The Sixth Commandment (28 page)

“You think he knew?” I asked her. “What you intended to do?”

“Oh yes,” she said in a low voice. “I didn’t tell him, but he knew. I didn’t tell him a thing about myself, but he knew. And asked me to marry him.”

“And you’ve never regretted it?”

“Never,” she said firmly. “Never for a minute. Do you have any idea of what kind of man he is?”

“I’ve been told he’s a genius.”

“Not his work,” she said impatiently. “I mean
him?”

“Very intelligent,” I said cautiously. “Very charming.”

“He’s a great man,” she said definitely. “A
great
man. But I have a problem.”

Sure you do, I thought cynically; you fuck Indian cops: that’s your problem.

“His daughter,” she went on, leaning forward to peer out the fogged windshield. “Mary. She’s really his stepdaughter. His first wife was a widow when she married Telford.”

I didn’t tell her this was old news to me. I lighted cigarettes for us again. She was slowly calming, her movements and gestures becoming easier, more fluid as she talked. I wanted to keep her talking. I was conscious of that suggestive voice, but I was listening to her words now.

“Mary is older than me,” she said. “Four years older. She loves her stepfather very much.”

She suddenly turned sideways on the seat. She drew up her legs so those bare knees were staring at me. They were round, smooth, hairless as breasts.

“Very
much,” she repeated, staring into my eyes. “Mary loves her stepfather
very
much. So she resents me. She hates me.”

I made a sound. I waved a hand.

“Surely it’s not that bad,” I said.

“It’s that bad,” she said solemnly. “And also—I don’t know whether you know this or not—Mary is a very, uh, disturbed woman. She’s into this religious thing. Goes to some outhouse church. Shouts. Reads the Bible. Born again. The whole bit.”

“Maybe she’s sincere,” I said.

She put a soft hand on my arm, leaned closer.

“Of
course
she’s sincere,” she whispered. “Believes every word of that shit. That’s one of the reasons she hates me. Because I took her mother’s place. She thinks I’m committing adultery with her father.”

I was bewildered.

“But Thorndecker isn’t her father,” I said.

“
I
know that.
You
know that. But Mary is so mixed up, she thinks of Telford as her father. She thinks I stole her father from her and her dead mother. It’s very complex.”

“The understatement of the year.”

“Sex,” Julie Thorndecker said. “Sex has got a lot to do with it. Mary is so in love with Telford, she can’t think straight. She thinks we—she and I—are competing for the love of the same man. That’s why she hates me.”

“What about Dr. Draper? Where does he fit into all this?”

“He’d marry Mary tomorrow if she’d have him. She never will. She wants Telford. But Draper keeps tagging after her like a puppy, hoping she’ll suddenly see the light. I feel sorry for him.”

“And for Mary?”

“Well … yes. I feel sorry for Mary, too. She’s so mixed up. But also, I’m scared of her.”

“Scared?” I said. “I can’t picture you being frightened of anything or anyone.”

“I thank you, kind sir,” she said, tilting her head, giving me a big smile, tightening her grip on my arm.

She shouldn’t have said that. It was a false note. She was not the flirty, girlish type of woman who says, “I thank you, kind sir.” I began to get the idea that I was witnessing a performance, and when she finished, the audience would rise, applauding, and roses would be tossed.

“Why are you frightened of Mary?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “She’s so—so unbalanced. Who knows what she might do? Or say? Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m not frightened of what she might say about me. That’s of no importance. But I’m afraid for my husband. I’m afraid crazy Mary might endanger his career, his plans. That’s really why I asked you to meet me here today, to have this talk.”

“You’re afraid Mary might—well, let’s say slander her stepfather?”

If she had said, “Yes,” then I was going to say, “But why should Mary endanger Thorndecker’s career and his plans if she loves him as much as you say?”

But Julie didn’t fall into that trap.

“Oh, she’d never do or say anything against Telford. Not directly. She loves him too much for that. But she might slander
me.
Say things. Spread stories. Because she hates me so much. Not realizing how it might reflect on Telford, how it might affect the grand dreams he has.”

I leaned forward to stub out my cigarette. The movement had the added advantages of removing my arm from Julie’s distracting grasp and tearing my eyes away from those shiny knees.

“What you’re saying,” I said slowly, “is that you hope whatever Mary might say about you will not affect Dr. Thorndecker’s application for a Bingham Foundation grant. Isn’t that it?”

“Yes,” she said, “that’s it. I just wanted you to know what a disturbed woman she is. Whatever she might say has absolutely nothing to do with my husband’s application or his work.”

Then we sat without speaking. I became more conscious of her scent. I’m sensitive to odors, and it seemed to me she was exuding a tantalizing perfume that was light, fragrant, with an after-scent, the way some wines have an after-taste. Julie’s after-scent was deep, rich, musky. Very stirring. I thought of rumpled sheets, howls, and wet teeth.

I came back to this world to see the Coburn constabulary cruiser move slowly by. It drove up behind us, passed, made the turn behind the roadhouse, and disappeared. The officer driving, the same one I had twice met near Crittenden, didn’t turn his head as he drove by. I don’t know if he saw us sitting together or not. It didn’t seem important. But we both watched him as he went by.

“I love my husband,” Julie Thorndecker said thoughtfully.

I was silent. I hadn’t even asked her.

“Still …” she said.

I said nothing.

“You’re not giving me much encouragement,” she said.

“When did you ever need encouragement?” I asked her.

“Never,” she said. “You’re right. Could I have a cigarette, please?”

We lighted up again. I ran the window down to get rid of the smoke.

“Too cold for you?” I said.

“Yes,” she said, “too cold. But not the weather. Leave the window down. The trouble is …”

Another Coburnite. The unfinished sentence.

“What’s the trouble?” I said.

She turned her head slowly to stare at me. I could read nothing in her eyes. Just eyes.

“I’d like to fuck you,” she said steadily. “I really would. The trouble is, you’d think I was flopping so you’d give Telford a good report.”

I don’t care how much experience you’ve had, what a hot-shot cocksman you are. You’re still going to feel fear when a woman says, “Yes.”

“That’s exactly what I’d think,” I said. “What I’m thinking.”

“Too bad,” she said. “It’s not like that at all. If you picked me up in a bar …?”

“Or met you at a party? A different can of worms.”

“A lovely figure of speech. Thank you.”

“You know what I mean,” I said. “In another place, another time.”

She looked at me shrewdly.

“You’re sure you’re not making excuses?” she said.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m not sure of anything. I’m especially not sure of a woman who makes an offer like that right after she’s told me she loves her husband.”

She looked at me in astonishment.

“What has one got to do with the other?” she asked.

She wasn’t dissembling. She meant it.

There’s so much about living I don’t understand.

“Mrs. Thorndecker,” I said. “Julie. I’m not making any value judgment. I’m just saying it’s impossible. For me.”

“All right,” she said equably. “I can live with it. What about Millie Goodfellow?”

“What about her?”

“She’s married. Is your fine sense of propriety working there?”

“Not much point to this conversation,” I said. “Is there?”

“You’re something of a prig, aren’t you?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Something. I’ll just have to live with it.”

She opened her door, then turned back.

“About Mary,” she said. “She
is
disturbed. Please remember what I told you.”

“I’ll remember,” I said.

She gave me a brief smile. Very brief. I watched her drive away. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. I felt like a fool. But I’ve felt like that before, and will again.

I put up the window. I scootched far down on the seat. I tilted my lumpy tweed hat over my closed eyes. I wasn’t dreaming of my lost chance with Julie Thorndecker; I was remembering a somewhat similar incident with Joan Powell. It had started similarly; it had ended differently.

We had spent a whole Saturday together, doing everything required of an unmarried couple on the loose in Manhattan: wandering about Bloomingdale’s for an hour, lunch at Maxwell’s Plum, a long walk over to the Central Park Zoo to say hello to Patty Cake, then a French movie in which the actors spent most of their time climbing sand dunes, dinner at an Italian place in the Village, and back to Powell’s apartment.

It should have been a great day. The sun was shining. Garbage had been collected; the city looked neat and clean. I think Joan enjoyed the day. She acted like she did. She said she did. But sometime during the afternoon, it began going sour for me. It wasn’t the movie or the restaurants. It wasn’t Joan. It was just a mood, a foul mood, without reason. I couldn’t account for it; I just knew I had it.

Powell assumed we’d end our busy day in bed. A reasonable assumption based on past experience. When we got back to her place, she went into the bathroom for a quick shower. She came out bareass naked, rubbing her damp hair with a big pink towel.

Joan Powell is something to see naked. She really fits together. Nothing extra, nothing superfluous. She’s just there, complete. She’s a small woman, but so perfectly proportioned that she could be tarnishing in the garden of the Museum of Modern Art.

I was sitting on the edge of her Scarpa sofa, leaning over, hands clasped between my knees.

“How about mixing us something?” she suggested.

“No,” I said. “Thanks. I think I better take off.”

She looked at me.

“Sick?” she said.

“No,” I said, “just lousy. I don’t know what it is. Instant depression. I think I better be alone. I don’t want to bore you.”

“That’s what I want you to do,” she said. “Bore me.”

“When you get out of those Gucci loafers,” I said, “you can be incredibly vulgar.”

“Can’t I though?” she said cheerfully. “Take off your clothes.”

“Oh God,” I groaned, “haven’t you understood a thing I’ve said? I just don’t
feel
like it.”

She tossed the towel aside. She moved naked about the room. Lighted her own cigarette. Mixed her own Cutty and soda.

“You don’t feel like it,” she repeated. “So what?”

“So what?” I said, outraged. “I’ve just said I don’t feel like fun and games tonight. What are you going to do—rape me? For God’s sake, it’s got nothing to do with you. I just don’t feel like a toss, so I’m taking off.”

“Go ahead,” she said. “Take off. But don’t come back.”

This was during a time when the last thing in the world I wanted was to lose her. We were just in the process of working out a sweet, easy, take-it-as-it-comes relationship, and I thought I could be completely honest with her.

“I can’t believe you,” I said. “One night—
one
night; the first time—I don’t want to rub the bacon, and you’re ready to call it quits.”

She looked at me narrowly.

“It’s been more than one time for me, kiddo,” she said.

Then she may have seen in my face what that did to my ego, because she came over to sit beside me and slid a cool arm around my neck.

“Look, Todd,” she said, “there have been times when I’ve climbed between the sheets with you when I didn’t feel like it. Because you wanted to. Because I love you. And doing something you wanted to do, and I didn’t want to, was a sacrifice that proved that love. More important, it turned out to be the best sex we’ve ever had—for me. Because I was proving my love. And in addition to the physical thing, I was feeling so warm and tender and giving. Try it; you’ll like it.”

She was right. It was the best sex we ever had—for me. I told you she taught me a lot.

But I didn’t think it would work that way with Julie Thorndecker. There was no love between us; I wasn’t ready to make a willing sacrifice so she could be happy. And something else kept me away from her. Maybe she was right; I was a prig. Maybe I was just a hopeless romantic. It had to do with Thorndecker. Screwing his wife would be like throwing mud at a statue.

Just to complicate matters further, there was an additional factor involved in my rejection of Julie Thorndecker.

As you’ve probably gathered by now, I’m a fantasist. I could get twenty years in the pokey for what I dream in one day. For instance, I’ve had a lot of sexual daydreams about Joan Powell. Some I told her about; some I didn’t. I even had some recent fantasies about Millie Goodfellow.

But I found myself totally incapable of fantasizing about Julie Thorndecker. God knows I tried. But the dreams just slid away and dissolved. It wasn’t all due to the fact that she was married to a man I admired. It was that she was so beautiful, the body so young and tender, that I couldn’t dream about her.

Fantasies, to be pleasurable, must have
some
relation to reality. Even daydreams must be
possible
to be stirring. You can’t, for instance, successfully fantasize about hitting the sheets with Cleopatra because a part of your brain keeps telling you that she was smooched by an asp centuries ago, and any fantasy involving her would be a waste of time.

I could fantasize about Joan Powell and Millie Goodfellow because those daydreams were possible. But when I attempted a sexual fancy involving Julie Thorndecker … nothing. I told myself it was because of her husband and her superbeauty.

But there was another reason. Powell and Goodfellow were living, breathing, warm, eager women. Julie Thorndecker was not. She was, I thought, a dead lady.