mike Barrett called.’ He spelled out his last name slowly. ‘Got that? Barrett.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell your Mom I’d like to interview her for a job tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. I’ll give you my address, and in case she can’t make it at that time I’ll give you my telephone number.’ He dictated his address, apartment number, and telephone number with care. ‘Tell your Mom I hope she can be there. And tell her I’ll pay her for her bus fare.’
‘I’ll tell her, Mr Barridd.’
‘Barrett. Two t’s.’ He spelled his name again. ‘Got it now?’
‘Yes, sir, I’ll tell her.’
Leaving the booth, Barrett stopped to sign the charge slip and pick up his credit card. Continuing to the convertible, he found Maggie Russell reclining in his mind. He savored the sight of what his mind’s eye focused upon: the parting of her moist lips when she listened, the movement of her breasts beneath her blouse when she was animated, the motion of her supple thighs when she walked. Yes, visual rape. It left him weakened.
Standing beside his car, he wondered what questions she had really meant to ask him about Faye.
Faye.
Christ, he’d almost forgotten. He brought up his wristwatch. It was eighteen minutes after eleven o’clock. Faye would have been waiting a half hour before he got to the paartment. She was not used to being kept waiting, and she would be difficult. He would have to make up a plausible story to explain his tardiness. Scratch Maggie Russell for sure. A witness, a male witness, that he’d chased down and interviewed. That might do it.
But perhaps no story would be needed immediately. For, in her irritation, Faye might have slammed out of his apartment and gone home. Then he knew this was not likely. This was the night of the
week she called her geisha night. She would never let it pass un-consummated. She loved it. And he usually looked forward to it, too, except tonight he was worn out. He’d already had one woman. He was in no mood for two. Yet two it must be.
He got into the car. Coming, Faye. He sped away to join in geisha night.
She had accepted his story, and not been difficult after all. During their first half hour together she had made him two drinks, and two for herself, and she had lain back in his arm on the sofa, gossiping lazily and teasing him with kisses and wanting him to be happy. And soon she had become impatient to go to bed.
Now, a little after midnight, he stood barefoot next to his bed, removing his shirt and his trousers. He was down to his jock shorts when he heard her emerge from the bathroom.
Faye Osborn went to the portable record player, found her favorite bedroom music, Manuel de Falla’s ‘Ritual Fire Dance.’ She placed the platter on the turntable, started the player, turning the volume to low. Observing her as she listened, undulating, then gliding toward the opposite side of the bed, Barrett was conscious once more of how much softer and more appealing was her person when divested of outer garments. As usual, she wore only a transparent negligee, pink this time, tied loosely at the neck. Her blond hair was loose, making her angular facial features seem rounder, and the filmy negligee revealed the brown nipples of her moon breasts and her deep navel set in the flat stomach and the triangular pelvic bone that pointed downward to the narrow vaginal area.
His desire mounted, and he began to pull off his jock shorts before he sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘Mike, do you always keep this next to your bed like the Bible?’ she asked lightly.
He glanced over his shoulder. ‘What?’
She held up a copy of The Seven Minutes. ‘This. It was right here by your lamp.’
‘I keep it handy. I continually refer to it. Part of the pretrial preparation. And, a
s a matter of fact, I never get tired of it.’ He tossed his shorts on a chair, and swung around onto the bed. ‘Darling, I still say you ought to read the copy I gave you.’
She dropped the book on the table, then lowered herself on the bed, pulling the negligee around her as she settled back against the pillow. She turned her head on the pillow, and said sweetly, ‘I have read it, Mike. I finished reading it last night.’
‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ He rolled over beside her and propped himself up on one elbow. ‘Well, now that you’ve read it, don’t you agree I’m right?’
She reached out and touched his naked chest. ‘Mike, lying here like this, it’s one time we should be perfectly honest with each other, isn’t it?’
‘Honest about what? Are you referring to the book?’
‘Yes, because -‘
‘Sweetie, can’t that wait ? We can talk afterward. Right now…’
With one arm he started to embrace her, but she raised a hand to stop him.
‘No, please, Mike. Right now, just for a little bit, I want to talk. Because the book, it’s tied up with - with everything else about us. Do you mind?’
His desire had fled. Pique had begun to replace passion. ‘Mind? Why should I mind ?’ He tried to keep the irritation out of his tone of voice. ‘You want to talk first, so let’s talk. The chair recognizes Faye Osborn, the gorgeous, irresistible -‘
‘Mike, what I have to say is serious.’
He nodded solemnly. ‘I’ll listen serious.’
‘And you agree we can be absolutely honest.’
‘Absolutely honest.’
‘Very well, then, Mike, I’m going to tell you about your precious book. No, I don’t think you are right about it. I think you are wrong.’ She took his shoulder. ‘Mike, let’s level, let’s be truthful. I read the book. I hated it. It’s a vulgar, dirty little piece of trash, indescribably filthy and thoroughly dishonest. And I know in your heart of hearts you agree with me. Now nobody’s listening. Forget your involvement in the case. That’s the truth, isn’t it, Mike?’
He sat up, flushing. ‘No, dammit, it’s not the truth. It’s the beauty of the book that made me take on the case, and not the other way around, as you’d have it. What are you talking about, Faye? I can’t believe my ears. I really can’t. What did you call it ?
‘I read it, and afterward I wanted to soap and wash myself all over. I called it vulgar, dirty, filthy, dishonest. Had I known what was in it, I would never have permitted you to make a public spectacle of yourself by defending such obscenity. You agreed we could be honest, Mike. I’m being honest.’
‘Okay, you’re being honest. But I’m trying to figure you out. How’s what you read about in The Seven Minutes any different from what we’ve been doing every week and were about to do tonight? Is what we’re doing vulgar and dirty?’
She sat straight up. ‘Mike, how dare you compare the two! What we do is decent. Our language is decent. Our love is honest. But, even then, I don’t think what we do in privacy should be paraded in public. Sex should be a private matter.’
‘Maybe it’s been kept too private for too many years, and that’s what’s ailing so many people,’ he said. ‘And as for our love being honest, yes - but why is the love in the book any less honest ?’
‘Because it’s false love,’ Faye persisted. ‘The heroine, Cathleen -all those thoughts she has during intercourse, they’re contrived only to titillate. They have nothing to do with reality. When a real woman is being made love to, that’s not how she thinks and feels. That’s only the way the author, a man, thought a woman feels or
should feel. Even Dr Kinsey would support me in what I say. You’re always throwing experts at me. Let me throw Dr Kinsey at you. He says that females in those pornographic books always extoll the male’s genital size and copulatory capacity, and those books always exaggerate the female’s response and her insatiability for sex. Yet that kind of heroine portrays only the kind of female which most males wish all women to be. But in real life - and now I’m quoting me, Mike - women don’t think and feel that way ever. Only the Jadways do. It’s ridiculous and degrading. Mike, believe me, I know. I’m a woman.’
His mind had gone to Maggie, a woman who also knew. He said, ‘You’re one kind of woman, Faye, and you know how you feel when you’re being made love to, but many women may feel differently, far differently.’
‘Like that whore in the book?’
‘Like that decent woman in the book who has memories, wishes, thoughts, feelings which probably come close to representing what the majority of women think and feel inside themselves, but they are afraid to admit it.’
‘No respectable woman on earth ever let that kind of garbage fill her head. And no woman on earth, except maybe a streetwalker, would imagine or express herself in such language.’
‘What language ? What language are you talking about ?’
‘Language is words. All those words. Like the word she uses for feeling sexy or bitchy or whatever, the word she uses for that and for her - her private parts.’
‘What word?’ he demanded. ‘What word was so repulsive?’
‘Please, Mike, you know I can’t use a word like that. I hate it -it’s filthy.’
‘Do you mean when Cathleen says she feels like a cunt all over ?’
‘Mike!’
That’s it, isn’t it? The word “cunt”?’
‘Mike, stop it.’
‘Honey, listen to me. That word has been in use since the Middle Ages. It’s a Teutonic word that corresponds with the Latin word cuneus, which means wedge. Jadway wasn’t the first to use it. Geoffrey Chaucer used its Middle English equivalent. Laurence Sterne used it. John Fletcher used it. D. H. Lawrence used it. Certainly it’s a vulgarism, but it’s a word countless men use in their speech and plenty of women have in their heads. What’s wrong with a writer’s having the courage to describe what really goes on inside a woman’s mind?’ He tried to calm down, maintain the argument on a plane of reason. ‘Faye, that word is in Canterbury Tales. The Wife of Bath says, “For certainly, old dotard, by your leave,/You shall have cunt all right enough at eve.” Except that Chaucer used “queynte,” which is thought to have the same connotation as “cunt.” Would you ban Chaucer from schools and libraries because he used it ?’
Faye’s indignation had not abated. ‘Mike, I’m not a child. Don’t lecture me, or try to put me off with pedagoguery. I’m simply telling you I’m a woman, and I’m like most women, and I know what offends me. I don’t care who’s used the word - Chaucer, Lawrence, any of them - it’s still a vomitous word. It’s dishonest, and any writer who uses it knows nothing about women, is hostile toward women, wants to degrade them, and is preaching disrespect of women to every male reader, young or old. Don’t look down your nose at me, Mike. I know when I’m right and you’re wrong. I abhor language like that, and I don’t want you having any part of that filth. More and more I see how right Dad was in wanting to keep you away from this kind of case. He knew it could corrupt and warp anyone involved in it. And it’s already making you say things and do things that I know are contrary to your real nature.’
Her mention of her father had unnerved him again. The last remnants of his wrath were in retreat, and only a small part of resentment remained. ‘Well, I’m in the case, and I’m staying in,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘As for Jadway’s judgment, or my own, of what takes place secretly in women’s minds, perhaps we are both mistaken. Maybe we can never know. And maybe women themselves don’t know. But at the very least, whether we’re accurate or inaccurate, the use of certain language as a literary device to point up the mysteries of stream of consciousness may be sufficient defense of such vulgarisms.’
All through the last, her head had been cocked sideways as she listened and observed him - trying to assess his annoyance, he guessed - and now she was smiling, softening, ready to reach out for a compromise. Her hand had touched and then covered his hand. ‘I’m glad you see my side of it a l
ittle, and I’ll try to understand yours. I only know I’m a woman, and I’m against anything that degrades me. I’m a woman and I want respect and love. You know that, Mike.’
‘Certainly.’
Her hand had gone up his arm, and as she slowly sank back against the pillow she gently pulled him down until he lay beside her. She ran her fingers through his hair. ‘I’m sorry, Mike,’ she said softly. ‘I don’ t want to fight about all that silliness. I want tolo vey ou.’
She went closer to him, her head against his chest. ‘And I know what’s been inside my head these last minutes, and there wasn’t one dirty word, there was only one word, and that’s “love.” I kept thinking how I want you and need you, and how I want only what’s best for you and for us.’
‘Yes,’ he said. Corneille was offering him his next line: ‘O heaven, what a lot of virtues you make me hate.’ He kept it to himself.
‘Don’t be cold, Mike, don’t punish me,’ she said in a muffled voice, ‘not when I want you so much.’
His arm tightened around her body and his hand reached toward
her breast and caressed it beneath the gown. ‘I want you, too.’
‘Then forget books and make-believe,’ she whispered, ‘and let’s love each other.’
But while he continued to caress her, he made no other move. Lingering resentment of her attitude, her righteousness, hung between them like a thin curtain, separating her from him, and he could not bring himself to push aside the curtain and find desire.
He felt her cool long fingers trace their way across his ribs and move down his hip and he felt them move between his legs and touch what still lay flaccid, and her fingers curled around it and massaged it and her breath and throaty words penetrated the thin curtain. ‘1 love you down there, Mike, I love him - make him love me - don’t hold him back - let him get big, I like to feel him get big.’
He meant to resist, but resistance weakened and faded as he grew large in her hand. ‘All right,’ he groaned, ‘all right.’
And the curtain was gone.
She had pulled loose the ribbon that held her negligee together, and now the garment fell away, and her breasts trembled and her torso wriggled as he came over her and he kissed her breasts and his lips circled her hardening nipples and then his mouth kissed one nipple and then the other.
(1969) The Seven Minutes Page 28
