Community of Women (2 page)

It rarely took that long.

Her partner now was a man named Rudy Gerber. He was the deliveryman for the dry cleaner, a husky fellow about twenty-five years old with an athletic build and a handsome if ruggedly stupid face. He had made love to her a week before. Now he was about to make love to her again.

Elly didn’t love Rudy Gerber. She didn’t even especially
like
Rudy Gerber, as far as that went. But that had nothing to do with it. Rudy Gerber was quite excellent in bed, and Elly was randy as a brood mare in the springtime, and the bed was ready, and what the hell. God was in his heaven, all was about as right with the world as it ever was, and she was going to get loved.

So what the hell.

“I been looking forward to this,” Rudy Gerber said. “Last week—I mean, something like this don’t happen all the time. A broad like you—”

He let the sentence trail off. It was a habit of his, as though his mind couldn’t hold too much and it was enough of an effort to begin a sentence, much less complete it. She wished he would talk less. He talked so stupidly that the words only tended to spoil things.

But she said: “You must meet lots of lonely women.”

“Well,” he said. He scratched his head and leered, trying to look like a man of the world and not quite succeeding.

“This way, Rudy.”

She led him up a long flight of stairs. The house, unlike the Haskell home, was an older structure, one of the original homes in the town of Cheshire Point. It was an authentic center hall colonial, complete with hand-hewn exposed beams and loads of rustic charm. That had been the salesman’s strongest selling point, and Ted had gone for it hook, line and thirty-year mortgage. He liked to fancy himself a Colonial type, or Edwardian at the very least. A colonial house fit into his sublime image of himself, along with the tweed jackets and the pipe and the foreign car.

They went into the bedroom. Rudy Gerber grinned. “Some broad you are,” he said. “Some hell of a broad.”

“You Tarzan,” she said.

He stared at her.

“You Tarzan,” she repeated. “Me Jane. That bed. Let’s get with it, sweetheart.”

They got with it. He reached for her, lunging a little like Tarzan and a little like an anthropoid ape, and she let his big ape-arms close around her slender body and draw her close. She smelled the strong man-smell of him, the fresh sweat and the dirty clothes that could have used his employer’s attention. And that did it. The sarcasm and the cynicism left her. She was a woman in heat now, a woman who needed a man.

She reached upward, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him. Her mouth ground against his mouth and her tongue snaked into his mouth. She felt the immediate urgency of his response, felt him quicken with desire and go rigid with need for her, and her body grew warmer with knowledge of her sure appeal.

They were on the bed then, suddenly, and his hand was on her breast. She felt his fingers fondling her, felt dizzying sensations racing through her system. She was a woman now, a woman, a woman with a man. Everything else disappeared.

He took off her blouse. His hands found her breasts again, played with them. She shivered with tremendous delight, the excitement moving within her body like a living entity. His hands went around her, impatient now, struggling with the bra. He broke the clasp and wrenched the bra off, exposing her breasts.

Their love play was deliberate and intense. He handled and kissed her breasts and she began to pant volcanically, Vesuvius in the throes of an eruption. Her eyes were closed and her hips were already churning in the mystic motions of love. She was on fire.

He stroked her and kissed her. She lay with her eyes closed, imagining not Rudy Gerber but a phantom lover, a man on a sleek black stallion, a man dressed in black with eyes like pools of black fire. A man who would whisper poetry to her, a man who would kiss her when she was good and whip her when she was bad. A man who would always be master and for whom she would be forever a willing slave.

A phantom lover.

She was on the bed, squirming. She was on the bed, wearing black toreador pants that were tight on her slim hips, and Rudy was taking them off. He had trouble with the zipper, mastered it, and then had trouble with the pants themselves. Finally they were off, and then the wispy panties were also off, and he was catching his breath at the sight of her milk-white naked body. His large hands raced over her bare flesh, setting her tingling, making her skin burn with liquid heat.

He threw himself down on her, kissed her. His tongue was the aggressor now, stabbing jokingly into her mouth. He squeezed a breast in one hand and a thigh in the other and her brain burned with feverish heat.

Phantom lover.

He let go of her to fumble with his own clothing. His big hands tore his tee-shirt over his head, unbelted his dungarees, pulled them down. He was heavy, with a beer-belly developing, with flab on his upper arms. But she did not notice all those things because her eyes were closed. She was not seeing Rudy Gerber now. She was seeing the phantom lover. He had dismounted from his black stallion. He was coming toward her—

Rudy took her. He took her as a stallion takes a randy brood mare in the springtime, fell upon her and possessed her, using her body with an almost vicious passion.

And now, in her mind, she was with that phantom lover. Rudy’s panting was the music of the hills and the groans of the bedsprings were wind in tall grasses. She was with her phantom lover, riding close behind him on the black stallion, riding far from the rest of the world.

Faster.

Faster—

Rudy, panting like a truckhorse. The odor of sweat, the odor of lust being consummated, the odor of sex in a Cheshire Point master bedroom. The odor of noonday lust.

Faster….

And then the culmination. The orgasm, the peak of pleasure, with a thunderous crash that jolted her and left her limp. The End, Finis, #, —30—,
that’s all, folks.

He got up slowly, his eyes hollow, his breathing coming in gasps. He got up and looked at her, and she opened her eyes to see the vulgar animal stare focusing on her bare body. Instinctively she drew a sheet over herself, up to her neck, as if to prevent him from looking at what he had so recently possessed.

“Go,” she said. Just that.

“Next week?”

She looked at him, looked away. “Just go,” she said.

She stayed in bed until she heard the door close downstairs. She stayed in bed until she heard the panel truck pull away from the curb, carrying within it a load of clothing to be dry-cleaned and a man who had just made love to her. Then she hurried from the bed to the shower, washing the memory of Rudy Gerber from her skin. She spent twenty minutes under the shower. When she stepped from the tub she felt almost clean again.

She changed the bed linen.

By one-thirty she was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and smoking a filter-tipped cigarette. She had done it again, had had another meaningless affair with another meaningless man. She had sinned; she should wear a red A upon her left breast so all the world would know her as the adulteress she was.

Suddenly she laughed. A scarlet letter—maybe that would fit Ted’s magnificent image! After all, they weren’t that far from New England. And that was Nathaniel Hawthorne country. Why, she could be sort of a latter-day Hester Prynne, a twentieth-century adulteress who went for every male within laying distance.

Why?

Dammit, why?

It had always been this way. Elly Carr was a New York girl, in contrast to the typical exurban wife who began life as a midwestern product, went from college to Manhattan, and wound up in a house in Westchester or Rock-land or Fairfield or Bucks. Elly had been born on West 73rd Street near Broadway, had gone to New York schools and Hunter College. She had lost her virginity in her sophomore year at Evander Childs High to a now-forgotten member of the football team, had sacrificed that tiny membrane on her living room couch while her parents lay sleeping in the bedroom.

And she had been an easy make ever since. All you had to do was be husky and masculine and stupid and willing and good ole Elly Barshter would be flat on her back with her knees in the air. The football team had enjoyed her, and the swimming squad had enjoyed her, and the track team, and the baseball team—

College had not changed her, but it had edged her with subtlety. In high school, everybody knew she was an easy make. In college, the only ones who knew this were the ones who had been to bed with her. After college, when she was pounding the typewriter at Berman and Bates, she never slept with any of the men who worked in the office. She laughed with them, and she joked with them, and she went to shows and concerts with them. But she slept with raw-boned dockworkers that she picked up in sleazy bars.

She hadn’t slept with Ted, not until he married her and whisked her away to New Hampshire on a honeymoon. Then she came into his arms, as virginal as possible, and if he knew there had been men before him he never told her. And she was going to be true to him—she swore to it herself a thousand times, told herself again and again that he was the only man for her, that she had helled around enough and that it was now time to settle down and be a good wife to a good husband.

It wasn’t that hard in New York. They had an apartment on a quiet street in one of the better sections of Greenwich Village, and she kept her job at Berman and Bates, and things were fine. She was with Ted every minute possible, and he was an ardent lover and she needed him desperately. There were no other men then. There was no time for other men, and no need for other men, and she was true to Ted.

Then all at once she was pregnant. The pregnancy was accidental, but this fact made her no less pregnant. And New York was no place to raise kids, and Ted was making good money, and his dream included an old house in the wilds of Westchester, and after a long search they found the right place with the right sort of grounds and the right layout.

And they moved to Cheshire Point.

She had the baby. Pam took a great deal of time at first, and again she was true to Ted, faithful to Ted, a good wife. Because there was no time for infidelity. She dreamed the same dreams of a phantom lover but nothing came of them.

Time changed that. Time sent Pam to school. Time gave her hours by herself, hours alone in the house, with deliverymen calling and salesmen calling and finally, finally—

It happened. And once it happened—with a nameless faceless man she had long since forgotten—it was easy enough for the pattern to repeat itself, to establish itself, to become part of her life. She was once again the easy lay, the easy make, the gal who dreamed of a phantom lover on a black stallion and gave herself to every brawny clod who knocked on the door.

Ted did not know. No one knew, no one but the countless men who had made a Hester Prynne of her. And Ted would not know, not if she could possibly avoid it. Because she loved Ted.

Yet she went on cheating on him.

She left the kitchen, walked through the house. She looked at the living room fireplace, looked at the exposed hand-hewn beams.

Why?

Dammit, why?

3

L
ATE
afternoon in Cheshire Point. A hot day, with the sun high in the sky to the west and only a few stray cirrus clouds breaking the expanse of blue. Nan Haskell had finished what housework had to be done. There was a roast in the oven; the rest of the meal could wait. Skip and Danny had both gravitated to other backyards to play with other children. Nan sat at her desk, going over some of the household bookkeeping which had become her responsibility since they had moved to Cheshire Point. That had been Howard’s job in Manhattan, but with him spending eight hours a day on the job and three hours more commuting, it had gravitated to her shoulders.

Late afternoon in Cheshire Point. Somewhere someone was burning leaves and the rich smoke hung in the fresh country air. Elly Carr stretched out on a chaise on the lawn in back of her home and smelled the smoke. Pam was upstairs, playing with her dolls or something of the sort. Elly had picked her up after school, but somehow she couldn’t manage to spend any time with her daughter on those days when she had had a lover. Shower or not, she still felt fundamentally unclean. Pam, with her glossy dark hair and her pug nose, was the perfect symbol of innocence. Elly felt almost as though her own presence would contaminate the girl. It was on days like this one that she most wanted to be with Pamela, and it was paradoxically on these days that she had to remain most within herself. She stretched out on the chaise and thought about bridge with the Haskells, which she dreaded tonight, and dinner, which she did not want to prepare. Well, she could always chuck a few teevee dinners in the oven—

Late afternoon in Cheshire Point. A breeze was blowing up from the southeast, coming up off Long Island and the Atlantic. Trees swayed in the breeze, and loose autumn leaves were wafted by it. Roz Barclay sat in her garden in a wicker chair and thought about money.

Money.

In every exurb there are three classes of persons. First there are the natives, those souls whose families lived in the town from the beginning, and who now make their livelihood from the recent immigrants. These persons, like Rudy Gerber, for example, run the stores that the immigrants patronize and perform various services for the new arrivals. They tend to consider New Yorkers a breed apart, even though those New Yorkers may have resided in the exurb for ten or fifteen years.

Then there are the commuters, families like the Haskells and the Carrs. For the most part, they earn their livings in that complex of advertising and publishing and public relations and television which falls under the general heading of communications. They belong to the exurb and to New York, living in one place and working in the other.

And, finally, there are the geniuses.

Linc Barclay was a genius. A genius, in exurban terminology, is New York living in the exurb who does not have to commute. A genius may be a commercial artist or a composer or a dramatist. He may, like Lincoln Barclay, be a writer. He lives in Cheshire Point, works at home, and goes to New York at odd intervals because New York is, ultimately, the source of his income, the market for his wares. Shows are produced there, books and magazines are published there—so he lives close to the city, but does not commute. He is thus a breed apart from the nine-to-five crowd.