Goody Two Shoes (10 page)

The Tramp Stamp Club

By Quinn Carmichael

Love

Hawthorne, who I now realize to be a family member and clearly not service staff, has led me into the massive living room and instructed me to wait.  Within moments he directs a woman into the room to join me.  I glance up from my blackberry and nod at her arrival.  But she skitters to the chair across from me and falls into it as if she’s never used feet before.  I study her ankles for a moment; they are slightly pink around the edges where the five inch heels touch her skin.  It’s occurred to me before that women go to a great deal of trouble to look nice.  I stretch a smile in her direction as a symbol of compassion.  And I’m rewarded by a nervous smile that reminds me of my wife on our wedding day.  “Quinn Carmichael,” I announce to her as if my presence requires an answer.  “Bonnie Dangerfield,” she responds with less enthusiasm.  “Are you my lesson for today?”

“Lesson?”

“I guess that’s a no,” she says, but it’s hard not to notice that she’s chewed her fingernails to shreds.  The result is that her hands seem worn and tired.

I shake my head, “I’m Ellen’s writer.”  I again make an announcement that serves no purpose other than to create noise.

“Yes you are!” A voice booms from the doorway.  As he steps towards me I’m struck by the man’s height.  At six foot three I’m usually the tallest man in the room, not today.  But his eyes aren’t on me; they’re glued to Bonnie in a most unusual way.  It’s as if he’s madly in love with her, like two star crossed lovers from some other time finally joined in this world, in this living room.  I stand stunned as I watch the sudden transformation of the woman across from me.  Her demeanor flips from nervous to sensual in the matter of a split second.

I study her again, this time with greater scrutiny.  She’s a tall woman, almost flat-chested, with sandy brown hair that is apparently cut by a stylist who still watches ‘Friends.’  She bears the pure tan of the Jewish, and it isn’t an insult to say her skin is her finest feature.  It gives an air of inner elegance that’s apparent even beneath her overly stylish hair cut and exhausted fingers.  A few moments ago I would have remarked that her eyes were a steady hazel and seemed dull and bored, but under Jonathon’s loving stare they’ve turned into something more magnificent.  Now they’re the color of the river itself.  Every miniscule movement on the part of Jonathon registers in them, like rocking a boat on their surface.  Without warning she converts into one of the most stunning women I’d ever seen.  Jonathon has flipped some sort of switch within her and my cock startles to awareness in her presence.

I don’t blame Jonathon for forgetting that I’m in the room.  Hell I’ve almost forgotten I’m here too.  But he turns towards me and reaches out with a strong handshake.  I like a man with a strong handshake; it shows character.

“Great to meet you, Quinn.  Ellen has told me where she left off.  Let me get Bonnie upstairs and I’ll be right back to get you.  Why don’t you head into the library and pour us both a bourbon?”

As I wander into the library I began to wonder what Ellen see’s in him, Jonathon I mean.  What’s he got that I don’t?  Well, for one he’s rocking that Indiana Jones look.  Not his clothes, but I could see him lassoing a train.  It’s a casual confidence that I’ll never have.  I slam the first bourbon then pour two more and prepare my laptop and recorder on the arm of the chair.

“Sorry about that.  Alright then, Quinn, tell me about you.  Are you married?” He sits down across from me in the same spot that Ellen had.  I first noticed his shoes.  You can tell a lot about a man by the kind of shoes he wears.  For instance, Penny loafers are common in the South, but in my mind they show that a man is too lazy to tie shoes.  Jonathon is wearing bucks, extremely clean and neatly tied.

Taking a sip of the bourbon, “I am.  Almost thirty years.”

Jonathon grins, “Wow, you married young.  Marriage is
the
most wonderful institution.  Did Ellen mention that we’re finally tying the knot ourselves?”

I shake my head, “She sure didn’t!  Why the change of pace all of a sudden.  I mean you two are inseparable the way I understand it.”

He peers at me over the rim of his glass; I notice his eyes glitter as he says her name.  The man’s in deep, and having met his fiancé I can’t say that I blame him.  But he sits his glass down on a coaster and looks at me curiously, “We are inseparable.  With a woman the likes of Ellen it’s best to stay close by.  If I hadn’t all these years, someone would have stolen her right out from under me.  I don’t have any doubt about that.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” I say plainly.

Jonathon nods understanding, “She’s a handful.  Sometimes I worry we’ve missed too much already:  Kids, grandkids… all of that.  But I made a promise and I’ve stuck to it.  We’ll get married when her story is published and not before.  I swear I thought she would break down by now, but not my Ellen.  That woman is solid as a rock.”

“I’ll try not to feel too much pressure to get it done then,” I say with a sarcastic chuckle.

But he leans forward with a tinge of threat, “You get it done as fast as you possibly can, you hear me?”

I nod.

“Alright fair enough, I know Ellen wants you to write what she says verbatim.  I’m not a writer like the two of you.  I’ll tell you the story she wants, and you write it.  I’ve got a few tasks to deal with upstairs, so let’s get moving along.”

Suddenly I know what his task is.  Living room Bonnie is his task.  As businesslike as he tries to sound about it, he has a certain gleam in his eye I recognize immediately:  Lust.  He can’t help it.

I lean back in my chair, “Jonathon, can you tell me what goes on here?  What does the Tramp Stamp Club actually do?”

And he chuckles; “Now there’s the question of the century, eh?  What newspaper wouldn’t like that story!  I’ll give you the short version.  We help men and women who are in suffering marriages remember why they fell in love.”

I feel like raising my hand and yelling, me, pick me!  “And the success rate is fairly high?”

Jonathon nods proudly, “A hundred percent.  Why Quinn?  Do you think you need us?”

I laugh, “My wife would never consider trying anything like that.  The mere mention of sex makes her blush.”

“And what about you?  It only takes one partner to get started?”

“Oh, I don’t think so.  My wife is like a Nun, Jonathon.  She was a virgin when I married her…”

“I assume that’s not the case anymore?” Jonathon grins with a tease in his voice.

I can’t help but chuckle, “She’s not a virgin, but she might as well be.  She abhors sex.  While we were younger having children it seemed okay to her.  I even bought her a vibrator once.  Imagine that!  My sweet, perfectly prudent wife, using a vibrator.”  And laughter consumes me.

“Come on, she can’t be that innocent.”

I cross my heart with my fingers and shake my head, “I swear.”

“Alright, alright, well we don’t want to corrupt anyone’s religion here.  But I should remind you that it only takes one partner to change things.  It may give you a better understanding of what we do here.”  His provocative sales pitch seems practiced, but surprisingly natural.  He continues, “I’m sure Ellen would agree to train you if you ever get to the point where you’re willing to give it a shot.”

My eyes perk at the image of Ellen Devereux in my bed.  “Speaking of Ellen, we better get started before she comes in here and finds us fucking off.”

He shrugs, “I’ll just blame it all on you.”

I laugh again, “I’m sure you would, and I don’t think I want to be on her bad side.”

He dons a faux frown and raises his eyebrows, “Really?  Most men, including me, pray to be punished by her.”

I laugh heartily now.  But I’ve never been tied and punished, so I have no real concept of what he really means.  I don’t understand it.  Would I be willing to try it?  Hell yes!

But he leans forward and clasps his hands over the coffee table, “So let me get started,” And he does.

Jonathon Galloway, 1972

It’d been four months since Horace Deveraux’s funeral.  Jonathon had finally been able to pin Ellen down to joining him for dinner.  It really wasn’t much of a date; she’d been working a lot lately and asked him to join her for a simple meal at home.  It seemed like she’d turned into some sort of hermit since her father’s death, but that made little sense to him because he knew she hadn’t held much affection for her dear old Dad.

Jonathon’s skin warmed at the thought of her alone on that God forsaken island tending to her own solitary desires.  He had all kinds of visions of the things Ellen did while she was alone, and somehow it all seemed so romantic to him.  As if she were some lonely writer glued to her typewriter, staring out into the open ocean breeze while muddling over the mystery on the page in front of her.  He silently dreamed of her.

But currently, Jonathon had another issue that had to be dealt with.  Scanning the Charleston waterline out the window of his second story office on the wharf, he flipped the card in front of him between his fingers as if it was an actual menace.  He had graduated to the leagues of Charleston’s elite gentlemen it seemed, and he wasn’t at all thrilled with the concept.  The embossed invitation spoke of the great honor, the request of his presence at the Sand Dunes Club meeting this coming Sunday.  The invitation had even been hand delivered by courier only a few minutes after he finally secured his date with Ellen.

In the past, the Club had only accepted married men of stature.  Of late, they had been recruiting more and more single gentlemen, in ‘an effort to guide them appropriately into their futures.’  The Club was intensely secretive regarding its actual purpose.  Not once had he seen their name sponsoring any sort of charity or community service.  In fact, as he fingered the lettering on the invitation, he knew little about what they did at all.  What was their purpose?  This was clearly one of his father’s games; it had Dad written all over it.  Jonathon didn’t like playing his father’s games, he always lost.  But curiosity had the better hand in this game; Jonathon had sent the courier back with his gratitude and acceptance of the invitation immediately.

The Silas Pearman Bridge was a tinker toy creation of some masochistic inventor he thought, as he guided his Impala within its broad lanes.  Because of it he tended to avoid anything East of the Cooper altogether, heights had never suited him.  It covered the two mile stretch of water far below him, and was the longest bridge of their time.  Impressive architecturally, but Jonathon despised the damn thing; it swayed in the wind and was a barrage of oncoming traffic and blaring car horns.  He took his first breath when the bridge landed him in the tiny township of Mt. Pleasant.  He followed the curving Ben Sawyer Boulevard, catching his first scent of the islands ahead at Shem Creek.  The concrete construction of the small bridge over the Shem Creek inlet seemed out of place amongst the beauty of the trawlers and seagulls.  Jonathon’s mouth watered at the sight of the red clapboard Trawler Restaurant on his right.  Finest fish stew in the world they claimed, and in Jonathon’s opinion they had every right to make that statement.  It was silly that every time he came towards the islands such romanticism took control of his mind.  He thought of things like the scent of the marshes, the sunset over the strands of grasses bending in the winds, and floating seagulls.  At the moment, his mind was slowly moving away from these things, the closer he drove towards Ellen Devereux, the harder his groin became.

He pulled the Impala into her graveled drive just before six.  Jonathon smiled at the memories of the summers he had spent within the clapboard rambler, playing monopoly with the Devereux kids, chasing them through the dark forts on the island with only a flashlight as a weapon.  The screen door was slightly ajar as he climbed the familiar steps to the back door.  All island homes faced the ocean and had their own names, and the Devereux Island Retreat was no different.  Anyone arriving at the home by car was forced to use the back door or else trudge through the sand and pesky, painful stickers to reach the front door.  Jonathon was not interested in being that formal; he’d dressed in jeans and a loose white button down shirt, Docksiders on his feet, and no socks.  He told himself it was appropriate attire for an evening on the beach.  In truth, he was more interested in clothing that could be discarded without offending his sensitive apparel care issue.  He smelled the seafood gumbo at the top of the steps.  Lowcountry Boil was a mixture of fresh local shrimp, sausage, red potatoes, onions and old bay seasoning and it was Jonathon’s all time favorite.  His jaws clenched and a pang of hunger shot saliva through his mouth as he reached the top step.  Opening the door he called out to Ellen.  “Ellen! Where are you?  Damn that smells good!”

He was answered with silence.  Feeling at home in the kitchen of his childhood summers, Jonathon stepped to the stove, lifted the lid, and moved his face over the boiling pot.  “Hmmm...” he said to the absent room.  He replaced the lid and saw that saltines and raw oysters had been prepared for snacking.  Jonathon snatched one of the saltines and scooped an oyster from its shucked shell.  The salty luxury filled his mouth and he let it linger there for a moment before reluctantly swallowing.  He opened the icebox and retrieved a cold beer, using the wine bottle opener left on the kitchen table to open it.  Stepping into the dimly lit living room, he again called for Ellen.  Then he caught sight of a foot.  The naked, pink toenail painted foot, slithered past the length of a lounger on the front porch.  Jonathon heard her moans before he could take his first step towards the double glassed, open front doors facing the ocean.  His heart raced and pounded in his chest, had she forgotten their date?  First instinct told him to run.  Avoid this awkward moment at all costs, and beat his trek back downtown as fast as he could.  For the second time today his curious nature took control, stepping as silently as he could across the creaking wooden floors, he edged towards the doorway.  With one eye closed, he peered between the door and the jam to try to catch sight of Ellen and her alternate guest.  He held his breath until he saw the truth of the matter, only Ellen resided in the lounger along the wall on the screened porch.  She was lying on the cushioned cast iron beach lounge with her blue dress above her waist.  Her hands caught in the wetness between her legs, her face turned upwards towards the fan that beat noisily on the ceiling.  No wonder she hadn’t heard him come in.  Jonathon watched as the fingers of her left hand pinched, tugged and pressed against her rosebud.  The fingers of her right hand were delicately forcing themselves inside her.  A gust of wind from the ocean shot the scent of her lust through the crack in the doorway.  Jonathon’s jeans suddenly tightened their fit; his own hand desperate to adjust his balls as they now became too cumbersome for the cloth that bound them.