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Authors: N. R. De Mexico
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under the light fabric.
"The books are in the bedroom--to the left." he said. His throat felt tight and dry. His voice came almost as a whisper. "Careful. Don't wake Junior."
In the bedroom she sat down on the spread, leaning back on her arms. Her skirt spread out fanwise on the tufted chenille. Her attitude emphasized the freshness of her youth.
He thought: Cut it out, Frank! Stop it! Get control of yourself, man.
Through the open, screened window overlooking the yard and the garden came the murmur of voices, Janice's and Tony's, blended with the tinkle of the little concrete fountain full of goldfish that Frank had, himself, installed last fall.
There was a vanity, on one side of the room, cluttered with the miscellaneous appurtenances of feminine charm: bottles of cream, ointments, nail polish; a jar full of bobby-pins; brushes, combs, a silver-backed mirror engraved with the initials JB; there were nail-buffers, emery boards, scissors, a single fastener from a garter belt, eye-shadow boxes, tweezers, a compact and hosts of other items.
Facing the vanity, but across the room, stood a bureau, with the male equivalents of these beauty aids--lotions, hair tonic, after-shave talc--the array perhaps a little neater because Janice was committed to restoring order to whatever chaos Frank might create, but felt no such responsibility toward her own things.
And against the wall, between the two windows that looked out on the back yard, hunched a desk--a very wreck of a desk, teetering on spindling legs of oak which supported a bookshelf before reaching up to maintain the inclined face of the drop-leaf and the frame. The shelf was loaded down with scrapbooks.
Tensely, insistently, Frank bent down and picked up three, bringing them back to where Joyce was seated on the bed. He seated himself next to her and opened one book across their two laps.
His voice trembling, his grip on himself slipping, he tried to tell her the story behind each yellowed clipping.
Suddenly Joyce turned to him, looking up at him with her great somber eyes. "Frank," she whispered, the faint sound of her voice merging with those from the window. "Frank, do you love me?"
He bent, quickly, and kissed her lightly on the forehead, feeling his whole body trembling. But he said, "Of course I do, honey. Now, this story began when ..."
"No, Frank. I mean, really."
His mind cast about frantically, but all control was gone now. There was nothing to seize upon which could protect him from his own burning hunger. The books fell to the floor as he caught her to him and felt the response of her warm, excited lips. She trembled against him, and her fingers dug deep into the flesh of his back.
Something, very like fire, seemed to be consuming them ...
8 ~ Substitution
For Joyce the romance with Frank had always the added poignancy of impending tragedy.
The first blow fell that same night--the night she shared ecstasy with Frank, while Frank's wife and Tony talked together in the garden below.
The rest of the evening had gone off, somehow, in a state of continuing tension. Tony was hurt and angry because Joyce had deserted him. Frank was tormented by his own guilt--faced with the horrifying realization that he had against his will succumbed to a girl only a little more than half his age. Janice, her plans all made to depart for Maine with the baby the following morning, was openly bewildered at the tensions of the others, and still more bewildered by a psychic unease, that told her something had gone dreadfully wrong.
But the real blow came later, when Tony and Joyce had muttered "good nights" and "thank yous" to Frank and Janice in the doorway of the little house on Randolph Road, and had gone out to the parked car at the curb.
They got in and Tony, jaw grimly set, started the motor.
"It was fun, wasn't it?" Joyce said. It wasn't what she meant. She meant glorious, wonderful, tremendous. But these were not words she could say. A man loved her, wanted
"The books are in the bedroom--to the left." he said. His throat felt tight and dry. His voice came almost as a whisper. "Careful. Don't wake Junior."
In the bedroom she sat down on the spread, leaning back on her arms. Her skirt spread out fanwise on the tufted chenille. Her attitude emphasized the freshness of her youth.
He thought: Cut it out, Frank! Stop it! Get control of yourself, man.
Through the open, screened window overlooking the yard and the garden came the murmur of voices, Janice's and Tony's, blended with the tinkle of the little concrete fountain full of goldfish that Frank had, himself, installed last fall.
There was a vanity, on one side of the room, cluttered with the miscellaneous appurtenances of feminine charm: bottles of cream, ointments, nail polish; a jar full of bobby-pins; brushes, combs, a silver-backed mirror engraved with the initials JB; there were nail-buffers, emery boards, scissors, a single fastener from a garter belt, eye-shadow boxes, tweezers, a compact and hosts of other items.
Facing the vanity, but across the room, stood a bureau, with the male equivalents of these beauty aids--lotions, hair tonic, after-shave talc--the array perhaps a little neater because Janice was committed to restoring order to whatever chaos Frank might create, but felt no such responsibility toward her own things.
And against the wall, between the two windows that looked out on the back yard, hunched a desk--a very wreck of a desk, teetering on spindling legs of oak which supported a bookshelf before reaching up to maintain the inclined face of the drop-leaf and the frame. The shelf was loaded down with scrapbooks.
Tensely, insistently, Frank bent down and picked up three, bringing them back to where Joyce was seated on the bed. He seated himself next to her and opened one book across their two laps.
His voice trembling, his grip on himself slipping, he tried to tell her the story behind each yellowed clipping.
Suddenly Joyce turned to him, looking up at him with her great somber eyes. "Frank," she whispered, the faint sound of her voice merging with those from the window. "Frank, do you love me?"
He bent, quickly, and kissed her lightly on the forehead, feeling his whole body trembling. But he said, "Of course I do, honey. Now, this story began when ..."
"No, Frank. I mean, really."
His mind cast about frantically, but all control was gone now. There was nothing to seize upon which could protect him from his own burning hunger. The books fell to the floor as he caught her to him and felt the response of her warm, excited lips. She trembled against him, and her fingers dug deep into the flesh of his back.
Something, very like fire, seemed to be consuming them ...
8 ~ Substitution
For Joyce the romance with Frank had always the added poignancy of impending tragedy.
The first blow fell that same night--the night she shared ecstasy with Frank, while Frank's wife and Tony talked together in the garden below.
The rest of the evening had gone off, somehow, in a state of continuing tension. Tony was hurt and angry because Joyce had deserted him. Frank was tormented by his own guilt--faced with the horrifying realization that he had against his will succumbed to a girl only a little more than half his age. Janice, her plans all made to depart for Maine with the baby the following morning, was openly bewildered at the tensions of the others, and still more bewildered by a psychic unease, that told her something had gone dreadfully wrong.
But the real blow came later, when Tony and Joyce had muttered "good nights" and "thank yous" to Frank and Janice in the doorway of the little house on Randolph Road, and had gone out to the parked car at the curb.
They got in and Tony, jaw grimly set, started the motor.
"It was fun, wasn't it?" Joyce said. It wasn't what she meant. She meant glorious, wonderful, tremendous. But these were not words she could say. A man loved her, wanted
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