“Well—”
“Go on. It’s ten degrees cooler, woman. Try it.”
Why not, she thought. She pulled her yellow sweater up over her head and put it beside her on the chair. Only then did she remember that she had not taken the trouble to wear a bra. She blushed a deep red.
“Well,” Maggie said. “I guess this
is
a strip show.”
“I’m … I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing to be sorry about, sweetie.”
“I just forget to bother with a bra some of the time.”
“I can see why. You don’t need one. You’ve got a knockout figure, Elly.”
“Thank you.” Why did the compliment make her feel funny? She was being silly today. Maybe it was the Scotch in the coffee; she wasn’t used to drinking in the afternoon.
“If you can wave your breasts around,” Maggie went on, “I won’t bother with false modesty. I’ll take my bra off and relax.”
She slipped her hand around her back, struggled with the catch on the brassiere. “Damn,” she said. “Give me a hand, will you, sweetie? I’m all thumbs today.”
A little shaky, she went to Maggie and opened her bra for her. Her hands were moist with perspiration, and she shivered slightly when her fingers brushed the silky skin of Maggie’s back. But Maggie didn’t appear to notice. She thanked her, took off the bra, and set it aside.
“Now,” she said, “we are a pair of nudists. Fun?”
“Fun,” Ellie agreed. And her eyes went automatically to Maggie’s breasts. They were beautiful, simply beautiful. Very large, very creamy, with ruby tips for nipples. But why on earth should she want to look at another girl’s breasts? She had breasts of her own, even if they weren’t as large as Maggie’s. She could just look in the mirror if she wanted.
“You’re lovely,” Maggie said. “Ted’s a lucky guy.”
Sure, she thought. Lucky he’s got a cheating wife.
“You’re not bad yourself,” she answered. “Dave’s fairly fortunate himself.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course.”
Maggie smiled gently. “You’re sweet, Ell. You’re sweet.”
Elly left in time to pick up Pam at school. She felt moderately light-headed from the Scotch, but hardly under the influence. And, back under her own roof, she felt faintly disturbed about her own reactions to Maggie’s bare breasts. God, she didn’t have the hots for Maggie now, did she? That would be just a little too much. It was bad enough to lay for every man in the area without making passes at women, for the love of God. She might be a nymphomaniac, but she sure as shooting was not a lesbian to boot.
She laughed at herself. She was being silly now. Maggie was a friend, a very good friend, and she certainly had no sexual designs on the poor girl. Monday they would go into New York on a shopping spree, and they would have a good time, and their friendship would grow.
She looked forward to Monday.
A
S
Howard Haskell had once remarked to Nan, the best thing about Cheshire Point was that you only spent a limited amount of time there during the day. He was thinking from the male point of view, of course, and he was discounting the weekends. On Saturday and Sunday, the ad men and PR men and television men of Cheshire Point let the 8:03 cannonball into Grand Central without them. They had the weekend to spend with families and friends at leisure.
It was hell.
There is no point in examining this particular weekend in Cheshire Point under a microscope, or even through a pair of high-powered binoculars. It was a very normal everyweek weekend at the Point, which is to say that it was slightly less than bearable for all concerned. The natives of the Point, free from their New York jobs and the commuting rat-race for two days, were hell-bent upon proving to themselves that living in the country was relaxed and happy and, above all, fun.
There were parties, dozens of them, and every family managed to go to one party Friday night and another on Saturday night. The parties were alcoholic, with gallons of booze going down throat after scarified throat. Men flirted half-seriously with the other men’s wives, drank themselves sick, weaved their cars home and passed out. Children watched late movies on television while teenaged boys kissed or necked or petted with or had intercourse with their baby sitters, town girls paid the outrageous sum of one dollar per hour in return for raiding the refrigerator, messing up the living room and entertaining their boy friend in comparative privacy.
The less said about the weekend, the better.
It was a weekend in Cheshire Point. That, really, is the essence of it. It was a weekend in Cheshire Point, with weekend guests being introduced to the delights of life in the country, with liquor flowing and tempers unwinding and sex periodically rearing its lovely head. Little of real interest transpired. Perhaps a few isolated events might give you an idea what it was like.
At one party, a very well established songwriter went to the piano and played and sang Cole Porter’s
You’re The Top.
The melody, sung off-tune as it was, was still Porter’s. The lyrics were this particular Cheshire Point songwriter’s own, and they were obscene. The first line ran
You’re the top, you’re the mound of Venus,
and the song moved onward and upward from that point, reaching delirious heights.
For awhile, the audience laughed. Then the audience began to get a bit worried. Then the songwriter stood up shakily, staggered away from the piano, and grabbed the first woman he saw. He took hold of her by her big breasts, kissing her passionately, and propositioned her in words substantially the same as those he had used in his parody of the Cole Porter tune.
The woman happened to be his own wife. This fact eased the tension in the room, and no one really minded when the songwriter and his wife hurried off to a convenient bedroom to ease the pangs of sexual abstinence. But the songwriter had not realized that the woman he selected was his wife. The possibility never occurred to him. He took her to bed, made love to her, and rolled off sleepily.
“God,” he said to her, his eyes shut tight. “God, my wife’ll kill me when she hears about this. But you’re worth it, baby. You’re the best I ever had.”
His wife, basking in the afterglow of inspired sex, did not hit the roof. After all, she had just been complimented, albeit in a left-handed fashion. Besides, her husband earned forty-five thousand dollars a year. Husbands like that were hard to find.
She dressed quickly and let him sleep it off. She did not want him to find out, when he awoke, that his great adventure had been with his own wife.
It would be better to let him feel guilty.
That example should give you the general idea. Or take the case of another woman, a senior editor at a respected hardcover publishing house who was married to a mousy little partner in a third-rate advertising agency. This woman worked under enormous pressure, staying late in New York three nights out of five. When the weekend came, she let herself go. She drank.
She started drinking Friday evening, in the club car on the way home from the office. She went on drinking through dinner, and then she and her husband went to a party where the liquor flowed freely. In no time at all she was feeling no pain.
She behaved herself that Friday night. But Saturday, when she awoke, she was thrilled to discover that the hangover she had every right to expect had not yet arrived. The alcohol was still circulating in her bloodstream, and instead of being hung over she was still drunk.
She had no intention of letting such a head start go to waste. She went downstairs wrapped up in a nightgown, found a bottle of gin, and made martinis for breakfast.
She kept drinking all day long, never going over the edge but always staying on the drunk side of the spectrum.
That evening, at a party, she went over the edge.
She did a great many things, most of which should be mercifully forgotten. She found magnificently vile things to say to a wide variety of people, including her host and hostess. She danced obscenely on a table top, screamed at the top of her lungs, broke out into horrible fits of crying and then began laughing hysterically. Her meek and mild-mannered husband finally led her out of the house after she climaxed things by leaping gaily onto the dining room table, hoisting her skirt over her head and soiling the punch bowl. This was a little too much, even on a weekend in Cheshire Point.
T
HE
weekend.
Roz Barclay was home, alone. Linc had gone down to the tavern. She knew that he would not be there long, that he would not get particularly drunk. She knew, too, that she was home alone, that she was bored, that she was frustrated, and that she was about to go out of her mind.
She took a deep breath.
Other women, she thought, had it easier. More than a few Cheshire Point women had more than one man on tap—Roz knew this for a fact. She knew it about the ones who damn near advertised. She’d seen Harry Barnes, the plumber, go into Mindy Pierce’s house at least twice a week for the past two months, never staying less than an hour and always leaving with a smile of animal satisfaction on his fat face. Now the plumbing in an older home may well require the services of a plumber once a month. But the Pierces had a spanking new ranch home, less than three years old, and they surely didn’t need Harry Barnes in a professional capacity.
Mindy Pierce, however, evidently needed Harry in a bedroom capacity. And made no bones about it, since it was fairly obvious by now to the whole town. The women talked about it and the men shared knowing looks. Roz didn’t talk about it, except for the usual wife-to-husband talks she had with Linc, because she felt that what Mindy Pierce did in her bedroom was none of Roz Barclay’s business.
Roz found a pack of cigarettes, shook one loose and lit it. She smoked slowly, thoughtfully. It wasn’t as though Mindy Pierce, raven-haired and sharp-eyed and large-breasted, was the only Cheshire Point housewife who had mattress matinees. There were others. Roz, quiet and thoughtful, knew a lot of dirt about a lot of people. She didn’t gossip, didn’t spread bad news far and wide. She didn’t even keep her eyes open. But it was easy to know what was going on.
Easy to know, for example, that Ted Carr was God’s gift to Cheshire Point womanhood, self-proclaimed and self-acknowledged as such. Ted slept with any woman handy, and the women of Cheshire Point were most noticeably handy in this respect.
But everybody knew about Ted Carr.
Roz also knew about Elly Carr. This, as it happened, was a deep dark secret. It was a magnificent secret—Ted Carr, boy philanderer, wore the cuckold’s horns and didn’t even know it. Elly dragged down anything in pants that came through the front door. She was more than fair game for deliverymen, door-to-door salesmen, canvassers, solicitors, and, all in all, whatever came close enough to trap.
That was a secret?
Roz butted her cigarette. Usually, she thought, she spent her time pitying Elly Carr. The poor pathetic creature—so much a victim of her own lusts that she couldn’t control her urges, couldn’t help giving in to whatever man presented himself.
The poor pathetic creature.
But who was pathetic now? Elly? Damn it, at least Elly had enough sex to keep her happy. Elly didn’t sit around crying because she needed a man. Elly didn’t burn up with frustration because her husband wasn’t around to make the infernal itching go away. Elly scratched when she itched. When the urge set in—which it seemed to do at least three times a day, to judge from the past performance charts—Elly found a way to relieve it. If Ted wasn’t handy, she selected another man. There was always some man handy, somewhere.
Maybe Roz was the poor, pathetic one.
No, she thought. No, this isn’t the way it is. I’m Lincoln Barclay’s wife. I belong to him and he belongs to me and that’s all there is to it. He’s my husband and I’m his wife. I don’t play around because I need loving, not sexing. And what Elly Carr does isn’t making love. She makes sex instead of love, and maybe that’s fine for her, but it’s not what I want. I’m not built that way.
I’m a woman, she told herself. I’m a woman, not a school girl, and I need to be loved. Just getting banged won’t do it. I’m married to one man and he’s the only man there is for me.
Period.
And when the slump was over, when Linc was a writer again and a man again, then everything would be all right again. Then the moon would beam and the sun would shine and the world would be golden. Then she would make love, not sex, and love would be a living force within her, and the world would whirl and the fulfillment would be sweet, very sweet.
Sweet.
She took out another cigarette, lighted it. She dragged deeply on the cylinder of paper and tobacco, took it from her mouth, stared at it. Her mind, slightly hysterical, saw new things in that one cigarette. If it were a little bit longer, the thought oddly, and a little bit thicker, and if it weren’t burning … .
She laughed. She laughed happily and hysterically, and the laughter cut the edge of her frustration and made her whole again. It was amazing, the way laughter could do that for a person. You couldn’t feel too sorry for yourself when you saw the humor of the situation. You couldn’t wallow in self-pity when it was easier to throw your head back and roar with laughter. And, by the same token, you couldn’t be very highly inflamed with desire when you were so busy laughing.
She smoked the cigarette, still chuckling softly to herself.
Elly Carr was at a party.
It was weekend in Cheshire Point, a venerable and venereal institution, and, as usual, Elly Carr was at a party. She was not especially certain whose party it was, and she was not at all certain what she was doing there, but there she was, by George, and in her hand was a martini glass, by gum, so she did the only thing possible under that set of circumstances.
She drained the martini. Most of it went into her mouth, and on down her throat, and eventually into her bloodstream, to remain there until it was screened out by her liver at the excruciatingly slow pace of an ounce per hour. Some of it, however, missed her mouth. The part which missed her mouth then dribbled down her chin and onto her dress. She tried to wipe it away, flailing her hand drunkenly, but she somehow only managed to slap frenetically at her breasts.