The Lonely Lady

by Harold Robbins

“Then, why don’t you stay?”

  “I have to be up early to go to work.”

  “You don’t start on the beach until ten thirty.”

  “I work at Lassky’s Sunday mornings and have to be at the station at five to pick up the New York papers.” He looked at her. “During the week you get the Herald Tribune every morning, but on Sundays you get the Times as well.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I make up the papers for the home routes. I know exactly what papers everyone reads.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “It sure is. It’s amazing how much you can learn about people just from knowing what papers they read. For example, your father’s boss, Mr. Carson. His favorite paper is the Daily Mirror.”

  “The Daily Mirror? I wonder why.”

  He smiled. “I know why. It’s the only paper that has complete race results from all the tracks in the country. I often wonder what people would think if they knew that the president of the only bank in town played the horses?”

  “Do you really think he does?”

  “Lassky calls it the closet horse player’s Green Sheet. That’s strictly a horse-racing paper.”

  They were almost at the bus stop. “Are you going steady with Bernie?” he asked.

  “Bernie is a good friend.”

  “He says you’re his girl.”

  “I like Bernie but he has no right to say that.”

  “Would you go out with another guy if he asked you?”

  “I might.”

  “Would you go out with me?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I haven’t got the money that Bernie’s got an’ I haven’t got a car but I could spring for a movie and a Coke one night if you want.” There was a hesitant tone in his voice.

  “Maybe we’ll do that one night,” she said gently. “But if we do, we go dutch.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I could afford that much, really I can.”

  “I know but that’s the way I do it with Bernie.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right then,” he said, smiling suddenly. “Gee, that makes me feel good. I wanted to ask you out so many times but I was always afraid to.”

  She laughed. “It wasn’t too difficult, was it?”

  “No,” he said. “One night next week?”

  “Sure.”

  The bus squeaked to a stop in front of them and the door opened. He insisted on paying her fare, and since it was only a dime she let him.

  “Gee, JeriLee,” he said, “you really are very nice.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Ginnegan.” She noticed that he had been carrying a book. “What’s that you’re reading?”

  “The Young Manhood of Studs Lonigan, by James T. Farrell.”

  “I never heard of it. Is it any good?”

  “I think so. In some ways it reminds me of my own family. It’s about an Irish family on the South Side of Chicago.”

  “Will you lend it to me when you’re finished?”

  “I got it from the library. I’ll renew it and give it to you next week.”

  She looked out the window. They were nearly at her stop. “I get off here.”

  He got up with her. “I’ll walk you to your house.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I’ll be all right.”

  “It’s almost midnight,” he said firmly. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “But you’ll have to wait a half hour for another bus.”

  “That’s okay.”

  At her door she turned to him. “Thank you very much, Martin.”

  He shook her hand. “Thank you, JeriLee. Don’t forget you said we could go to a movie.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “And I won’t forget to give you the book,” he said. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Martin.” She watched him go down the porch steps, then turned and went into the house.

  Her parents were in the living room watching television. They looked up as she came in. “I didn’t hear Bernie’s car,” her mother said.

  “I took the bus. I didn’t hang around for the dance.”

  “Are you all right, dear?” Veronica asked.

  “I’m okay, Mom. Just a little tired, that’s all.”

  “Did you come home alone?” John asked. “I don’t know whether I like that this late at night. Next time maybe you ought to call and I can come and get you.”

  “I wasn’t alone. Martin Finnegan saw me to the door.” She sensed a change in her father’s expression. “He really was very nice. Very polite.”

  “He may be, but his family has a bad reputation. His father hasn’t worked in years and he and his wife spend all their time in bars. I don’t know how they manage to get along.”

  “Martin isn’t like that. Do you know he works at Lassky’s every morning as well as at the Beach Club?”

  “That’s very nice, but all the same I would be careful about seeing too much of him. I don’t want people to think I approve of a family like that.”

  “I don’t see what business it is who we see or don’t.”

  “When you’re a banker, everything you do is your neighbor’s business. How else do you think you can get them to place their faith in you?”

  She thought of Mr. Carson and what Martin had told her. For a moment she was tempted to mention it to her father but then she kept silent. “I’m tired,” she said. “I’m going to take a hot bath and go to bed.”

  She kissed her parents good night and went up the stairs to her room. She started the water in the tub and began to undress. She thought first of Martin and then of Walt. Again the peculiar warmth flowed through her and her legs felt strangely weak.

  She stared at her naked body in the mirror over the dresser. The whiteness of her breasts contrasted with the tan of the rest of her body. Her nipples hurt and seemed to be trying to burst from her breasts. Wonderingly, she touched them. An excitement radiated through her body, culminating in a flush of heat in her pubis. She put a hand on the dresser for support.

  She lowered herself into the warm tub and leaned back. There was an aching in her groin and a prickly sensation in her breasts that she had never felt before. The warm water flowed around her soothingly. Slowly she began to lather herself with soap. Her hand moved down her body, increasing her painful pleasure. Almost as if in a dream, she touched her pubis, the soap turning to lather on her fur. She leaned back, closing her eyes as the warm excitement mounted in her. The movements of her hand became almost automatic.

  As Walt’s face appeared before her all the muscles in her groin expanded, then contracted in an exquisite, agonizing flash of white fire. She almost screamed aloud in the throes of her first orgasm. Then it passed, leaving her limp, contented, yet strangely empty.

  Is this what love is really like? she wondered to herself. And even into the night, while she lay sleepless in her bed, she kept on wondering.

  Chapter 6

  Suddenly it was everywhere around her—in the magazines, newspapers and books she read, in the movies she saw, in the ads and commercials on television, in the conversations of her friends. And it all pointed to a growing awareness of her own inner sexuality.

  It seemed as if Walt had triggered a reaction that was pulling her down a road she was not sure she wanted to travel. Unsure of these new feelings, she fought the impulse to explore without really knowing what it was she wanted to discover.

  Her dreams were filled with sexual fantasies involving everyone she knew, even her parents and her brother. And in the morning she would awake tired from the struggle with sleep.

  She began to masturbate regularly. At first only in her bath, then in bed. But in a little while even that was not enough. The day between waking and sleeping was much too long. By this time she had become so expert in self-manipulation that she could take herself off almost in a matter of minutes. At work she would disappear into the restroom several times a day and car
efully lock the door. Frantically she would hike up her dress and pull down her panties. Then she would lean back on the toilet seat and give herself up to the sweet sensations her fingers gave her. A few minutes later she would be back at work as if nothing had taken place.

  During this time of inner turmoil her surface appearance seemed almost unchanged. Perhaps she was more rigid in her relations with boys than she had been before, because she did not trust herself. She began to avoid contact with boys, even Bernie, whenever possible. Now she no longer waited for him to take her home but left early so that she could retire to the safety of her own bed.

  One day Bernie finally confronted her. “What’s the matter, JeriLee? Did I do something wrong?”

  She flushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing the matter.”

  “It’s more than two weeks since we’ve been alone. You never let me take you home anymore.”

  “I’m just too tired to wait around for you to get through, that’s all.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Will you wait for me tonight then?”

  She hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Okay.” With a choking feeling that brought her close to tears, she went into the dining room to begin setting the tables for dinner.

  ***

  He turned the car into the parking area at the Point. “Don’t stop, Bernie,” she said tensely. “I’m really very tired.”

  “I just want to talk to you, that’s all,” he said, switching off the motor. The music from the car radio drifted into the night air. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

  “You’re still smoking.”

  “Yeah.” He looked across the seat at her. She was sitting up against the door as far away from him as she could get. “Don’t you like me anymore, JeriLee?”

  “I like you just as much as I always did.”

  “Is there someone else?” he asked. “I know you went to the movies with Martin a couple of weeks back.”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t understand it,” he said in a puzzled voice.

  “Take me home, Bernie.”

  “JeriLee, I love you.”

  That broke the dam. Suddenly she was crying, her hands covering her face, her body shaking with sobs.

  He reached across the seat and drew her to him. “JeriLee,” he asked softly, “what’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “I think I’m going crazy. I think such crazy thoughts.”

  “What thoughts?”

  “I can’t talk about them. It’s too horrible.” She regained her self-control. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I only wish I could help.”

  “Nobody can help. It’s something I have to do myself.”

  He placed a hand under her chin and, turning her face up to him, kissed her gently. At first her lips were soft and quivering, then suddenly her tongue forced its way into his mouth.

  For a moment he felt surprise, then he responded to her excitement. Roughly he pulled her closer, crushing her breasts against him.

  Tentatively he let one hand cup her breast. He heard her breath quicken but she did not push him away as she always had. Emboldened by her lack of resistance, he slipped his hand into her dress and under her brassiere. He felt the warm flesh of her breast and the nipple hardening against his fingers. As he moaned and began to shiver, he felt himself straining painfully against his tight trousers. “JeriLee!” he groaned, pushing her back across the seat almost covering her with his body.

  He fumbled with her dress and one breast sprang free. He put his face down and took the thrusting nipple into his mouth. Grinding against her, his hardness pressed into her mound even through the cloth of his pants.

  The sensation was too exquisite. His orgasm took him by complete surprise. He shuddered spastically, his ejaculation flowing uncontrollably into his trousers. “Oh, Jesus!” he said. And stopped.

  For a moment she continued moving, her eyes closed tightly. Then she too stopped and opened her eyes.

  He stared into them. There was something in her expression he had never seen before. It was as if she had discovered and confirmed something she had always known. He sat up and looked down at her. He had soaked through his trousers and onto her dress. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “That’s all right,” she said quietly.

  “I lost my head. I stained your dress.”

  She sat up slowly. “Don’t worry,” she said. Suddenly she appeared very calm.

  “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “I know,” she said. “Now will you take me home?”

  “You’re not angry with me, are you?”

  “No, Bernie, I’m not angry with you,” she said softly. Then she smiled and kissed his cheek quickly. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For helping me to understand.”

  He drove her home without knowing what she meant.

  ***

  Oddly enough it was easier after that. Having confirmed her own worst suspicions about herself, she began to accept her own sexuality. Unfortunately she had no one to talk to. Her mother would be the last person in whom she would confide.

  Veronica was part of that prewar generation in which the rules were strict and simple. Good girls didn’t; bad girls were punished or made pregnant. In her own bed she was always reserved and proper. Even with her first husband, JeriLee’s father, who had the capacity to arouse her to a point almost beyond her control, she managed to stop just before she came to orgasm. And she never felt the lack. A good woman had many other things to occupy her mind. Sex was incidental; the important things were to keep a good home and bring up a proper family. And she was fortunate that her second husband was as conservative as she was.

  To his great disappointment, John Randall had not gone to war. He had volunteered but had always been turned down. And so while others left for the service he remained in his job at the bank and, as one of the few younger men, almost automatically gained promotions. Veronica Gerraghty had first come to work at the bank during the war while her husband was away. And even then he had been very impressed with her.

  She was not like most of the young married girls who told you how much they missed their husbands while hinting at dates and promising other things. She was quiet and pleasant and smiled often, but it was a friendly smile, not an invitation. After her husband came home he did not see her except when she would come to the bank to make a deposit or a withdrawal. On those occasions she would always stop at his desk and ask how he was. And she was always nice.

  Then tragedy had struck. Her husband had been killed in a car accident on the highway just out of town late one night. There were rumors about the accident. Bob had always been wild. And that night he had been drinking and was seen with a woman who was known to have a bad reputation. But none of these facts ever appeared in the newspaper account of the death of Port Clare’s first war hero.

  John Randall remembered checking into the file following his death. For a man as erratic as he had been, Bob Gerraghty’s affairs were in remarkably good order. At the time, he thought that Mrs. Gerraghty was probably responsible. There was about eleven thousand dollars in the joint savings account, and seven hundred in checking. The records indicated that he owned more than two thousand dollars in war savings bonds at maturity value. The mortgage the bank held on their home for twenty-five thousand dollars was completely paid off by the insurance clause, as was another small personal loan of one thousand dollars that he had made just the month before. There was G.I. insurance for ten thousand dollars which had been converted to a civilian policy. He had heard there were several other small policies the amount of which he did not know. In addition the widow would be eligible for service and social security pensions for herself and the children. All of which meant that she fared far better than most people thought.

  John Ran
dall had sent Veronica a note of condolence and received a polite reply thanking him. A few weeks after the funeral she came to the bank and he helped her rearrange the accounts under her own name. After that he had not seen her for almost two months, when she came to ask if there was a job for her. While there was no great pressure on her financially, she said she would feel better if she knew she was helping to provide for herself. He thought that she displayed a great deal of good sense. If only more women were like her, they would have fewer problems. Fortunately, a job had just opened up and she began work the following week as the teller at the savings account window.

  She had been there for a little more than three months when he asked her out.

  She hesitated. “I don’t know. It may be a little too soon. People might not like it.”

  He nodded in appreciation. He knew what she was thinking. Mr. Carson, the bank president, was a strict Presbyterian and had his own ideas of how his employees should act. He was continually railing about the erosive influence of modern thinking on the moralities of the country. “I’ll wait a little longer,” Randall promised.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Another three months went by before they had their first date—a movie and dinner. She was home by eleven o’clock and he said good night to her at the front door. He nodded to himself as he went down the walk to his car. It was a lovely little house—neat, well kept and in a good neighborhood. She would make a very good wife for some man, even a future bank president.

  They went to Niagara Falls on their honeymoon. On the first night John stood at the window in his new pajamas and silk robe, the gift bottle of champagne the hotel gave each newlywed couple icing in the bucket near him. The literature had promised a view of the falls but had neglected to mention that only a tiny corner was visible between the two hotels facing them. As he squinted into the cloudy sky he heard Veronica come into the room behind him.

  She was wearing a silk chiffon nightgown with lace inset over her breasts under a transparent peignoir. There was an almost frightened look on her face.

  “Would you like some champagne?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  Awkwardly he opened the bottle. The cork popped and ricocheted from the ceiling. He laughed. “That’s the way a good champagne can be told from a bad one. If the cork pops.”