Strangers (15 page)

“Wonder-ful, my dear,” Michael drawled, his hammy, overdone W.C. Fields impression. “It’s called… penis-chillin.”

Their initial caresses were slow and, Beth thought, particularly gentle, moving to a lazy, relaxed union well suited to the early morning, Beth on her side, gown pulled up, Michael spooned to her, his front to her back, arm around her, cupping her breast, softly scissoring her nipple between the first and second finger of his right hand.

“There! That’s good!” Michael’s words were carried on the warm breath that brushed her neck and cheek. Beth drew her knees higher, pushed her buttocks back to feel the regular rhythm of Michael’s hips and the smooth rippling of his belly at the small of her back.

It was good to be held and loved, she thought, drifting in warmth and comforting pleasure. A part of her mind continued to think, however, refusing to let her descend into the realm of pure feeling. After all, they had to be relatively quiet—it was really rather funny—so she couldn’t let her keen enjoyment be expressed by the gratified moan that threatened to rise in her throat that might be a prelude to a squeal or even a sharp scream, because Marcy was right down the hall! Wake the child and uh-oh, that awkward instant feared by every parent: “What are you guys doing…
oh!”

It was Beth’s thinking mind that was invaded by the terrifying idea:

If she twisted her head…

Now, damn it! This is absurd and I know it and why do I keep coming up with this nonsense?

…
and
looked at the man whose hairy chest was a silly tickle between her shoulder-blades…

I’ve got to cut it out, stop dreaming up all this frightening, senseless garbage!

…
at
her husband, lover, Michael…

No, damn it anyway! Just stop it, Stopit-stopit!!!

…She would not see him, but a stranger!

The irrational thought froze her. She did not yield to it and turn her head, but she was no longer one with Michael, making love. She was cold and alone, and when Michael squeezed her hard, muffling his climactic grunt against her neck, she was glad he was finished.

After breakfast, Beth telephoned South Suburban Medical Center to learn that “Kim had a good night,” and, “as soon as we have a final looksee,” she could be released, say around one o’clock or thereabouts. Standing at the kitchen counter, Beth realized she had been braced for bad news, and, as she put the receiver back on the cradle, she chided herself. There was no black cloud overhead, no seven years bad luck down the line, and no reason for this utterly unreasonable, melodramatic sense of impending doom that was plaguing her. She had signed up to be a student in the abnormal psychology class, not a case study for it!

It was high time for a “return to normalcy” (she couldn’t recall if that phrase was remembered from high school history class or from her single year at college), and that’s exactly what it would be.

Michael wanted to stay home, Vern Engelking would certainly understand, and they would all bring Kim home.

No, Beth insisted he go to the office. Though she didn’t explain it to Michael, today, Beth wanted the satisfaction of “things as usual,”
their
more or less regular schedule.

Besides—it was hard to admit to herself, but there it was—she needed to be away from Michael for a while, time to make sure she had that ridiculous “I don’t know him; he’s a stranger”
delusion—
I’ve got
to call it that because that’s precisely what it is
!—
banished from her mind.

So, at 9:30, later than usual, Michael left. Beth telephoned Belford, caught her mother before she left to open the library at 10:00, shared the good news about Kim, and deliberately kept the call brief so she had no disquietude talking with “sees all, knows all,
scares
me” Mom.”

Then Beth busied herself doing “normal” things, taking note of how normal and immanently satisfying they were. She read the newspaper, dusted and polished the living room furniture, watered the indoor plants. After straightening up the downstairs rec room, she took a coffee break, listening to the portable radio in the kitchen. WBBM All-News reported that a man in San Francisco, annoyed by a the crying of his two month old son, had beaten the child’s head in with a ballpeen hammer. It was horrible, she thought, the act of a madman, shocking and sad, so very sad—and it and all the other senseless terrors that made the news from day to day had absolutely nothing to do with the Louden family of Park Estates.

The weather was pleasant for a change, temperature in the mid-’70s, humidity not out of line, and late in the morning, Beth worked outdoors, Marcy accepting the invitation to help. At breakfast, Marcy had said little more than “Good morning” and then gone to her room. With both of them wearing “outdoor grubbys,” on their hands and knees in the garden, plucking tiny weeds that were at most an insignificant threat to the thriving flowers, Beth—surreptitiously watched Marcy.

“The flowers were really something this year, weren’t they?” Beth said. The geraniums, campion, zinnias, morning glories, impatiens, were all still in lively, colorful bloom, and Beth had a flash of a lovely fantasy: Winter would come to the Midwest, the ice, the snow, but alongside the garage, her garden would, receive a special grace and be untouched by death-cold, the flowers always living, always beautiful…

“Uh-huh,” Marcy said, and then, as Beth hoped she might, Marcy accepted the unspoken invitation to talk. “Mom, are you mad at me?”

Delibately keeping her tone matter-of-fact, Beth said, “About yesterday?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“No,” Beth said. “I think I was mad, but I’m not any more. You and Kim both made a mistake, something bad happened that could have been much worse”—
and remember, you’re talking to
yourself
as well as your daughter, Mrs. Louden
!
—
“and that’s
all there is to it.”

“Mom,” Marcy said, “you always tell me you trust me. Do you still trust me?”

Beth took a moment to think it over and then her honest answer was: “I sure do, Marcy, 100 percent.”

“You know something, Mom?” Marcy said, her voice strikingly somber and adult. “You’re the best Mom in the world and Daddy’s the best father.”

Just as seriously, Beth said, “And your dad and I have the best kids in the world.”

The other “best kid” was released from South Suburban Medical Center at 1:30, but, with the paperwork—the insurance forms, the check for the deductible, the waiver of responsibility, etc.—it was 2:20 before they started home, Kim in the front passenger seat on the Chevette Scooter, laughing about having a ride down to the lobby in a wheelchair when “I didn’t even break my little toe,” Marcy in the back.

Beth decided she’d prepare an espescially nice ending for this thankfully normal day. While the Louden family didn’t become enthusiastic over elaborate gourmet meals, they all, Kim included, liked unusual treatments of American standards. The window open over the sink, the kitchen fresh-smelling with a gentle breeze, Beth sat at the table, planning her menu: a tossed salad, zucchini, stuffed meatloaf with twice-baked potatoes and an almond-green bean casserole, and for dessert—yes, let’s get a
bit
fancy and creative
!—
a chocolate-mocha roll cake!

The cake would take
some time, so she set to work at it. Next week she would become a college student, a woman in “today’s
real
world,” but for right now, checking refrigerator and cabinets for ingredients, she was happy to be “a domestic-minded housewife,” Mrs. Michael Louden, cooking a good meal for her family.

Upstairs, Marcy and Kim were in their room. Doctor’s orders were that Kim take it easy for another day or so, and “Mrs. Louden, if she has a headache, dizziness, nausea, anything at all, call right away,” so Beth told Kim to stay indoors.

“You know,” Kim said, on her bed, leaning back on her elbows, knees bent and bare feet flat on the spread, “that was real dumb.”

“What do you mean?” Marcy said. Like her mother, she’d changed clothes before leaving for the hospital and now, dressed in yellow sun suit, Marcy stood by the open window, back to Kim, the breeze ruffling her blond hair.

“You know,”
Kim
said, “how you waved to me so I thought it was okay and then that guy zapped me.”

“I didn’t see the car,” Marcy said quietly. “I thought it was okay.”

“Then you’re blind,” Kim said.

“I’m not blind,” Marcy said. She turned her head and squinted at Kim as a slanted ray of hazy sunlight struck her eyes. “I just didn’t see it, that’s all.”

“For sure,” Kim said with a contemptuous sniff.

Marcy moved to sit on the side of Kim’s bed. “Kim” she said, “Maybe it
was
my fault you got hurt, but I didn’t mean it. And I really am sorry. Don’t be mad at me, okay?”

Kim didn’t reply.

Marcy leaned forward and, as though sharing a grave secret, whispered, “You know, Daddy spanked me.” As soon as she said it, Marcy blushed.

Kim’s eyes were big with surprise. “Wow! He spanked
you
? You never get it, you’re such a goody-goody.”

Kim sat up and tapped her sister’s arm. “Hey,” Kim said, “I’m not mad at you now, okay?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“I want to give you something,” Marcy said.

“What?”

Marcy rose and went to the aquarium that housed the guinea pigs. She took out the white one, held it with her left hand under its belly, the other hand beneath its excited, kicking rear legs.

“I want you to have Snowball,” Marcy said, handing the guinea pig to her sister. “He’s yours now.”

Shaking her head, the tip of her tongue filling the gap of missing teeth in the bottom row, Kim said, “I can’t! Snowball’s yours!”

“I’m giving him to you. I want you to have him.”

Kim held out her hands. The guinea pig squealed in fright as he and his ownership were transferred from one girl to the other. “Thanks, Marcy,” Kim said. “Sometimes you’re a pretty good sister.”

««—»»

“An ex-cellent re-past, my dear,” Michael drawled, folding his napkin and putting it to the side of the plate.

They’d had supper in the dining room, white tablecloth and good china, and even candles. Beth, bright and fresh in a green skirt and ruffled, yellow blouse, smiled at Michael and said, “Will you please stop being W. C. Fields!”

Would would
you like me to be, wifey dear?
Michael asked himself.

“No, thanks,” Michael said to the offer of more cake or another cup of coffee. He pushed back his chair, and with the dramatic wave of a carnival barker, announced, “And now, fair ladies, for your delight and pleasure, we have a surprise, for you”—he pointed at Kim as though aiming a pistol “and you”—Marcy was temporarily in his sights—“and, last but not least,
you!”
He took aim at Beth, letting his thumb-hammer fall.

Beth gave him a puzzled look while Marcy said, “Oh, Daddy,” and Kim demanded, “What is it?”

He rolled his eyes at Kim. “I said it’s a surprise. If I tell you what it is, then it won’t be a surprise anymore. Now that makes sense, right?”

Kim nodded.

Michael rose, gesturing like a choir director to bring the group to their feet. “Come, my three wonderful women, and follow me.” In the kitchen, he opened the door to the basement rec room. “Please go downstairs and await my summons. And if anyone peeks before I’ve got it all ready, her head will turn into a giant turnip.”