by Max Shulman
It was a publication unfamiliar to Polly. The paper was heavy and expensive, the edge of the pages were deckled, the type was hand set, and on the plain beige cover, in tastefully modest letters, was the legend:
THE MERMAID
The Literary Quarterly of Owens Mill
Polly opened the cover. A short poem, surrounded by wide margins, was printed on the first page. “O, Speckled Love!” was the title of the poem. Underneath was the author’s name: “by Leda.”
Polly read “O, Speckled Love!” by Leda. Then she bunked and read it again, her lips moving slowly as her eyes scanned the lines:
Sand between the lovers’ toes
Recalls, like thorns, the flawless rose.
Gritty crunching in the shoes
Recollects, rejoices, rues
Untamed blood that starts the hearts
Till sand adheres to yearning parts.
Rasping flesh in grasping hand:
Abrasive love—pervasive sand.
Sorrow learns what bliss can teach
On the fierce and tender beach.
Polly closed her jaw and the magazine. “It is my considered opinion,” she said gravely to herself, “that ‘O, Speckled Love!’ is beyond any doubt the worst poem ever written in the history of the entire world. Leda, whoever the poor woman is, must be returned with all possible dispatch to her sandbox.”
Polly stood, left her breakfast tray, and went back to the tub. Her best hope of recovery, she decided, lay with hydro-therapy. She added hot water and fresh bath oil, removed her robe, slipped into the fragrant liquid, folded her arms on her breast, and wooed peace.
By and by it arrived, and brought with it a smile. And soon the smile ripened into a giggle—a nonsynthetic, non-hysterical giggle of pure, billowing amusement. “Sand between the lovers’ toes”? thought Polly. Come on!
Healing laughter bubbled out of her. She rose from the bath, toweled, put on underthings, and sat at the vanity to apply her face—no easy chore because couplets from “O, Speckled Love!” kept coming back to fling her into long, jiggling guffaws. But, with good humor, she wiped the mascara from her ears and the lipstick from her nose and restored them to their assigned positions. Then, between giggles, she did some cunning things with her hair and went to select a dress.
The rack in the closet was hung half with Ira’s clothes, half with Polly’s. “Love, O love, O speckled love!” she sang hilariously as she riffled through her wardrobe. She settled on a two-piece Don Loper of wool as blue as her eyes. The result, as revealed in the full-length mirror on the closet door, was eminently satisfactory.
What shoes? Polly asked herself and immediately had to sit down while a new fit of laughter rolled in. “Gritty crunching in the shoes,” thought Polly, slapping her thighs. Oh, Leda honey, I don’t know who you are, but this I do know: you are fruitier than a nutcake!
She waited for the last, tickling twitch of laughter and returned to the shoe-rack which stood tilted on the floor of the closet. The rack held eight pairs of Polly’s shoes, all in a line, and beside them were three pairs of Ira’s. Her eye ran quickly along the row of pumps and chose Pair No. 8—black suede. As she reached down for the shoes, her hand brushed against the pair of Ira’s which were directly adjacent. A sudden frown creased Polly’s brow; she froze in jackknife position. Not a muscle moved, except for the fingertips resting on Ira’s shoes. Delicately, probingly, they stroked the leather.
These shoes feel strange, thought Polly. These shoes feel—what is the word I want? Gritty is the word I want. Gritty!
Now she flew into motion. She lifted Ira’s shoes and held them to the light. A film of sand was clearly visible. She shook the shoes beside her ear and heard the soft, scuffling rustle of sand. She turned the shoes upside down and watched the pale, scattered grains come trickling out.
Carefully she returned Ira’s shoes to their place on the rack. She picked up her black suede pumps, put them on, and walked without expression into the sitting room. She opened the copy of The Mermaid and reread Leda’s poem. She closed the magazine, went to the sideboard, filled a highball glass with vodka, sat down, and took a first slow sip.
Why am I not screaming? she asked herself. The answer came readily: I am not screaming because screaming is the opposite of action, and I must act. I must act or I will crumble. After this final outrage in a morning of outrages—in half a lifetime of outrages—I must do something.
But do what? And to whom? Shall I summon Gabriel, put him over my knee, and spank him? Shall I go find Boo and snatch her bald-headed? Shall I wait for Ira to come home and give him a thousand kicks with my little pointy shoes?
All three prospects had a certain fleeting appeal, but Polly knew that none of them touched on the heart of the matter. The heart of the matter, she thought, making slow but steady progress toward the bottom of her glass of vodka, the heart of the matter is simply this: I have been ignominiously cuckolded. To be cuckolded is, of course, always ignominious, but in this case the ignominy is total, for I have been cuckolded by two fools.
A new thought jarred Polly. Could I be the third fool? she wondered. Well, let’s see. About Boo I am not now nor have I ever been a fool. It’s true I found her moderately attractive in the past—after all, she does have a warm, generous soul—but I knew from the very beginning her patrician brow had never been troubled by an idea. And she gets no smarter; witness “O, Speckled Love!”
And Ira? Have I been a fool about him? Was I stupid to go on believing that his quick, tough, valiant intelligence remained intact? Buried, yes, but intact—still whole, still capable of returning to full, fiery life, and, most important, still wise enough to realize that he is married to one hell of a dame?
This I counted on—Ira’s intelligence. This I trusted. Sure, I’ve seen him do a million foolish things, but I’ve never lost faith that someday the big, bright beacon in his skull would light up and show him the truth: that he loves me, always has, always will, and properly so, because I am a woman well worth loving.
But could I be wrong? She walked over to pour another drink. Am I really the woman I think I am? If so, why is my husband still banging Boo? This time I can’t dismiss it as a youthful indiscretion. It is not eighteen years ago; it is today, and Ira has had plenty of time to learn who I am and what I am. Maybe he sees something I don’t. Maybe he’s discovered there’s nothing left of me—nothing, anyhow, that would interest a man.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” said Polly to the looking glass over the sideboard. “Is any woman left at all?”
That’s what I have to know, she thought, pouring vodka. Am I a woman or the empty shell of a woman? If I’m a woman, I’ll hold that Armenian if I have to nail him to the floor. If I’m not, the best thing I can do for both of us is to let go, and the sooner, the better.
But how do I find out whether I’m a woman? Who on earth can let me know?
The telephone rang. “Yes?”
“Mr. Virgil Tatum is waiting in the lobby,” said the desk clerk.
Chapter 17
Virgil smiled delightedly as he watched Polly step out of the elevator doors and into the lobby. “You, my dear,” he said, “should always wear blue.”
“How interesting. Yesterday you told me I should always wear red.”
“Actually,” he said, affecting a leer, “what you should always wear is the least possible.”
Polly sniffed. “Big talk.”
“Big hurry,” said Virgil. “Let’s make tracks, you pretty blue thing. I’ve got a deans’ meeting at two.”
He took Polly’s arm, but she seemed disinclined to move. “What happens if you miss the deans’ meeting?”
“Chaos. You know the place wouldn’t last twenty minutes without me.”
“Seriously, Virgil. What if you didn’t show up?”
He stepped back and gave her a close scrutiny. “Your dress is lovely. Your face is lovely. Your eyes are strange.… Polly, is anything wrong?”
“Of cour
se not. Come, you mustn’t miss your meeting.”
Now it was Virgil who stood immobile. “To hell with the meeting. We’re going someplace quiet, and you will tell Uncle Virgil what’s clouding those beautiful eyes.”
“You are not my uncle,” she said irritably.
“I am your friend.” He made it a plain statement of fact. “Whatever is wrong, I want to help.”
She touched his hand. “Sorry I growled.”
“There’s a new restaurant called Le Coq d’Or. It’s so damn chic nobody goes there. We’ll have plenty of privacy.”
He offered her his arm. She held it tightly as they walked out of the lobby. She had bolted another glass of vodka just before leaving the suite, and though her mind was alert and her diction was crisp, her feet seemed to belong to somebody else. However, with Virgil’s assistance, she made it to his car without even a hint of a stagger.
They got into the car. All of a sudden, before he could pull away from the curb, she started to speak, insistently, rapidly, determinedly, as if to get everything said before a failure of nerve or a return of good sense should silence her. “Virgil, when Ira and I were stationed here during the war, there was a place out on Route 12 called Big Eddie’s. It’s still there; I know because I passed it on my way in from the airport. It’s a tacky, roadhouse kind of joint. You know.”
“Yes,” he said, regarding her narrowly. “I know Big Eddie’s.”
“Well, I don’t. I mean I’ve never actually been there. It was off limits for troops during the war. Private dining rooms and stuff like that. You know.”
“And that’s where you want to go for lunch?”
“Does it still have private dining rooms?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go.”
“All right. I should point out, though, that the food is inedible, the kitchen is filthy, and the proprietor is a degenerate. Still want to go?”
She nodded.
“Care to tell me why?”
“After we get there.”
“How much have you had to drink this morning?” he asked, gently, inoffensively.
“Quite a lot,” she replied. “Can we go?”
“We can,” he said and swung his car into traffic.
A moment later a small, homemade sports car, with young Gabriel at the wheel, pulled out of an alley. Skillfully driving a half-block behind Virgil, allowing other cars to intervene lest his quarry become suspicious, Gabriel continued his surveillance.
It took Virgil fifteen minutes to reach Big Eddie’s. Polly did not speak. She switched on the car radio and listened, unhearing, to a concert of hillbilly music. Virgil gave her a sidelong glance from time to time, but he too was silent.
He parked in front of a one-story building covered on all sides with asphalt roofing shingles, half of them hanging awry. There was one window in front of the building, and none anywhere else. A riot of neon signs flickered behind the flyspecks in the window. One sign, in yellow, proclaimed MILLER’S HIGH LIFE. BUDWEISER was in red, SCHLITZ in brown, PABST in blue, and BALLANTINE in green. Centered among the brewers’ emblems was a sign in colorless neon script; the tubing had long since burned out. BIG EDDIE’S, it said.
Virgil got out, helped Polly from the car, escorted her cautiously around the potholes that dotted the parking area, and ushered her into the roadhouse. Inside the door, barely discernible in the dimness, was a barroom. Six booths, covered in gamy oilcloth, stood against one wall. Another wall accommodated a long bar on which were carved a profusion of graffiti—names and nicknames, initials twined in hearts, Appalachian ribaldries, and genitalia of a size no man has yet seen. The other two walls were blank except for pine doors, each bearing a crudely painted number. The doors were marked 1 to 10; these were the entrances to the private dining rooms.
No customers were in the barroom; only Big Eddie. Gross and unshaven he stood behind the bar. In his mouth was a twisted stogie; in his hand was the newspaper of the White Citizens Council. He looked up, knew instantly who Virgil Tatum was, but his colorless eyes betrayed not the slightest sign of recognition. If old Virgil felt like tearing off a piece, why, that wasn’t nobody’s business but old Virgil’s, was it?
“Howdy,” said Big Eddie, neither politely nor impolitely.
“Howdy,” answered Virgil. “Can we get some lunch?”
“Surely,” said Big Eddie. “Room No. 6 is nice and clean.”
“Thank you,” said Virgil.
“Let me know when you’re ready to eat. We got rabbit with turnip greens, or there’s canned salmon.”
“We’ll let you know,” said Virgil.
“Can you make a vodka martini?” said Polly to Big Eddie.
“Well, yes, ma’am,” he replied. “But not too good.”
“I see,” she said. “All right then, will you just give us a bottle of vodka and some ice?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t believe I can.”
“No vodka?”
“Oh, plenty of vodka. Thing is, though, the ice is spoiled.”
“The ice is spoiled?”
“Settin’ too long, maybe. Don’t get much call for it around here.”
“Just a bottle of vodka, okay?” said Virgil.
“Yes, sir,” said Big Eddie. He handed Virgil a bottle of vodka, two glasses, and a key attached to a tag marked No. 6.
Room No. 6 was, as Big Eddie had represented, clean, and there its attractions ended. It was a cell about six feet wide and eight feet long. The furnishings consisted of one breakfast-sized table of chrome and red plastic, two chairs of the same, and a studio couch draped with a corduroy throw.
Virgil pulled out a chair for Polly and sat in the other one. Using his breast pocket handkerchief, he wiped the drinking glasses, opened the vodka, and poured two generous shots. He raised his glass to Polly. “Well, my dear, what would you like, the rabbit or the canned salmon?”
“Please!” she said, shuddering. She tossed off her drink and handed the glass back to Virgil.
He made no move to fill it. “Maybe you better talk while you still can. What’s this all about?”
“How old are you, Virgil? Can’t you add it up?”
“Oh, yes, I can add it up. That is, I could add it up, only there’s one part of it that just plain won’t figure. I mean you. You are Polly Shapian. What is Polly Shapian doing in a place like this?”
“Damn it!” she said hotly. “Where else could I take you? Everybody in the hotel knows me. Everybody in the county knows you. Where, except in a joint like this, could we do what we’re going to do?”
“I see.… All right, next question. Why are we going to do what we’re going to do?”
“Can I have my drink?”
He poured two fingers of vodka and handed it to her.
“Virgil, you’ve been making a lot of sexy banter with me. Is that all it is—banter?”
“In the circumstances, what else could it be?”
“Don’t you think of me as a woman?” she asked, panic in her eyes. “Don’t you find me desirable?”
Virgil stood. “Finish your drink, Polly, and let’s get out of here. I don’t know what’s tormenting you, but whatever it is, you’re not going to fix it on that couch over there.”
“Wait!” she cried. She jumped to her feet. Her fingers raced down the buttons of her jacket. She yanked off the jacket, dropped it on the floor, reached for the hooks in the back of her bra.
“Stop it!” said Virgil, his voice hard, his brow black with anger. “Stop it. I get the idea.”
Polly removed her hand from the fasteners of her bra. Bleakly she looked up at Virgil. “And you’re not interested, are you?”
“I’m not interested in being part of this crazy, drunken game you’re playing.”
“That’s not what I mean. You’re not interested in me. You don’t find me attractive or desirable. You don’t even look on me as a woman. That’s a simple fact, isn’t it?”
“Polly, put down that booze and listen to me
carefully and remember what you hear, because I am going to tell you some things that are mighty nice and altogether true. For the past twenty—” He paused suddenly; it seemed to him he had just heard a soft, thudding sound on the outside wall of the room. “What was that?” he asked.
“What was what?”
“I thought I heard something hit the outside of the wall over there. Didn’t you hear it?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Positive,” she said. “I’m afraid you’re a little jumpy, Virgil. Sorry. My fault.”
“Funny,” said Virgil. “I could swear I heard a sound on that wall. Not very loud, but I could swear I heard it.… Well, I guess I was wrong.”
But Virgil was not wrong. The sound he had heard was an arrow softly imbedding itself in the asphalt shingles outside their room, and the hand that had drawn the bow that had shot the arrow was young Gabriel’s.
Gabriel, successfully avoiding detection, had followed Virgil’s car all the way to Big Eddie’s. When Virgil had taken Polly inside, Gabriel had parked his sports car in a thicket near the roadhouse. Using field glasses, he had spied through the window of Big Eddie’s and seen Virgil and Polly go into Room No. 6. Then he had removed from his car a bow, an arrow, and a carrying case roughly the size of a small valise. Keeping to the woods, he had circled Big Eddie’s until he calculated he was directly opposite Room No. 6.
Then he had opened his carrying case. Inside was an excellent, battery-powered tape recorder. A long, fine wire was attached to the recorder. Gabriel had taken one end of the wire and fastened it securely to the head of his arrow. It was a hollowed-out arrowhead, containing an ultrasensitive miniature microphone handcrafted by Gabriel himself. He had slipped the arrow into the bow and, from a distance of fifty yards, had taken careful aim.
The arrow had flown true. It stuck now in the wall of Room No. 6, the microphone picking up everything that was said inside. The long, fine wire ran from the arrowhead to the tape recorder. Gabriel squatted, pushed the “RECORD” button, started the reels spinning, slipped on a pair of earphones and listened. This is what he heard:
