Read Online Cursed Be the Child by Mort Castle - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mort Castle
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good indeed, that fine, familiar spread of relaxation throughout the nervous system. He went to the sofa, slipped off his shoes and put his stockinged feet up on the coffee table. He picked up the television’s remote control. A good idea. Television was a mind relaxer, sure to induce mental paralysis.
He zipped through the channels with the remote control. All right, the Three Stooges, masters of the mindless! He was grinning, chuckling to himself, as Moe, Larry, and Curly as plumbers destroyed a stuffy heiress’s mansion. He raised his glass. Only ice remained.
Another drink?
Why not?
After all, he needed to unwind. He knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn’t going to get shit-faced, uh-uh, just slip into some therapeutic numbness.
Damn, he thought, fresh drink set up, he was feeling the liquor. He was feeling…not drunk and not on the way to being drunk. He was feeling okay, getting back in balance with himself.
But he couldn’t blot out Vicki and that sonofabitch David Greenfield. Shit, it had nearly killed him. He hadn’t suspected a goddamn thing until she’d told him, flatly and unemotionally. And though he had felt like killing her, he merely said they had better talk it over. He truly loved her, so he forgave her.
He thunked the glass down on top of the bar. He loved Vicki. He did. All the love he felt for her welled up inside him, the shared years and the good times. There was the celebration when he sold a story to Chicago Review, cheap champagne, all they could afford, but champagne all the same; going to see Rocky Horror, a few years older than the cult crowd, but getting into the trashy excitement, laughing and laughing; a rainy summer night in a leaky cabin in Michigan; that one time winning lottery ticket she’d bought on a whim with that big pay off of $44.00 that she insisted he take and spend on anything he chose (naturally, he bought books); and Missy, that feeling of magical omnipotence when he rested his hand on Vicki’s belly to feel the movement of the life within Vicki’s life, life that they had caused to be.
Warren felt his eyes sting with a wash of tears. He loved Vicki, loved the unique totality of her that made her Vicki and nobody else. He wanted to be with her, together with her now, wanted to make love, to be inside her.
He went upstairs to make love to his wife.
— | — | —
Ten
Lying on her side, Vicki was asleep, but not so deeply that she wasn’t aware of Warren getting into bed. He nuzzled the back of her neck, pressed his lips to the hinge of her jaw and kissed her. He put his hand on her hip. “Vicki?” He kissed her again, a light tickling touch on the ear.
A moment of panicky despair yanked her to full wakefulness as she smelled the liquor on his breath. He was drunk!
A heartbeat afterward, she realized she was, thankfully, wrong. There was neither slur nor sarcasm in his words as he said, “Vicki, I love you.”
She rolled to embrace him. Holding her, he kissed her deeply, passionately, and her openmouthed response was immediate. A rush of tingling, electric shocks raced through her.
Oh, my, she thought, surprised at her explosion of ardor, this was something! She felt like the heroine of a romance novel; she was positively melting.
Of course, a romance novel heroine wouldn’t giggle at the silly instant of having to lift up her bottom to slip off the bikini panties of her shorty pajamas. And the top of those pajamas wouldn’t get tangled around her head when she sat up to take it off.
But she was sure no romance novel heroine ever felt more loved than she did at this moment. Warren was touching her everywhere with his hands, his lips, his tongue. It had been a long time (years?) since he had been so wonderfully ardent. She understood, knew he had so many pressures, so much to drain him—his academic career, which had turned out so different from what they had expected or hoped for; the writing, consuming the hours of his life and
He zipped through the channels with the remote control. All right, the Three Stooges, masters of the mindless! He was grinning, chuckling to himself, as Moe, Larry, and Curly as plumbers destroyed a stuffy heiress’s mansion. He raised his glass. Only ice remained.
Another drink?
Why not?
After all, he needed to unwind. He knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn’t going to get shit-faced, uh-uh, just slip into some therapeutic numbness.
Damn, he thought, fresh drink set up, he was feeling the liquor. He was feeling…not drunk and not on the way to being drunk. He was feeling okay, getting back in balance with himself.
But he couldn’t blot out Vicki and that sonofabitch David Greenfield. Shit, it had nearly killed him. He hadn’t suspected a goddamn thing until she’d told him, flatly and unemotionally. And though he had felt like killing her, he merely said they had better talk it over. He truly loved her, so he forgave her.
He thunked the glass down on top of the bar. He loved Vicki. He did. All the love he felt for her welled up inside him, the shared years and the good times. There was the celebration when he sold a story to Chicago Review, cheap champagne, all they could afford, but champagne all the same; going to see Rocky Horror, a few years older than the cult crowd, but getting into the trashy excitement, laughing and laughing; a rainy summer night in a leaky cabin in Michigan; that one time winning lottery ticket she’d bought on a whim with that big pay off of $44.00 that she insisted he take and spend on anything he chose (naturally, he bought books); and Missy, that feeling of magical omnipotence when he rested his hand on Vicki’s belly to feel the movement of the life within Vicki’s life, life that they had caused to be.
Warren felt his eyes sting with a wash of tears. He loved Vicki, loved the unique totality of her that made her Vicki and nobody else. He wanted to be with her, together with her now, wanted to make love, to be inside her.
He went upstairs to make love to his wife.
— | — | —
Ten
Lying on her side, Vicki was asleep, but not so deeply that she wasn’t aware of Warren getting into bed. He nuzzled the back of her neck, pressed his lips to the hinge of her jaw and kissed her. He put his hand on her hip. “Vicki?” He kissed her again, a light tickling touch on the ear.
A moment of panicky despair yanked her to full wakefulness as she smelled the liquor on his breath. He was drunk!
A heartbeat afterward, she realized she was, thankfully, wrong. There was neither slur nor sarcasm in his words as he said, “Vicki, I love you.”
She rolled to embrace him. Holding her, he kissed her deeply, passionately, and her openmouthed response was immediate. A rush of tingling, electric shocks raced through her.
Oh, my, she thought, surprised at her explosion of ardor, this was something! She felt like the heroine of a romance novel; she was positively melting.
Of course, a romance novel heroine wouldn’t giggle at the silly instant of having to lift up her bottom to slip off the bikini panties of her shorty pajamas. And the top of those pajamas wouldn’t get tangled around her head when she sat up to take it off.
But she was sure no romance novel heroine ever felt more loved than she did at this moment. Warren was touching her everywhere with his hands, his lips, his tongue. It had been a long time (years?) since he had been so wonderfully ardent. She understood, knew he had so many pressures, so much to drain him—his academic career, which had turned out so different from what they had expected or hoped for; the writing, consuming the hours of his life and
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