Read Online A Wild Surge of Guilty Passion by Ron Hansen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ron Hansen
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Historical fiction, General, Historical, New York, New York (State), Nineteen twenties, Adultery, N.Y.), Trials (Murder), Women murderers, Ruth May, Housewives - New York (State) - New York, Queens (New York, Women Murderers - New York (State) - New York, Trials (Murder) - New York (State) - New York, Gray, Husbands - Crimes Against, Housewives, Husbands, Henry Judd, Snyder
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shorter. She inquired of Bud if Mrs. Kallenbach was giving him anything for her share of the room and board. She said, “Don’t let her walk all over you.” Bud asked if she had any jobs that needed doing, but she only ordered him sternly to get his family and go on a nice vacation somewhere.
Judd did, as always, as he was told and called Alfred Benjamin at his home, then left Mrs. K to her needlework and motored across Long Island with Isabel and Jane to an ocean-view inn in Sagaponack for Jane’s ninth birthday and a week’s vacation, the three of them swimming in the Atlantic surf and hollering from the cold, or horseback riding in jodhpurs and English saddles on the white sand roads linking villages there. Alone he went to the public golf course with his hickory-shafted clubs, his argyle sweaters and plus fours, his flailing, uninstructed swing. And at night there was fine food and dancing and games of bridge.
Because Isabel and Jane hated having the vacation end, but Judd was required in the office, he booked them for another week; left the Hupmobile Eight with his wife, who’d just learned to drive; and took a jitney into the city on the third Monday in August.
And he was walking into Rigg’s Restaurant on 33rd Street for ham and eggs when he ran into Harry Folsom as he was leaving. The hosiery man tarried long enough to wedge around in his mouth with a toothpick as he said he wasn’t a kid anymore and he was through with wild parties, through with the hangovers from bathtub gin, and for sure he was through with fast women. “They can’t keep secrets, you know.”
Judd tried to act shocked. And because Harry’s chocolaty eyes had the solemn, baleful look of a hound, Judd asked, “Are you in the doghouse?”
“Not in, under. Whatever’s on the doghouse floor, that’s my roof.”
“Because of?”
Harry lit a Raleigh cigarette. “Dames. What else? I have been ordered by the Mrs. not to talk about it.”
Hoping to seem merely conversational, Judd asked, “Say, have you heard from Mrs. Snyder recently?”
Harry tweezed a shred of tobacco off his tongue. “Well, she’s not getting along with the old wet blanket at home, is all I hear. I know Albert, too, through bowling. Have you met him?”
“No.”
“Solid guy, fine artist, but sort of a stick-in-the-mud. She’s not the right girl for a killjoy like him. Anyways, I’m not going to take either one’s side. But I guess there’s another friend gone.”
“Which friend?” Judd asked.
“Al, of course,” Harry said, as if Judd were dense. “You don’t abandon a doll like that.”
Abandonment,
Judd thought.
That’s what it was.
“I have a hard time fathoming how anyone could treat such a lovely woman so badly.”
Harry’s stare was long and interrogatory, and then he got out a postcard invitation from his vest pocket and handed it to Judd. “Are you aware of this ‘Bon Voyage’ party? Hosted bar and everything. Some big fashion-month shebang.” And he added dismissively, “You’re supposed to look
nautical.”
“Are you going?”
“Nah. I’m through with shebangs, too.” And then he winked. “But
you
should definitely go.”
Waiting for him in his Benjamin & Johnes office were retailer inquiries, order forms, an announcement from the Club of CorsetSalesmen of the Empire State, a notice of an increase in dues from his Elks lodge, and three neatly typed letters lacking a sender’s name or return address. The first, dated Tuesday of last week, read:
Dear Judd,
Hate to bother you on the job but I have no one in whom to confide, no one but you to whom I can unburdun myself and speak of my troubles, my husband’s neglec, our night after night of arguments, Albert’s cruellty toward our baby. Won’t you see me for lunch sometime? We can just talk.
Judd slit open another that was postmarked on a Wednesday evening:
Dear Judd,
I have been investigating an Ursuline convent for Lora to get her out of this din of inequity
Judd did, as always, as he was told and called Alfred Benjamin at his home, then left Mrs. K to her needlework and motored across Long Island with Isabel and Jane to an ocean-view inn in Sagaponack for Jane’s ninth birthday and a week’s vacation, the three of them swimming in the Atlantic surf and hollering from the cold, or horseback riding in jodhpurs and English saddles on the white sand roads linking villages there. Alone he went to the public golf course with his hickory-shafted clubs, his argyle sweaters and plus fours, his flailing, uninstructed swing. And at night there was fine food and dancing and games of bridge.
Because Isabel and Jane hated having the vacation end, but Judd was required in the office, he booked them for another week; left the Hupmobile Eight with his wife, who’d just learned to drive; and took a jitney into the city on the third Monday in August.
And he was walking into Rigg’s Restaurant on 33rd Street for ham and eggs when he ran into Harry Folsom as he was leaving. The hosiery man tarried long enough to wedge around in his mouth with a toothpick as he said he wasn’t a kid anymore and he was through with wild parties, through with the hangovers from bathtub gin, and for sure he was through with fast women. “They can’t keep secrets, you know.”
Judd tried to act shocked. And because Harry’s chocolaty eyes had the solemn, baleful look of a hound, Judd asked, “Are you in the doghouse?”
“Not in, under. Whatever’s on the doghouse floor, that’s my roof.”
“Because of?”
Harry lit a Raleigh cigarette. “Dames. What else? I have been ordered by the Mrs. not to talk about it.”
Hoping to seem merely conversational, Judd asked, “Say, have you heard from Mrs. Snyder recently?”
Harry tweezed a shred of tobacco off his tongue. “Well, she’s not getting along with the old wet blanket at home, is all I hear. I know Albert, too, through bowling. Have you met him?”
“No.”
“Solid guy, fine artist, but sort of a stick-in-the-mud. She’s not the right girl for a killjoy like him. Anyways, I’m not going to take either one’s side. But I guess there’s another friend gone.”
“Which friend?” Judd asked.
“Al, of course,” Harry said, as if Judd were dense. “You don’t abandon a doll like that.”
Abandonment,
Judd thought.
That’s what it was.
“I have a hard time fathoming how anyone could treat such a lovely woman so badly.”
Harry’s stare was long and interrogatory, and then he got out a postcard invitation from his vest pocket and handed it to Judd. “Are you aware of this ‘Bon Voyage’ party? Hosted bar and everything. Some big fashion-month shebang.” And he added dismissively, “You’re supposed to look
nautical.”
“Are you going?”
“Nah. I’m through with shebangs, too.” And then he winked. “But
you
should definitely go.”
Waiting for him in his Benjamin & Johnes office were retailer inquiries, order forms, an announcement from the Club of CorsetSalesmen of the Empire State, a notice of an increase in dues from his Elks lodge, and three neatly typed letters lacking a sender’s name or return address. The first, dated Tuesday of last week, read:
Dear Judd,
Hate to bother you on the job but I have no one in whom to confide, no one but you to whom I can unburdun myself and speak of my troubles, my husband’s neglec, our night after night of arguments, Albert’s cruellty toward our baby. Won’t you see me for lunch sometime? We can just talk.
Judd slit open another that was postmarked on a Wednesday evening:
Dear Judd,
I have been investigating an Ursuline convent for Lora to get her out of this din of inequity
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